Cut To The Bone

Chapter One

To dream of death is to dance with none other than a prince of Hell.

At least that's what Azima's mother always told her... before she was run through by the barbed tail of a biju demon.

Regardless, Alara Rousseau was nothing if not dramatic, even after her death, and her warning remained with Azima well after the funeral pyre's ashes were cold and scattered.

The dawn. The dusk. Heaven. Hell. The forest. The seas...

The impact of the flat of the broadsword against the back of her knee caught Azima off-guard, and the sound of steel against leather reverberated throughout the wooded clearing. The instinctual defensive swing of her own sword carried her forward, almost to the point of falling into the dirt.

Chey, her mother's Imerman—chosen by her for procreation and partnership— was Azima's mentor by default, and he scowled at her from across the training circle. He watched her with a judgmental gaze as she straightened up and readied herself to parry his next attack.

"Where did you go last night?" he asked, remaining where he stood instead of making an advance, the sound of metal sliding against leather audible as he sheathed his sword.

"I didn't go anywhere," she countered, catching his gaze with her own.

Beyond, Azima Rousseau. He awaits you beyond.

You've already taken one of us, she had heard herself say into the darkest corner of her room while the soft tendrils of death wafted through Azima's bedroom window. But she didn't need to see the black serpentine arms spiraling through the dense evening air to know she was dreaming. The candle had died down hours ago, only moonlight shining through the room's single window.

I am not here to take another Rousseau, a hoarse whisper hissed from that dark corner. I am here to warn you.

Consider this as you will, Azima Rousseau, the voice had purred along her skin like a lover's caress.

Who? she asked, her voice unnaturally steady even in the dream.

You know I cannot tell you that.

Then why come at all?

You deserve time to prepare, for what awaits you beyond.

"Azima?"

She blinked and realized Chey hadn't moved one inch from where he stood across from her. His brawny arms crossed over his chest while his sword hung from his belt.

Though she hadn't received the naturally dark tan of his complexion, his eyes were a mirror of her own, an inheritance of midnight flecked with golden stars. With his dark curls falling in his face from where they had escaped from the tail at the nape of his neck, and his teeth so perfect she wanted to punch them in just out of spite...

"What are you doing?" she snapped incredulously. "You're supposed to help train me to fight. So... help!"

He raised a brow, and she debated throwing her sword at his face.

"I'll train you when I know you're actually here to be trained," he said. "You had a dream last night, didn't you?"

"So what if I did?" she countered defensively, shaking her head as if to rid it of the memory of the dark wisps.

"It's in your stance," Chey observed. "You're distracted."

"So?"

"So?" he scoffed.