I trudged back to the orphanage through the pre-dawn gray, the dagger bumping against my hip with every step. It kept slipping lower in my belt no matter how I tugged it straight—too fancy for practical use, too heavy for comfort. Maeve's "luxury gift."
Right. Felt more like a brick of trouble I couldn't drop.
The fog thinned out as I crossed into West proper, streets dead quiet, last lanterns winking off one by one along the rooftops. My head wouldn't clear—still full of her laugh echoing off the border stones, the way she'd clutched that journal like I'd handed her gold, that dead-serious promise she'd dropped right before leaving. It made the bite in the air feel duller, like her words carried their own heat despite her being a literal heartless being.
But to me, she is the only light to my darkness.
I shook the thoughts out my head, since when had I gotten soft? Only Vahariin ever knew. God's am I a different person around her. I glanced up ahead.
The orphanage squatted at the end of the block—gray stone walls patched with mismatched bricks, windows mostly dark except for a faint glow in Matron's top-floor room. She'd be up soon, yelling about breakfast slop and bed-making.
I slipped through the rusted side gate, picking the latch with a quick twist of wire I'd stashed in my sleeve months back. Front steps always creaked like a traitor; this way stayed silent. Inside hit me with the usual stink—damp laundry piled in corners, leftover stew souring in the common pot.
Snores drifted from the dorms upstairs, kids stacked four to a room like cordwood. Good. No one caught me slipping in again. Matron suspected but never proved it.
How could she? I'm too stealthy for my own good.
I took the back stairs two at a time, easing my door open. Shared room with three others—Loula the crybaby, Thom the scrawny lookout, and Mira who snored like a sawmill. All out cold. Except for Thom. Where he went? God knows.
Atleast the boy provided useful information, though from where, was still a mystery to be solved.
I shrugged off my jacket, wadded it under the pillow, and stashed the dagger under the mattress fast. Edge of the blade caught on the straw ticking—a sharp reminder. I finally collapsed onto the bunk, boots still on, staring up at the cracked ceiling plaster.
Spiderwebs hung in the corners, swaying faint in the draft. When was the last time I cleaned that? Eh- I don't care.
Maeve's face stuck there in my head—turquoise eyes gone serious over half-eaten pastries, rambling about husbands and kids marrying like we were nobles planning estates. Dumb future talk, but it made this rotting bunk and the endless orphanage grind feel smaller, dumber.
I'd snag more paper scraps next market run, stitch her another journal. She needed it for mapping her next reckless scheme or doodling border sketches.
Scratching at the window jerked me bolt upright. Dawn light crept in now, gray shifting to watery pink over the rooftops. Thom—fourteen, all elbows and nervous energy—pressed his pinched face to the glass, waving both arms like a windmill. I cracked the sash, cold air rushed in. "What the hell, Thom? Sun's barely up."
"Patrols," he hissed, eyes wide. "West gate's locked down tight. Soldiers swarming the streets. Cousin works the stables—he says militia's calling up everyone able. Vamp noble killed some council bigshot's daughter. North's fault, full story."
My gut dropped cold and hard.
Vamp noble.
North.
Maeve's world—courts, mansions, the whole rotten elite mess. I looked over my shoulder at the sleeping infant and her sister- still out cold. My head snapped back at Thom and the boy nearly screamed. "Details, spill it. And be quiet."
Thom glanced over his shoulder like spies lurked in the alley, voice dropping to a whisper-shout. "Happened last night, border hunt they claim. But throat ripped clean out, blood drained. Council's screaming murder, not accident. Messengers galloped in at first light—full mobilization orders. Matron's losing it, boarding windows already. You hear the horns?"
I hadn't— too fog-headed from Maeve. But now I did, faint and carrying from the square. Deep, urgent blasts. West militia signal. I swung my legs off the bunk, yanking boots straight. "Stay put. And keep your mouth shut. I'll check it out."
Thom nodded, scarpering back down the street like a rat. I grabbed the dagger—hated touching it again—and tucked it into my waistband proper this time. Headed downstairs quiet, skipping the third step that groaned.
Kitchen was already a madhouse. Matron—steel-gray hair yanked into a bun, apron dusted thick with flour—stirred a massive pot of oats while two littles under five clung to her skirts, sniffling about monsters.
Older kids hauled water barrels from the pump out back, faces washed pale with worry, sloshing half on the flags. Pots clanged, kids shouted questions nobody answered. "Raelin!" Matron barked without turning. "Bar the back door, double-time. Soldiers took the main street already."
I grabbed the oak beam from its hooks—heavy enough to bruise my shins—and slammed it home across the doorframe. Tested it with a shove. Solid. "Word's out. Thom says war. Vamp murder?" I asked curiously, eyeing her reaction.
Matron wiped floury hands on her apron, turning sharp. Eyes like chips of flint, but worry lines deeper than yesterday. "Not full war. No. But close as spit. Councilor's daughter—Lira Voss, seventeen, high up the chain. Out on some unsupervised ramble near the line, ends up with her throat torn by Lord Varyn of the North. Patrols dragged the body back at midnight. Council's out for blood—literally. Militia arming the square, fae healers on mandatory call-up. North's probably laughing in their stone piles."
West.
Borders sealed.
Maeve.
No more midnight logs, no more treats or dumb kid-marriage jokes.
Fuck did I hate it all.
If patrols tripled... no warnings from her that Ruslan's crew might hit first. That dagger burned against my hip now, runes pressing like accusation. Maeve's voice looped: "Not like we'd be enemies."
Yeah? Tell that to the dead girl.
Probably the worst time for her to die, that noble bitch.
A horn blared outside—close now, rattling the shutters. Militia assembly call, long and holding. Shouts followed, boots marching heavy past the walls, pikes clanking.
Matron crossed to the window fast, cracking a shutter slat. "Arming up proper. Look—pikes from the forges, council banners flying. Fae healers first in line, I was told. You too, girl. Draft's no joke for your kind." She gave me a pitied look.
Me.
Healer conscript.
Oh, ofcourse.
Orphanage ties meant squat against council edicts. I'd be knee-deep in militia tents, stitching gashes from vampire fangs, packing herbs into wounds that wouldn't close. Maeve's grin flashed—shoulder bump over pastries, journal clutched reverent.
Enemies? My hands shook ripping a sheet into bandages. No helping it if orders came. But her? I'd warn her somehow. Smoke signal, bird, anything.
"Raelin!" Matron snapped, dumping a stack of linens my way. "Stop daydreaming. Roll these tight. We've got hours tops before they bang the door. And stop using sheets as medical supplies, girl."
I moved on auto—fingers folding fabric efficient from years of practice, mind racing circles. Thom occasionally poked his head in, whispering updates: soldiers at the gate now, council runner yelling names- before the matron would grab a broom and shoo him to work.
Lira Voss's funeral set for dusk—war declaration after. By mid-morning, the home would be thrumming like a kicked hive. Hammers banged boards over lower windows, kids hauled crates inside, Matron barked inventory like a general.
I packed my healer's kit quick—dried herbs in pouches, bone needles threaded, salve jars corked tight. Journal scraps for notes, extra cloth strips. Dagger went in last, wrapped separate at the bag's bottom. Hated the weight. Needed the edge.
Council runner pounded the front door by noon—crimson tabard, voice booming through the oak. "All fae healers, report square by sundown! Weapons issued. North declared retaliation—troops sighted hour ago. No exceptions!"
Weapons.
Front lines.
Maeve across that sealed line, maybe staring at her own orders. Her promise hit different now, mine did too—no staking her. Ever.
Matron pulled me aside in the hall, hug rough and floury, voice gruff. "Stay alive out there, girl. Mend what you can, dodge the rest. We've lost enough."
I nodded, throat tight, bag slung over shoulder. No matter how much I hated the orphanage, I had grown up in it. And I'd miss it despite everything.
I stepped into the street. Militia clogged it—pikes gleaming oiled, faces grim under helmets, supply carts rumbling toward the border road. Horns blew steady—assembly, advance prep, probably. Thom waved from the orphanage window, pale. I waved back once, then turned for the square. Toward the line.
Maeve's side.
My chest squeezed like a vice. Promise or war, this border just turned blade-sharp.
I walked up the group of healers and physicians, stopping short of my horse. I strapped my bag, securing it once before mounting.
The reigns felt heavy despite being simple leather.
I gazed ahead as soldiers mounted and bid farewells to their loved ones.
While I was unfortunate to be the one fighting against my cherished one.
How cruel is fate.
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