Prologue: Ghost Girl
The sea was angry. It slashed against the shore with foam-white fingers, scratching and hissing as it dragged sand and shells back into the waves. But it could not reach what it was after, and it roared in its fury, waves leaping to claw the roiling grey sky.
The girl hobbled up the rocky shore toward the shadow on the hill, tripping and stumbling on weary, aching feet. Traces of mud and encrusted blood lingered on her pale face. If one had seen her on this night, they might have mistaken her for a ghost.
The shadow solidified into a building, the weathered stone of an ancient convent. The girl hesitated, her narrow shoulders trembling.
Rain began to fall. A shout echoed behind her. The girl ran, slipping on wet grass and nearly sliding back down the slope. At the last moment she caught herself and continued on, shoulders huddled for warmth.
She reached the door—a grand, massive achievement of wood and ornate carving. Not for the first time, the girl wished she could read the odd, jagged runes of the humans. She knew they meant something, just as the songs of the sea whispered wisdom into the ears of those who understood.
A gust of wind blew through her, and her entire body wavered like seaweed in a current. Before she fell, the door creaked open and a thin, bony face peeked out. "Yes?" a high, nasal voice asked.
The girl's heart thrummed with fright, jumping in her chest and making her choke. She had no dagger, no armor—she was naked, lost, and alone. Exhausted, weak, and weary. And in the presence of the enemy.
Her knees buckled, and she crumpled.
The nun stepped out before the girl could hit the ground. Catching her in skinny arms that were surprisingly strong, the woman tilted the girl's head back so she could take a look at her charge.
Raindrops slid down a delicate, slightly-upturned nose and melted into soft, full lips. Thick black eyelashes fluttered against high cheekbones under the rim of straight dark brows. The girl's eyelids were large, betraying a wide, startled-deer gaze while awake. Heavy brown curls tumbled across the nun's arm as she shifted the girl's weight.
A beauty, the nun thought. An odd one, but a beauty—in an eerie, otherworldly way. Frowning, she glanced at the sea and then to the girl's quivering frame. I wonder where she came from? She doesn't look like a villager. Despite the girl's soft look, her palms and fingers were as calloused as those of a warrior.
The girl moaned, startling the woman from her curiosity. She half-carried, half-dragged the girl inside, calling over her shoulder for the Mother Superior.
And the sea continued to roll, and the wind continued to scream, both searching for a way to snatch back that which had been lost.