CHAPTER ONE
The girl with an eye painted water grey and the other a striking shade of violet tore across the village square of Rashka. Her dress was torn and thin, which was surprising as it was the dead of winter in Middluns. This girl's auburn hair whipped across the air, as she ran to an inn near the edge of the village. No one noticed her, or didn't want to notice her, and she got to her destination in peace.
The common room fire warmed the girl's skin, giving her goose bumps as the feeling was so unusual to her. Being warm was a luxury she hadn't lived with for seventeen years. She huddled near the fire, trying not to be noticed by the robust innkeeper. She cussed at her vivid hair, trying to tame it so she wasn't a walking sign. Hands shaking, her fingers pulled off her gloves and warmed them, as they were near frost bite stage, near the fire. How good it felt, she would never be able to describe.
"Oi! You there! Red haired girl! Who you with, now?" The voice belonged to the innkeeper, a heavy woman with steel gray hair and a nasty stare. Without turning around, scared the fire would just magically disappear if she didn't give it her whole attention, she replied, "No one, miss."
"Did you pay to use my fire?" The woman sounded angry, as if she had to pay the fire for its warmth. "No, miss." Still, the girl averted her gaze. "You can always use my fire," said a merchant at one of the long, wooden tables that occupied the room. He and his mates were obviously drunk. His friends laughed, and he leered at her. Oh well, she thought. Time to look at them.
The moment she did, the bustling of the servant girls, the rambunctious laugh and conversation of the travelers sitting and drinking, and the innkeeper were silent. This kingdom wasn't like Lienid, which she'd heard about, and how they accepted the Graced as extraordinary people. Here, it was as if being Graced was a disease, and couldn't be destroyed or prevented. "Girl! Why aren't you working for the king? It's your duty!" one of the other merchants asked, with a northern accent. "Unless, of course, your Grace is absolutely useless." Another one chuckled. If only the king knew I existed, the girl mused. "Whether she can spear anything with a wink or cook a whole pork in three seconds, it doesn't matter. You got to leave girl, now! This is my inn and I don't want no infested person messing it up." The innkeeper stated. The girl jumped up.
"Of course, miss. Sorry to bother you, miss." And the girl left the small, clean inn in exchange for harsh winds and knee deep snow. The girl hated being polite, respecting the people who trampled all over her. But she had to, because of her mother. And because she wanted no one to find out what her Grace was. That would be the worst thing that would ever happen to her. Worst than losing her mother—her only family—to that Monsean king so long ago, King Leck, or losing her inheritance to a greedy uncle who wanted her as a bride, and even worst than being so alone in a world that would always hate her. Much, much worse.