Chapter One

It was the hour of slumber.

If the moon had been shining, perhaps the light would have awakened the things that laid in silence during the hustle and bustle that one expects from the busy hours of day. If there was a wind, or even the breath of a breeze, it would have trailed through the trees with a whine, shaking the leaves from their sleep. Maybe, if it had been any other day, the soft sounds of children whispering stories in the shadows would echo in the hollow of the night. However, there was nothing of the sort; nothing, save for the movement of thick, swollen fog twisting and growing in the dark—and of course, the mischievous patter of footsteps.

It was through an unlocked window on the second story of a large estate that a cloaked figure, steeped in black, slipped in. It ran through the corridor in ghostly silence, the blackness contorting and twisting its image into vague inhuman shapes. As the figure neared a pair of stairs, it slowed to a stop and watched a guard pass by. The burly man took five steps, paused to sneeze, and then disappeared around the corner, cursing between sniffles about the hay fever that seemed to attack him every spring.

My, if it isn't my preferred type of guard—strong, brave, and just a bit too slow, the figure thought, quite amused, and made its way to the top of the stairs and into another corridor.

This hall, unlike the rest of the wing, had the luxury of light. Softly flickering lamps lined the walls, each bringing color to the intricately embroidered tapestries and gold framed paintings hanging nearby. Light eyes, concealed by the darkness of a hood, glanced up at the unlit chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. Imported, the figure noted. From the Cardair-styled wooden-framed windows to the Artai-designed stairs, the house itself was composed of only the best.

For some the display might have been suffocating; however, for the estate's owner, Jimna Deo, an aristocratic-born, forty year old man, who derived much of his pleasure by gambling, it was nothing but ordinary. Yet despite this show of wealth, the man was filthy broke and had borrowed a large sum to carry on with his favorite pastimes, a sum which he had been unwilling and unable to pay back—the reason for this unexpected visit.

The figure continued down the hall, trailing fingertips against the wall, lips softly blowing out the flame in each passing lamp. Two. Three. Four. The soft patter of footsteps came to a stop at the fifth door to the right. Now, let's see…

"You there!"

Eyes shifted in the direction of the sound. Standing at the other end of the hall was the shadow of the hulking profile of a man. He was dressed in a light colored top beneath a leather vest, and atop his head sat a helm tilted crookedly to one side. It was a familiar sight, no doubt the look of a man who had snuck out earlier for a night of fun at a town inn and was just creeping back to his post. The guard squinted, trying to make out the features of the figure at the other end of the hall against the dim light of the lamps that had still been left lit. He took a tentative step forward and wrapped a beefy hand around the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt.

"Oh my, aren't you a loud one," came a voice that was sweet and light and teasing. The cloaked figure pressed a slender finger against hidden lips. "Quiet, if you please. There are those who are trying to sleep."

The guard's brows lifted in surprise. "A woman?" Eyes blinked once. Twice. The man tore his hand away from his sword and staggered towards her, his eyes still feeling slightly blurred from his earlier drunkenness. "Did Lord Jimna call for you?" Besides gambling, Lord Jimna had one other favorite hobby: to have pretty little girls warm his bed at night.

The woman said nothing to the man as he neared.

"From which brothel did you come?" the guard continued, undeterred by the other's silence. He reached into the sack hanging from his belt and pulled out a silver coin. "How about a night? What do you sa—"

With an abruptness the man stopped mid-step, brows furrowing as his vision seemed to clear. He ran his eyes over the darkly dressed woman. This wasn't one of his lord's girls.

Without warning the woman darted toward the guard, flicking her wrist to the side. The hilt of a dagger slid into her palm from the sheath that had been fastened to her forearm, and in a flurry of movement she sliced through the length of the man's hand, splitting it in two with an angry red trail.

The guard smashed his teeth together and stumbled backwards. He hissed, reaching for his sword.

But before the man could unsheathe his weapon, the figure had already moved, snapping the dagger back up and jabbing the blade deep into his neck. A slow, wet guttural choke tore from the guard's throat, his now wide-mouthed gape leaking strings of blood from his bottom lip. He reached out a clenched hand toward the woman, but before his fingers could grasp her cloak, he fell, crumpling like a paper doll.

Pale fingers picked up a silver coin from off the floor and placed it back into the dead man's sack. "Is this all I'm worth to you?" the hooded figure whispered, a bemused smile on her lips. She retracted the dagger from the bleeding flesh and placed it within a pocket of her cloak. "You offend me."

With that, the woman moved back to the door and, after sparing a quick glance over her shoulder, slipped through.

It was nearly pitch black inside the chamber. Even her eyes, which were used to the dark, strained to adjust to the lack of light. If there were any concerns that the earlier commotion had disturbed any sleeping bodies, they were lost at the sound of a loud, sharp rumble. The woman turned toward the left side of the room, spotting the outline of a heavy oak-framed bed. A snoring lump sprawled beneath the thick sheets, thick hands curled against the edges of one of the many pillows.

The man was large by anyone's standard, having most likely seen many easy days with little hardship as a child. The round, sagging shape of his face, and his pug-like nose matched the description she'd been given by the man who had hired her. Without a doubt, this was Jimna Uli-deo. The woman pulled unsheathed a dagger from her waist and pressed the pointed tip against the bottom of the man's chin. Its blade, much like the color of her eyes, shone like molten blood as she dipped down to whisper into his ear.

"Sweet dreams."


It's no good.

The thought belonged to a middle-aged man whose hair was cropped short near his skull, streaked thoroughly with strands of grey. He was hardy and strong for his years, and had a hard face that was weathered with long days of training and fighting. But now he was seated on a horse-pulled wagon, listening to the sound of wheels creaking and hooves pounding, while his eyes scanned what little of the horizon he could see in the dark.

"Tali," he called, "do you see any landmarks yet?"

The man who had been walking in front of the wagon from a distance away turned back, revealing hints of a thick, angular face. "Nothing but the same thing, Maro. Just the dirt path and no people."

"Of course it's the same," mumbled another voice, sounding younger and harsher than the first two. "It's been the same every time you've asked since midnight. It's all this fog, I'm telling you. And these clothes—they're filthy and too thin."

Maro looked to the back of the wagon where a smaller man squatted, his arm wrapped around a sheathed sword. He was dressed in a simple tunic with a pair of light trousers underneath. "They're farmers' clothes. It's what the common people wear."

"We aren't common people for crying out loud! We're part of the royal guard. I haven't heard anything from the other men about having to change into soiled clothes just to bury a wooden crate. Not to mention why we of all people are burying a wooden crate in the first place!" The smaller man rapped on the rectangular box next to him with his knuckles. It was large, slightly longer than his own height, twice as thick as his profile, and riddled with thick cracks; he could poke a finger through if he wanted to.

"Orders from the commander, Dagi. The clothes are to avoid suspicion, you know that. If the people saw a group of royal guards garbed in fancy armor all the way out here, they're going to get curious. And it's not just any crate, there are offerings inside to appease the gods. We just need to bury it in secret. We can't have civilians thinking the King is feeling desperate." The man sighed at his own words. Of course they were desperate. It was slow, but the signs were there. The kingdom was growing ill.

"Simple," Dagi snarkily replied, rapping on the wooden box again. "Then this order should have been given to some trainees, not full fledged guards. The commander even said that the crate was full of ordinary offerings. But what's worse is he wants it buried all the way up west!"

"There may be more importance to this than you think."

Dagi gave a dry chuckle. "You're a smart man, Maro. Do you honestly believe that burying offerings in the middle of nowhere is more important than our other problems? What about this?" He pointed to a nearby farmer's field. The crops were planted much differently than usual. Traditionally, a single white flower —known as a moonlit for its florescent-like glow in the light of the moon— would be grown in the center of the field, surrounded by the produce of choice; however, this field was abundantly littered with the white flowers, no doubt planted in desperation to save the dying crops.

"The farmers can plant all they want," Dagi continued. "The harvest will fail because the flowers keep wilting. If this goes on, we won't have enough food to go around. Don't you think that's something that should be investigated?"

There was an irritated sigh. "It isn't that easy—"

"And why was I chosen to tag along on this merry little trip anyway?" Dagi ranted on, ignoring the other man. "We've been traveling for nearly six hours now, and my legs are going numb—"

"Dagi—"

"This is a waste of time, I tell you. If I was King—"

"Enough, Dagi!" Maro snapped, slamming a fist down on the wagon with a sharp glare marring his face. "Don't ever let me hear those words coming from your mouth again, you hear? Might I remind you that you were just a trainee not too long ago? You're still just a boy compared to the rest of us. Now sit down and stop pounding on the damn crate, or I'll have you charged with treason!"

A dark look crossed the smaller man's face, but he complied, sitting cross legged with the sword tucked neatly under his arm.

I should have chosen someone else to come, the older man thought, clenching his jaw. Usually he had more patience, but he had been feeling restless since the start of the journey. It was not because of the man sitting on the back of the wagon—although that did play a part—but because of the crate itself and what, or more specifically, who was in it.

Maro wiped his brow and suppressed the feeling of guilt rising in his chest. He had no choice. It was an order directly from the King. Maro would choose two men to serve as lookouts in a mission to bury offerings in the western region of Enraoi, at Moon Lake, but the chosen men would know nothing more than that. Only he would know the truth of it all—that it was the King's daughter, the princess, who lay confined in those wooden walls, drugged and unconscious… and that it was he who would hold the knife that would pierce her throat. Only then could the kingdom be saved.

The group continued onwards in silence, surrounded by tendrils of fog that seemed to playfully grasp at their clothes before dissolving to air born specks. Every now and then the group would slow, their hackles rising at the sound of far off voices of waking men at dawn. Another hour passed, and the voices faded away, leaving only the three men trudging on the dirt path that was now lined on both sides with thick forest. They trudged on for a moment more before a voice rang out.

"I see a lake ahead, you two!" Tali said.

Dagi perked, standing up and squinting with his eyes. "That means we're close right? It's about time!"

As they neared the lake, Maro scanned the land around it. White flowers covered the grass in thick patches, their petals glinting in whatever light now managed to seep through the cover of fog. He nodded. "It's Moon Lake. Home of the First Flower." With a yank of the reins, he directed the horse onto the grass and stopped it when they reached the edge of the water.

The three men hauled the wooden crate off the wagon and set it gently on the ground.

Dagi wiped his hands on his trousers. "What did you say was in this Maro?"

Maro just shrugged. "I'll need you two to check the path. One of you head up the road, and whoever's left can head down."

"You don't need any help?" Tali asked.

"I'll be fine," came the tired reply. "It shouldn't take too long. Just make sure no one wanders near here while I'm digging. I'll call you when I'm done."

Tali gave him a nod and patted Dagi on the shoulder as they headed toward the path. Maro waited, unmoving, until he could no longer see the backs of the men through the cover of fog. There was nothing but silence now. Not even the footsteps of his companions could be heard. He glanced up towards the sky, seeing the vague, gloomy colors of morning sky emerging.

If I hurry, we should be back before dawn, Maro thought, grasping the top of the crate with his hands. With a pull, he heaved the cover off and set it on the ground. His heart had begun to pound harder now, and his breaths grew more sporadic.

"Just get it over with," he whispered to himself sternly.

Weathered hands quickly brushed off the thin layer of hay that covered the top of not offerings, but a young woman's figure. She was clad in brilliantly colored robes dyed in the silver, gold, and blues that marked the colors of his homeland. The guard gently brushed away the woman's long dark hair away from her neck and placed two fingers on her pulse. He nodded to himself. For now, at least, he needed her to be alive. Only the fresh blood of a marked one born within the royal bloodline could nourish the First Flower that gave life to their land.

Maro pulled a small knife from his pocket. He had sharpened its edge right before the trip so that it would cut easier and faster. It wasn't that he hated the young woman, although many, if word got out that she was marked, would blame her for the failing harvests and hardships that plagued the land. But she had not chosen to be born that way, he knew. She had not chosen to be born with royal blood, and neither did she choose to have that small symbol inked on her left hip; it was given to her unwillingly.

It was the unfortunate coincidence of those two combined that had given her this fate. If she had been born with a mark outside of royal family, perhaps she would have been Kissed with a talent that would bring joy to those around her. Or perhaps if she had been born a princess with no mark—not Kissed—she would have lived her life in wealth until she died. But that mark on her body was nothing more than a way to mark her as a sacrifice. Failing to shed her blood would be met by the death of their beloved moonlits.

Maro clenched his teeth together in a grim grin. It is said that all gods crave blood one way or the other, he thought, even one so kind as Eibin.

To one who never stepped foot in this land, the flowers may have looked like ordinary plants, similar to the ones you could find growing in the fields and forests that died seasonally; however, these were different. They were life-giving flowers that grew all year round, causing the soil to be rich in nutrients and allowing the crops to grow in abundance. Without them, the incident of long before would be repeated; the soil would grow barren and the plants would die, and the thousands of people who inhabited the land would perish with the fall of their kingdom.

The girl had to die.

Maro glanced toward the water. After he pierced her throat, he would place rocks into the crate and let it sink to the bottom of the lake. Her blood would seep with the water into the soil, and the First Flower, wherever it was amidst the plants, would drink it in. It was after this that the wilting of the flowers should stop.

Maro lifted his knife, his hand moving to pierce the woman's thin neck with his blade. The steel nipped the surface of her skin—but stopped abruptly.

Damn. Damn! The tip of the knife trembled from its place. Maro felt himself shaking.

"There is no other way," he told himself sternly, commanding his arm to move. "There is no other way!" But when it didn't, he threw his knife onto the ground beside him and lifted his hands to cradle his head.

He had known he wouldn't have been able to do it from the start, but no amount of pleading could convince the commander to give the task to another. It was because he was kind, the commander had told him. A kind man knew how to kill another gently. But this wasn't another soldier he was fighting, Maro thought. It was a defenseless young woman, no older than his own daughter.

"No," Maro whispered, shaking his head. No, this was different. This was about the kingdom. What was one life, when thousands of men, women, and children were at stake? The guard picked up his knife and repositioned its blade. Forgive me, he thought as he brought it down.

A sharp cry shattered the silence, and the knife swerved from its target, stabbing into the bottom of the crate.

Maro snapped his head in the direction of the sound. When did the fog become so thick? "Tali?" he yelled, pulling out the knife and standing. "Tali, answer me!"

He gave a short glance to the still unconscious girl and stepped in the direction of the dirt path. There was something out there coming his way. Hands gripped the knife tightly.

"Maro…" From the fog emerged the familiar man with an angular looking face, dragging himself forward with two hands.

"Tali," Maro said, rushing to the other guard's side. He eyed the large gash that ran down the man's back, from left shoulder to right hip, and placed a palm on it gently. Too deep, Maro thought.

Tali opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't. Instead, he sank down slowly, dead by the time he hit the ground.

Maro grit his teeth, hesitating only a moment before stepping away from where the lifeless man lay. He had to get to Dagi. He had moved merely a few yards towards the path when a thick, dark shadow emerged to cross his path, only to disappear into the fog once more. The guard stopped in place, gripping his knife.

"Who are you?" he hissed.

There was no reply, save for the distant patter of footsteps. An unsettling feeling hit him in the stomach as he felt the presence pass by behind. Maro twisted around, trying to see through the fog. It seemed to grow thicker with every minute, almost suffocatingly.

The black shadow passed him from the side, and the guard moved towards it, swiping with his knife, but it had already gone. "Show yourself!"

Another swipe. "Come out you coward!"

Maro looked around wildly, his heart pounding as the shadow seemed to slither all around him—from the left, then the right, and then from behind.

"Show yourself!" the guard screamed, gripping his knife so tight the hilt dug into his skin.

Just then, the sound of footsteps grew louder and closer, circling round and round. This time the man made sure he was ready. He felt the presence growing near his back, and as it reached out to brush his shoulder, he turned around and swung, stabbing into whatever had been tormenting him.

"You—why," a familiar voice rasped out.

Maro trembled, eyes widening as he took in the face of the man he had wounded. Dagi. The older man stared at the hilt of the knife, which protruded directly out of the younger man's chest. As the other guard fell, Maro stepped back, shaken, and dropped to his knees. He gave a half strangled cry as he looked at his now dead comrades.

It was then that he felt it—warm air against his neck, and the breath of a woman's whisper, "I'm afraid you are facing the wrong way."

Before Maro could twist away, a stabbing pain pricked the center of his back. He stumbled forward, using one arm to support his weight, and brought two fingers up to touch the warm liquid flowing from his lower torso. Blood, the man registered as the taste of iron filled his lungs and mouth. His limbs gave way and the older guard slid to the ground. Pain and shock, relief and regret—emotions pounded into his head. He looked over at the direction of the crate, imagining the young woman lying inside, her face at peace, oblivious to what had just taken place.

Then everything went black.


The darkly clad woman stared down at the now dead men, the cloak of her hood hiding her almost indifferent expression.

If only they had let me pass, the woman thought, and pressed a hand against her head as if it was aching.

Nearby, scarlet eyes caught the sight of the wooden crate. The woman stepped over and peered inside, arching her brow at the still body that lay in it. It was that of a girl, about her age, perhaps younger. She knew the men had been hiding something. She had thought it was odd that the men had barred her passage, and even odder when they had threatened her life if she took another step, but this—this was far different than what she had imagined.

"Strange indeed," she said, and brushed the tip of a dagger against a rosy cheek. There was movement—breathing. The girl was alive.

She cocked her head to one side and knelt down to brush her left hand against the expensive robes that adorned the younger woman's body. Curious. Fingertips traced the blue and silver trimmed edges before pulling away. But before the woman could retract her arm fully, it came, all too sudden—a surge of violent spasms burst abruptly from her left arm. She dropped her dagger and quickly held down the arm with her free hand, feeling the flesh underneath pulse like a working heart. A searing pain ran up her limb, burning through her veins from the inside out. She gripped down harder. Knuckles turned a ghastly shade of white as nails dug so deep into her flesh that it hurt. This again.

Then, almost as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

The hooded woman opened her eyes slowly. She had not been aware of even closing them. For a moment the world looked as clear as the inside of a roughly cut gemstone. Then, slowly, everything began to mold into place.

At the sight of the first thing that came into focus, she stiffened. A pair of green eyes stared back at her face in confusion. The younger woman was awake.

But not quite fully, the red-eyed woman thought. Reaching out a hand, she picked up the dagger she had discarded, and pictured herself scoring the younger woman's throat. Clean and easy… Instead, she shook her head, amused yet discomforted at how quickly that thought came to her. Now, let's see… She pressed a thought gently against the younger woman's mind, slowly increasing the pressure, and a single word slipped from her lips. "Sleep." The voice that rose from her throat was so similar, yet sounded nothing like her own.

The younger woman stilled briefly, almost as if in shock, before her eyes closed. Her robes shuddered softly with the rising and falling of her chest.

Without another glance, the cloaked figure ventured further into the dark, leaving the sleeping girl wandering in newly forced dreams.