Page 1 of A Legacy of Storms and Starlight

Chapter One

Ididn’t mean for him to die.

The scent of freshly baked bread drifted through the grate at the top of Zylah’s cell, and her stomach growled in response. It was from the Andells’ family bakery; she’d know it anywhere. There was no use climbing up to the grate—she’d almost broken her wrist trying to do it the day before. Instead, she folded her arms tightly around herself and pictured the bakery: the way the warmth hit you the moment you opened the door, the soft glow of the orblights, the mouth-watering smell of the canna cakes, and Mrs Andell behind the counter, flour brushed over her cheeks and green apron.

And the painting that hung on the wall behind her. She’d said it had been gifted to them by a traveller one day who couldn’t pay for bread; it depicted a snowy mountain and verdant trees dusted in white snow, a blazing beacon in the background the only speck of colour. Somewhere in the Rinian mountain range, the traveller had told them. Zylah had never seen anything like it—no one she’d ever met had seen mountains. She knew the range began—or ended—somewhere upriver, but few people seemed to travel from that direction these days.

Someone in a nearby part of the prison threw up, and Zylah was brought right back to her cold cell, to her throat that was hoarse from screaming, her filthy uniform and the fetid stench of death. The last of her tears had dried up days ago.

I didn’t mean for him to die.It was the only thought that stopped her hands from trembling. It was an accident. Surely they’d realise that soon enough?

A mouse shot out of the grimy hay beside her feet, scurrying away into the shadows to hide. Not that it was difficult, the grate only let in a thin shaft of light, and it was all she had to illuminate her cell, which she’d rather not have seen, anyway.

She shouldn’t have even been in the prince’s quarters, but when Kara had asked her to cover the evening shift, Zylah couldn’t refuse. She already owed the girl for covering her back on more than one occasion, and besides, she’d do anything for her friend.

Zylah wrapped her hands around the iron bars of her cell, the cold biting into her fingers. The reek of the prison was worse here—on her first day it was so bad it had made her eyes water. But she needed to listen, and she pressed the side of her head against the bars, straining to hear the whisper of the guards in the darkness. Nothing.

I didn’t mean for him to die. But he was hurting her. The moment Prince Jesper had caught her eye as she swept ash from the fireplace, Zylah had recognised the look that darkened his face. She’d seen it enough times on Theo’s face to know precisely what the prince had intended, and the feeling had most certainly not been mutual.

“Please, please let us out,” a woman from another cell called out. “We’ll leave the city, we’ll pack up and go, just please let us out.”

But that was not the way things worked in the king’s prison. Zylah ran her thumbnail over a flaking piece of rust, listening to the woman’s quiet weeping, fighting with her own rising panic. If she hadn’t already heaved her guts out in various parts of the rotting hay, she’d be sick again.

“Be quiet, Maren, or they’ll kill us before our trial,” a man hissed.

Footsteps sounded, and Zylah pressed the side of her head against the bars again. Two sets, at the top of the staircase that led down into the prison: one heavy and one light. No other prisoners would have heard them yet, they were too far away still. But Zylah had always been a little…different,not that she’d welcomed it—she’d always had keener hearing and sharper vision than the other children when she was a child. Had always been the fastest in races. And she’d been bullied for it, no matter how much she’d yelled at them that she wasn’t different, not truly.

Unusualwas not something you wanted to be in Dalstead or the villages, like hers, that surrounded it.

It hadn’t always been a curse. Her father had taken her on as his apprentice because of her keen sense of smell. One afternoon in his apothecary, she’d caught a trader trying to sell perfumed tea leaves instead of crushed erti root. Zylah frowned at the memory. She would never see the apothecary again.

If only she’d had some erti root in her apron, or better yet, some besa leaves, anything to cover the stench of the prison, but she was fairly certain her clothes had soaked up the stink now, too. The footsteps were getting closer, almost to the door at the bottom of the spiral staircase, and Zylah heard the dainty sniffing of a woman. A maid, maybe? No, they wouldn’t be sending a maid down for a prisoner the day before her execution.

A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open on creaking hinges. Zylah couldn’t see along the corridor, could barely see to the next cell, but she heard the intake of breath, the stifled sob and the mumbled words from whoever accompanied the guard. It was Kara.

Zylah smoothed down her filthy tunic, huffing a quiet laugh at herself as her hands reached her sides. What good would it do? She most likely looked a complete mess, but it helped her hold onto her last shreds of sanity. Tomorrow, she’d never see anyone again. She took in a few deep breaths, practised her smile, and waited for Kara to reach her cell, for the soft glow of the orblight the guard carried to grow brighter.

“Oh, Zy,” Kara said, the moment their eyes met. Kara’s tiny face was puffy from crying, her tight brown curls escaping haphazardly from the wrap she wore to keep her hair in check whilst she worked. She reached her hands out for Zylah’s through the bars.

“How did you convince them to let you down here?” Zylah asked, placing her hands over Kara’s tiny fingers. Everything about the girl was dainty. Her nut-brown eyes, her soft nose, the way her little curls brushed against her deep brown skin. Zylah tried to hide her shaky breathing, tried to keep her smile bright for her friend.

Kara wiped at a tear with the back of her sleeve. “Mama’s friends with—” She looked up at the guard beside her, who had turned his back to the cell, but kept watch diligently, the orblight hovering above him. “Mama helped me,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry, Zy. This is all my fault.”

Kara’s face blurred and Zylah saw the prince approaching again, saw the way he’d caught her off guard and taken the fire iron from her hand. She’d been stoking the fire as a pretence, just so she had a weapon to defend herself with. But when he’d stepped before her, she’d frozen. She didn’t know why, but she was furious with herself for it. All her training with her brother had been for nothing when she needed it most. Well, almost.

“None of this is your fault, Kar, okay?” Zylah squeezed Kara’s fingers gently. “You’ve covered my shifts a hundred times. I’d cover for you again in a heartbeat.”

“But it was your last week,” Kara said, her voice breaking on the last few words.

Zylah schooled her expression as best she could. It was true, she was only meant to be working for the royal family for another week before she went full time with her father. Business had been better than ever, and they could finally afford to go without her meagre salary from the palace—she could, at last, spend her days doing something she loved. But she wouldn’t burden her friend with any of that.

“You did tell me my hips would get me in trouble one day,” she said, with the closest thing to a smirk she could muster. There must have been a reason he’d attacked, some glance she’d given him, but no matter how many times she replayed it, she couldn’t remember what had happened in the moments right before he’d confronted her; it was as if there was just a gap that she’d blocked out.

The prince had split her lip, and it still hadn’t healed. It had broken open every time she’d spoken, every time she’d screamed in the darkness. Every time she’d thrown up.

Kara didn’t return the smile. “Your face,” she said quietly. “He did this to you?”

Zylah wondered how bad her eye must have looked if the bruising was still as bad as it felt. She swallowed, not wanting to think of the way Jesper had put his hands on her, the way his breath had reeked of avenberry liquor. “He did. I was defending myself; I didn’t mean for—”

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