Faebound: A Novel

by Saara El-Arifi

Genres: Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Two elven sisters become imprisoned in the intoxicating world of the fae, where danger and love lie in wait. Faebound is the first book in an enchanting new trilogy from the Sunday Times bestselling author of The Final Strife.

“A romantic fantasy of epic proportions, crackling with magic and passion.”—Samantha Shannon, bestselling author of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Yeeran was born on the battlefield, has lived on the battlefield, and one day, she knows, she’ll die on the battlefield.

As a warrior in the elven army, Yeeran has known nothing but violence her whole life. Her sister, Lettle, is trying to make a living as a diviner, seeking prophecies of a better future.

When a fatal mistake leads to Yeeran’s exile from the Elven Lands, both sisters are forced into the terrifying wilderness beyond their borders. 

There they encounter the impossible: the fae court. The fae haven’t been seen for a millennium. But now Yeeran and Lettle are thrust into their seductive world, torn among their loyalties to each other, their elven homeland, and their hearts.


* This audiobook edition includes a downloadable PDF that contains a map and journal from the book.

Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Del Rey

Print pages: 397

Sample

PART 1

In the beginning there were three gods.

The god Asase came to being as a grain of wheat. A single particle that bloomed into life. As Asase grew, their roots became mountain-sides and their leaves blossomed into forests. Valleys formed in the gaps of Asase’s branches and the knots in their bark became canyons.

And so, the earth was born.

The god Ewia flew in on wings of darkness to bring day and night to the world. As a bat with two heads they found their place in the sky above their sibling. When one face looked to the earth there was light, and when the other turned their gaze downwards there was darkness.

And so, the sun was born.

The last god to appear in the universe was Bosome. They moved through Asase’s roots creating rivers and seas before residing next to Ewia, a silver droplet of water in the sky that ebbed and flowed with the turning of tides.

And so, the moon was born.

The three gods lived happily for many years until one day Asase said, ‘I wish for a child. I shall create one.’

From the seeds of the earth Asase made humans. Sprigs became bones and flowers sprouted smiles.

Ewia, seeing their sibling so happy with their children, said, ‘I too wish for a child. I shall create one.’

And so, from the skin of their wings, Ewia made fae with pointed teeth and ears like bats.

Centuries passed and Bosome watched both their siblings in their happiness but saw their children’s faults. Humans were too fragile to survive long, and fae too arrogant to care much for their parents. So Bosome made the elves out of the waters of the world with the pointed ears of fae, but with the humble nature of the humans.

And for a time, all was well. But no matter how much the gods wished for peace, they had given their children the one thing that would never ensure it.

Free will.

 

CHAPTER ONEYeeran

Yeeran was born on the battlefield, lived on the battlefield, and one day, she knew, she’d die on the battlefield.

Her first breaths were tinged with the smoke and ash of her mother’s dying enemies. And when Yeeran screamed, she joined the rallying cry of her tribe as they rode into battle. Soldiers giving birth on the front line wasn’t uncommon. If you could hold a drum, you could fight.

And yet we still don’t have enough soldiers.

Yeeran let out a heavy sigh as she surveyed the war map in front of her. Each valley and hill had been etched into the slab of oak by skilled cartographers. An expensive piece of craftmanship to have in a bedchamber, but Yeeran’s lover had never been called frugal.

The moonlight cast a shard of silver over the centre of the table where the four districts of the Elven Lands converged on the Bleeding Field, the front line of battle. She ran her gaze over the four quadrants of the map: Waxing, Crescent, Eclipse and finally her own elven tribe, Waning.

Her hand curled around the edge of the table, her nails making fine dents in the grain of the wood as she scrutinised the battlefield formations. White tokens tracked the locations of troops under her army’s direction.

Yeeran’s eyes homed in on one regiment that lay in wait by the eastern tower of the garrison. Hers.

‘Yeery,’ the nickname was breathed into the silence. Salawa’s quiet steps had brought her to Yeeran’s side. ‘Come back to bed.’ Her breath was hot as she brushed her lips against the shaved sides of Yeeran’s head towards the pointed tips of her ears.

Yeeran’s hand slid up Salawa’s back and tangled her fingers in the edges of the woman’s braids. They hung heavy against her naked skin, weighed down with beads and gemstones.

‘I can’t sleep.’

Salawa didn’t respond for a time. Yeeran liked that about her lover, that each second was considered, every thought knitted together, before she spoke.

‘Twenty years you have waited to be promoted to colonel. Few thought you’d do it before your thirty-fifth birthday, yet here you are, the youngest colonel the Waning Army has ever had—’

‘Not until tomorrow.’

Salawa inhaled sharply. She didn’t like to be interrupted. Yeeran’s hand slipped up from Salawa’s clavicle until it rested against her cheek. It was only then that Salawa softened enough to continue.

‘Sleep will not take this moment away from you. Your new regiment will be there in the morning.’

Salawa looked to the window where the city of Gural pulsed as the heartbeat of the Waning district. Yeeran followed the direction of her gaze.

Chimneys thrust up from domed roofs puffing smoke into the star-speckled sky. Yeeran knew that the taverns would be teeming with soldiers made merry by spiced rum. For the bakeries it wasn’t late night, it was early morning, and the aroma of their ovens seasoned the light wind.

Yeeran watched the tenderness in Salawa’s face harden as she looked further, towards the Bleeding Field. Battle fire lit her green irises hazel and Yeeran felt herself burning from the flame reflected there.

‘I got you something, to celebrate your new title,’ Salawa said quietly.

Yeeran’s hand dropped from Salawa’s cheek. Her lover’s gifts were always ostentatious and gaudy. Yeeran didn’t wear jewellery or care for fine dresses. Neither helped her in combat.

The only thing she did keep on her was a small gold ring sewn into the lining of her uniform. It had no sentimental value for her, but she knew that, should she fall in battle, the ring would be rightfully claimed by the young children who made a living scavenging from the corpses of the army. With that ring, the children would be able to feed themselves for a year. Yeeran had spent many years of her childhood hoping to find such a boon.

‘I think you’ll really like this gift,’ Salawa said as she padded away to retrieve something from under her four-poster bed.

Yeeran gave her a tentative smile and Salawa laughed knowingly as she withdrew a large circular object wrapped in a leather sling.

It took Yeeran less than three steps to cross the room. She lifted the gift from Salawa’s outstretched hands and peeled back the grain of the leather to find the present within.

The drum was exquisitely crafted. The outer shell hewn in mahogany, making the barrel shine a deep crimson like fresh blood.

The casing and hoop were gold and studded with sapphires. Beading threaded down the bowl of the drum, more for decoration than for sound. But the most beautiful thing by far was the black drumskin.

‘From an obeah elder?’ Yeeran murmured, her hand running over the stretched leather.

Obeah were the only creatures imbued with magic in the realm. The animals had once been as common as deer, roaming in packs across the Elven Lands. Yeeran’s sight went inwards as she imagined the creatures thundering through the forest, their white horns slicing through the foliage, their feline forms slipping past trees with the ease of ink on paper.

But now the ink had all but dried up, as they had been hunted to near extinction for their magic.

Magic for weapons like these. Yeeran’s fingers prickled where they rested on the drumskin.

Salawa grinned and clasped her hands under her chin.

‘Yes, this was made from one of the oldest obeah our hunters have ever caught.’

As an obeah aged its skin colour deepened, making the creature’s magic more potent, and its skin even more coveted for crafting powerful objects. Unfortunately, elder obeah were also more intelligent, so hunting them was near impossible. Salawa’s gift was something rare and precious.

Yeeran could feel the magic emanating from the skin. She tapped her fingers across it and directed the vibrations of the drumbeat with purpose, knitting them together in her mind to form a small projectile. It was like weaponising sound. The invisible force struck a white token in the centre of the map ten feet away.

She’d always been good at drumfire. Having a clear intention was the key, but the clarity of the note and strength of magic in the obeah elder skin made her skills unmatchable. If her enemies had thought she was dangerous before, they would soon see how deadly she could be.

Salawa clapped.

‘Now the greatest colonel of the Waning Army has the greatest weapon.’

Yeeran carefully sheathed the drum back in its case and went to Salawa. She folded her into her arms and rested her chin against her hair.

‘Thank you, I will treasure this gift for the rest of my life.’

‘Now can we go back to sleep? Tomorrow will come soon enough,’ Salawa murmured.

Yeeran released a breath of assent and let herself be led back towards Salawa’s bed. She slipped beneath the silk sheets, and Salawa moulded herself into the contours of Yeeran’s body. She lay her head on the soft skin between Yeeran’s shoulder and breast and let out a contented sigh.

Salawa’s breathing elongated as she fell into a deep slumber. Yeeran watched as the fraedia beads in her hair began to softly gleam with the oncoming dawn. The crystal had the same properties as the sun and could be used to grow crops or warm homes in winter.

She reached out and gently moved one of the beads away from Salawa’s face, lest the brightness wake her. She cradled the gemstone for a second, marvelling at its warmth. This small deposit could help grow a plant for its entire lifecycle. Could help feed a family.

She let the bead fall.

If only we had more of it.

For fraedia was the currency of the war.

Beneath the bloodied soil of the Bleeding Field were untapped mines of the valuable crystal. And where there is value, there is power, and where there is power, violence will always brew.

So, the Forever War came to be.

Yeeran found herself wondering how many soldiers had died for this small yield of fraedia in Salawa’s hair. It cast her black skin, darker than Yeeran’s soft umber complexion, in a warm saffron glow.

Though all elves looked different, the only difference that mattered was which tribe had your allegiance. And Yeeran was Waning, and Waning was Yeeran. There was no separating her from her tribe. To lead was to be one and the same.

Salawa had shown her that.

Sun sins, she is beautiful. Beautiful in dreams and fierce in waking.

Sleep didn’t come for Yeeran, but nor did she seek it. Instead, she lay there watching the dawn break against her lover’s skin, her mind alight with glory and power and death.

---

—

The next morning Yeeran slipped out of Salawa’s bedchamber while she was still asleep and made her way across the city. The sound of warfare grew louder the closer she got to the Bleeding Field, the echo of drumfire was as soothing as it was exhilarating.

Today she was a colonel.

As she neared the training grounds, she heard the familiar lilt of a nursery rhyme.

One, two,

three, four: the elven tribes,

Waning, Waxing, Crescent, Eclipse,

Made by the moon, made to persist.

From a distance it was easy to mistake the youthful voices for a group of children in a playground. But Yeeran knew that she wouldn’t find schoolchildren when she turned the corner.

Three gods, three peoples, there were before,

Now only elves: one, two, three, four.

No, these soldiers had long stopped being children. They marched woodenly in time with their chanting, their expressions grim. Yeeran watched the boy closest to her spin on his heel, his small head rattling against his large helmet like an acorn in a barrel.

He can’t be more than nine years old.

‘Colonel Yeeran Teila.’ The lieutenant overseeing the drills had spotted her.

Yeeran winced, she’d hoped to slip by without being spotted.

‘Lieutenant Fadel.’ She returned the lieutenant’s salute.

‘Are you here to select your next drum-bearer?’

The role was given to the youngest recruits of the army. Yeeran had always thought the title an odd one, as she never relinquished her drum’s maintenance to anyone. Every night she would spend an hour cleaning the barrel of enemy blood and carefully oiling the drumskin.

Not that this drum would need as much maintenance.

It hung from her shoulder now, a reminder of Salawa’s love resting against her hip. Heavy and ever-present.

‘No, I have no need of a drum-bearer,’ Yeeran said, shaking her head sharply.

Fadel frowned but then smoothed his expression into one of earnestness.

‘What about Officer Hana? She is our very best.’ He gave a signal and a girl, slightly taller than her peers, stepped forward.

Her uniform hung off her frame like a flag on a pole. Her stomach, though, swelled from malnutrition, and Yeeran felt her own abdomen prickle with the memory.

The child’s dirty fingers curled into a tight fist as she pounded her frail chest in salute. The harder the drumbeat, the more respect the salute afforded, and this girl beat her chest so hard she was ready to knock the ribs from her breast.

Yeeran lowered herself to the girl’s height, dropping all pretence of formality. Hana gave her lieutenant a worried look, but Yeeran drew her gaze back to her with a smile.

‘It’s OK.’ Yeeran reached into her pocket and withdrew a single gold coin. ‘Make

 sure you get a proper meal tonight, not the gruel they give you in the barracks. All right?’

The child stood still, awestruck by the gold coin in her hand. Then she said the most unexpected thing. ‘They sold me for less than this.’

Yeeran felt a gasp reflexively escape her lips.

A few years ago, the chieftain had introduced a new programme: children could be sold directly to the Waning Army for half a silver. The child then became a ward of the district, their fellow soldiers their only family.

It made procreation a profitable business.

‘War plays by no rules. There are only fighters and failures,’ the chieftain had said when announcing the programme.

Looking at Hana, Yeeran wasn’t sure she agreed.

She straightened before striding away from the girl and the open mouth of Lieutenant Fadel.

Yeeran told herself that her hurried steps were driven by the anticipation of meeting her new regiment. But really she was running from the sight of the child soldiers and her own memories of an aching hunger that had never truly gone away. 

 

CHAPTER TWOYeeran

Yeeran pushed her camel into a canter as she surveyed the front line of her new regiment. Five hundred infantry, three hundred cavalry and a hundred archers. A sea of soldiers at her command.

It felt damn good.

Sweat trickled down her back despite the mildness of the weather. The sun had burned off the humidity of the morning, leaving the sky clear and the wind brisk, moving in a north-easterly direction.

Perfect weather to guide my archers’ arrows true.

‘Colonel.’ One of her captains drew level with Yeeran and saluted from her saddle. ‘General Motogo has been spotted on the western front. They are heading this way.’

Yeeran looked to the sun. It was nearly at its zenith. She’d be marching into battle soon.

‘I will receive them in my command tent. I don’t want to be disturbed. The regiment is under your leadership until I return.’

The captain nodded her assent and rode off, barking her own orders to her subordinates.

Yeeran jumped down from her camel and strode across her line of troops to her command tent. Though it was called a ‘tent’, the military encampments had so long become a fixture of the Bleeding Field that the tribes had built permanent structures. The bronze doorway was circled by bright pink bougainvillea flowers that grew in abundance across the Waning district.

‘To help mask the scent of the battlefield,’ the chieftain had said when the flowers were planted.

But it’s impossible to mask the aroma of a thousand-year war. It lived in the air, in the skin, in the very bones of the earth.

Yeeran entered the circular room and stepped into the pool of sunlight that shone through the wide windows. The Bleeding Field stretched out for as far as she could see.

In the centre of the room she found Captain Rayan frowning over a letter. He looked up as she entered and smiled.

‘Good morning, Colonel.’ He said her title with a touch too much reverence and it

drew out a laugh from her, which was exactly what he intended.

They had known each other a long time. She’d once been his lieutenant but had outgrown her rank long before he outgrew his. Her success had never bothered him, rather it had deepened his loyalty to her, grounding their roles in true friendship.

‘How goes it?’ Yeeran asked, peering over the letter he was reading. It was grubby and worn from being folded and opened too many times.

Rayan ran a tired hand over his shaved head.

‘This is the last message I received from my scouts. That was four days ago. They were due to return back to camp yesterday.’

Yeeran frowned.

‘Yesterday?’

‘Yes.’

It wasn’t unusual for scouts to be waylaid by unexpected enemy movement.

‘They might have had to change their route,’ she said.

‘Maybe.’ Rayan didn’t sound convinced.

‘Protocol requires they be missing for five days before we send in troops. We’ll give them until tomorrow before I report it.’

Rayan nodded, but his lips were pinched with concern.

‘Colonel Yeeran.’ General Motogo’s booming voice entered the room first, their body second. Like many elves, Motogo’s gender was as flexible as the weather, accepted like the fall of rain, and change welcomed like the turns of seasons.

Yeeran signalled for Rayan to leave; he did so with a grateful glance. Motogo was known to ensnare people in long conversations.

‘General Motogo, how fares the battleground beneath your feet?’ Yeeran said, using the formal greeting reserved for respected elders.

‘Well fed with the blood of my enemies,’ Motogo replied as was customary. They kept their greying hair in short knots that made it clear that they rarely wore a helmet any more. Yeeran couldn’t imagine ever wanting to stop combat.

‘Now to the heart of the matter. I came to confirm your orders – oh, I see you have a new weapon…’ Motogo had spotted the black skin of her drum in its sling.

‘That looks like a fine specimen, one to be jealous of I’m sure,’ they continued, their nostrils flaring with envy. ‘Not that I partake in drumfire any more, I leave that to the young ones.’

Drumfire didn’t physically drain you, but the intention required to focus took its toll mentally. And the general was at least a hundred years old, though Yeeran had known elves on the battlefield who’d made it to a hundred and twenty, the very end of an elf’s expected lifespan

 She intended to be one of them.

‘Yes, the drum was a gift.’

‘Very fine. Very fine.’ Still their eyes lingered on the richness of the obeah skin.

‘Was there something you wanted to mention about my orders today?’

‘Ah yes. Given it’s your first day in command of such a large cohort of troops, I wanted to confirm your position for today. You are to patrol the western bank up to the Dying Hill in the second quadrant. Our scouts have reported one or two scouting platoons sent over from Crescent. Eliminate the enemy you find there and return to camp. It should be a routine sweep. No offensive against the main line. You hear?’

‘I hear, General,’ Yeeran said, a little irritated. She knew how to follow orders. You didn’t get far in the Waning Army if you couldn’t.

Motogo nodded before reaching into their bag and withdrawing a freshly pressed uniform.

‘Time to upgrade from your captain’s attire, Colonel.’

Yeeran reached for the new clothing with gratitude. It was a deeper blue than her captain’s uniform, like a storm-darkened sky.

‘Good luck out there today,’ Motogo continued. ‘May the three gods protect you.’

They invoked the gods without meaning. No one believed in them any more except diviners like her sister. Still, she acknowledged the sentiment, empty as it was.

‘And you, General.’

Yeeran watched them leave before letting out a heavy breath.

Her orders weren’t what she’d had in mind for her first day as colonel. Sweeps were mundane and she’d be lucky if they encountered any of the Crescent tribe at all. She rubbed her thumb along the casing of her drum. She’d been looking forward to spilling first blood with it.

There was a sound at the window and the flicker of a shadow. Yeeran swung her drum out of its sling with practised efficiency. Perhaps she’d get a chance to use her new weapon after all.

Fingers slipped under the open window and curled over the frame. The intruder was breathing heavily as they pulled themselves up through the opening.

‘Moon’s mercy,’ they cursed before climbing through and falling with a thud onto the floor.

Yeeran swung her drum behind her back and rubbed her brow.

‘Lettle, what are you doing?’

Her sister’s eyes flashed with annoyance.

‘Coming to see you of

of course.’

She gathered her limbs and stood with the regal manner of a chieftain. The lilac dress she was wearing had tangled around her legs, but not an ounce of dignity was lost as she rearranged it.

‘Couldn’t you have used the door?’ Yeeran said.

Lettle met her gaze steadily. The skin around her forehead was pulled taut by the cornrows that ran the length of her head, ending in plaits by her waist.

‘Why yes, Yeeran, I would have liked to use the door. But some idiot at the front said you weren’t to be disturbed and wouldn’t let me past.’

Yeeran took pride in the fact her captains were loyal to a fault.

‘And so, you climbed through the window.’

‘I did.’ Lettle folded her arms across her chest and waited for Yeeran to challenge her.

Yeeran watched her younger sister for a moment before letting out a laugh.

‘You do know how to get your way.’

An unexpected smile broke across Lettle’s face like sun escaping through rainclouds.

‘I do.’

Yeeran turned to the decanter of juice on her desk and offered Lettle a glass, but her sister shook her head.

So Yeeran waited. Lettle never visited Yeeran without a reason.

‘I went to the abattoir this morning.’

Yeeran tried to stifle her groan. Lettle had been training to be a diviner for years. The practice required the entrails of an obeah in order to read the magic that pooled there. A trip to the abattoir normally meant Lettle was out of money. Again.

‘I’ll have a messenger send over some coins later, Lettle.’

Lettle’s eyes blazed like white coals.

‘I don’t need money,’ she said through clenched teeth. Yeeran knew how much it galled Lettle to rely on her.

Lettle didn’t work any more. When she had come to Gural after their father died, she had done her two years’ conscription. But unlike Yeeran, she hadn’t stayed on and worked her way up the army ranks. Instead, her passion lay in divination. A petty skill of prophecy rarely used by elves any more. Rarely used meant rarely paid for.

‘What is it then?’

Lettle’s anger cooled as quickly as it had come. ‘Today’s prophecy was about you.’

Yeeran looked at the clock on the wall. She had just a few minutes before she was expected to march out with her regiment. She was about to tell Lettle as such, but the sincerity of her sister’s gaze made her hold her tongue. This meant something to Lettle.

Yeeran turned to the new uniform Motogo had given her.

‘Tell me about my reading as I change.’

Lettle shot her a brief grin before launching into her story.

‘Like I said, I went to the abattoir this morning before they skinned the beasts. There were other diviners bidding on the entrails, but I knew this was your first day in command of your regiment. So, I bid the most. Even then they only gave me five minutes with the creature. And, Yeeran’ – she always clipped the ‘n’ in her name like the letter was an inconvenience – ‘you should have seen the sorry state of the place. We should send some money to the workers there…’

Yeeran nodded absently.

‘I’ll try and arrange it. Help me with this clasp, please.’ Unlike her captain’s uniform, Yeeran’s colonel coat was trimmed with thicker obeah fur. Though the skin was the most potent part of an obeah, the black mane around the creature’s neck also emanated pulses of magic that Yeeran could harness if needed.

The jacket was stiffly starched with a wide collar and epaulettes in the shape of the waning moon, the symbol of her tribe. On the back was yet another reminder of where she came from: three waning moons stitched into the centre of the jacket.

Yeeran didn’t mind. She was proud to wear her tribal sigil many times over.

Lettle let out a small sound of annoyance and muttered, ‘No client would ask for a diviner to help dress them in the middle of a reading.’

Yeeran wanted to retort that it would be difficult for any of her clients to ask as they were non-existent. But the words would hurt Lettle more than they’d satisfy Yeeran. Besides, her sister was helping as she spoke.

‘There, done. Don’t you look smart,’ Lettle said.

Yeeran peered into the gilded mirror that hung on the wall. Broad in the shoulder and over six foot in height, her body was all angles where her face was soft. A wide nose and full, purple-tinged lips sat beneath deep-set eyes. Her violet irises were dulled with fatigue; the colour, rare for an elf, made her instantly recognisable.

Colonel Yeeran Teila of the Waning Army, she thought to herself, and a small smile spread across her face.

Lettle pursed her lips. ‘Now to your reading. The Fates were clear, Yeeran: your glory lies to the east.’

Yeeran felt the corners of her lips crease as a precursor for laughter, but she swallowed it when she saw the earnestness on Lettle’s face. Divination

was never a precise art, but Yeeran knew Lettle was being trained to one day supersede the leader of her sect. She should give her sister’s talents more credence.

‘Thank you for the reading, Lettle,’ she said with as much warmth as she could muster. ‘I will be sure to keep my wits about me on the battlefield today. Crescent tribe moved half their infantry back from the western bank, so we’ll just be running down the stragglers, it’s a simple operation.’

Lettle stepped into the space between them and clasped onto Yeeran’s wrist, nails first.

‘Remember: Seek your glory to the east.’

Lettle was at least a foot smaller than Yeeran. Her left arm was shorter, the outer muscle atrophied from the wasting pox. The illness had ravaged their village, but they’d been too poor to afford the medicine to treat Lettle. Yeeran still felt guilty when she stood this close to her.

When they’d finally had enough money to pay a doctor for a check-up, they confirmed that Lettle’s small stature and damaged arm was due to the prolonged effects of the pox. Yeeran should have worked harder to save the money for the medicine.

She laid a hand on Lettle’s.

‘Father would be proud of the work you’ve put into divination,’ she said.

Lettle’s grip turned limp, and she spun away.

They rarely spoke of Father. Though he wasn’t the one to have fathered Yeeran – her biological father had died on the battlefield when she was a baby – he was the only parent she had ever known. Six years after her mother married him, Lettle was born.

Then an arrow through the heart had taken their mother as well, too young to leave her daughters with many memories.

With Father, memories were all they had. Even though they seldom spoke of him, it was clear that in every half-smile they gave each other, in every softly spoken compliment, he lived in their minds like a hero from a beloved faerytale.

But those heroes were never thieves.

After losing his wife to the bloodshed of the battlefield, their father had left the army and had retrained as an obeah hunter. But the older he got the harder it was to sustain the physical demands of hunting. Especially as obeah became rarer and rarer. Soon the family had to turn to pickpocketing and scavenging to get by.

‘He’d be proud of you too, Yeeran.’ Lettle didn’t look at Yeeran as she spoke. It would have given away the lie.

They both knew Father would not have been proud of Yeeran’s achievements. His grief had corrupted his views on the war, and he condemned any participation in it. When Yeeran had told him she had decided to travel to Gural to join the Waning Army, ...