Chapter One

  At Shadow’s Edge

  The scent of damp earth clung to the boy's clothes as he crouched beneath the butcher’s cart, his fingers trembling from the cold. He could hear the heavy boots of the vendor pacing nearby, the man’s gruff voice raised in warning.

  “If I catch another rat sniffing around my stall, I’ll tan his hide myself.”

  Ollie swallowed hard, pressing his small frame against the wooden wheel. His stomach ached with hunger, a deep, gnawing pain he had long since grown used to. His mother had promised to bring food home last night, but she never returned. He should have expected it—should have known she’d spent whatever coin she had on drink and the company of another stranger.

  The butcher grumbled and stomped away, muttering curses under his breath. That was Ollie’s chance. Moving swiftly, he reached out and snatched a dried sausage from the cart. He barely had time to tuck it into his tunic before a rough hand clamped onto his arm.

  “Thief!”

  A gasp tore from his throat as he was yanked to his feet, his heart hammering like a caged bird. The butcher’s face was red with fury, his thick fingers tightening painfully around Ollie’s wrist.

  “I should take this to the lord’s men,” the butcher growled. “Teach you a lesson about stealing what ain’t yours.”

  “I—I was hungry,” Ollie stammered.

  The man hesitated. He had seen this boy before, knew of his mother’s ways. A few of the villagers did. Their pity only stretched so far, but it existed nonetheless.

  With a grunt, the butcher released him, shoving him back. “Get gone. And if I catch you again, I won’t be so kind.”

  Ollie wasted no time. The wind howled, rattling loose shutters against rotting wood as he turned and bolted, weaving through the muddy streets until he reached the edge of the village. Only then did he slow, panting heavily, his chest heaving from the strain. He pressed his back against the rough stone wall of an abandoned cottage that had become his home.

  Pulling the stolen sausage from his tunic, Ollie sank down onto the cold stone floor.

  Victory.

  A small, bitter smile tugged at his lips as he bit into the tough meat. The guilt was there, gnawing at him like the hunger had moments before, but it was far easier to ignore.

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  The cottage had once been a place of warmth, but now, with its crumbling walls and leaking roof, it was barely more than a shelter from the cold. The roof was patched with scraps of cloth and whatever boards he could scavenge. Inside, the air smelled of mildew and dust, with the scent of stale ale, the floor littered with discarded cups and empty coin purses that had once belonged to the men his mother entertained. The furniture was little more than broken crates, and an old straw mattress in the corner. But it was his. It was the only place where he didn’t feel like he was in the way, the only place where he didn’t have to watch others look down on him.

  His mother had been beautiful once—at least, that’s what people said. Ollie hardly remembered a time when she wasn’t hollow-cheeked and sharp-eyed, her dark hair unkempt, her lips stained red with drink. There were nights when she would sing softly to herself, an old lullaby about silver moons and golden fields. But those moments were rare, lost beneath the weight of her bitterness.

  Ollie curled his fingers around the two things he still had of his parents—a simple, tarnished ring from his mother and a cross necklace from his father.

  It was a simple ring his mother gifted him years ago, worn thin from years of wear. He doubted she even remembered giving him it. But he did. It was all he had left of her. He sometimes clutched it tightly in his hand when he felt the ache of her absence, though it no longer brought him the comfort it once had.

  From his father, however, was a cross necklace—one his father had worn for years, now resting around Ollie’s neck. His father had promised it would protect him, though Ollie wasn’t sure how a simple symbol could shield him from the harshness of life. But he never took it off. The cross was his connection to the father he never truly knew.

  The cold gnawed at Ollie as he sank deeper into the shadows of the cottage. His bare feet were numb against the damp earth floor, but the chill in his bones felt deeper, like something that had settled into him long ago. He shivered, not just from the chill but from the weight of the past pressing down on him.

  He thought of the other children in the village, the ones whose families were whole—who ate warm meals and slept beneath solid roofs. They had no idea what it was like to sleep with a growling stomach, to wake up to a house as empty as his pockets. He envied them for the simple fact that they had people to turn to when they were in need. He had no one.

  The cross around his neck felt heavy against his chest as if his father's promise was somehow wrapped up in its cold weight. He wondered, not for the first time, if his father had ever truly cared, or if he'd simply forgotten about the son he left behind. That promise—was it just a lie like all the others?

  Ollie rested his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes. He imagined the warmth of a fire, a table full of food, a mother who could still laugh. But these were just fleeting dreams, disappearing as quickly as they came.

  A cold wind howled through the trees beyond the village, rattling the skeletal branches. Ollie lifted his gaze toward the castle that loomed in the distance, its towering walls casting shadows against the early morning sky. His father was in there, serving the royal family, protecting the people who feasted while their kingdom’s children starved.

  His mother had always called his father selfish, but deep down, Ollie had never believed it. His father had written to him once, promising to take him to the castle, to give him a better life. But words were just that—words. His father had never come, never saved him.

  Ollie tightened his grip around the stolen meal. He was alone.

  And if no one was going to save him, then he would have to save himself.