A Dawn of Onyx (The Sacred Stones, #1)
Kate Golden
For Jack,
Thank you for being my real-life MMC.
You taught me what the truest love looks like.
ONE
Ryder and Halden were probably dead.
I wasn’t sure what was making me feel sicker, finally admitting that truth to myself, or my aching, burning lungs. The misery of the latter was, admittedly, self-induced—this section of my morning run was always the most brutal—but today marked one year since the letters had stopped coming, and while I’d sworn not to think the worst until there was reason to, the epistolary silence was hard to argue with.
My heart gave a miserable thump.
Attempting to slip the unpleasant thoughts under the floorboards of my mind, I focused on making it to the edge of the clearing without vomiting. I pumped my legs, swung my elbows back, and felt my braid land between my shoulder blades as rhythmic as a drumbeat. Just a few more feet—
Finally reaching the expanse of cool grass, I staggered to a halt, bracing my hands on my knees and inhaling deeply. It smelled like the Kingdom of Amber always did—morning dew, woodfire from a nearby hearth, and the crisp, earthy notes of slowly decaying leaves.
But deep breaths weren’t enough to keep my vision from blurring, and I collapsed backward onto the ground, the weight of my body crushing the leaves beneath me with a satisfying crunch. The clearing was littered with them—the last remnants of winter.
One year ago, the night before all the men in our town were conscripted to fight for our kingdom, my family had gathered on the grassy knoll just behind our home. We had watched the pink-hued sunset fade like a bruise behind our town of Abbington all together, one last time. Then, Halden and I had snuck away to this very glade and pretended he and my brother, Ryder, weren’t leaving.
That they’d be back one day.
The bells chimed in the town square, distant but clear enough to jar me from the melancholy memory. I eased up to sitting, my tangled hair now littered with leaves and twigs. I was going to be late. Again.
Bleeding Stones.
Or—shit. I winced as I stood. I was trying to swear less on the nine Holy Gemstones that made up the continent’s core. I didn’t care so much about damning the divinity of Evendell’s creation, but I hated the force of habit that came from growing up in Amber, the Kingdom that worshipped the Stones most devoutly.
I jogged back through the glade, down the path behind our cottage, and toward a town just waking up. Hurrying through alleyways that could barely accommodate two people heading in opposite directions, a depressing thought filtered in. Abbington really used to have more charm.
At least, it was charming in my memories. Cobblestone streets once swept clean and sprinkled with street musicians and idle merchants were now strewn with garbage and abandoned. Mismatched brick buildings covered with vines and warmed by flickering lanterns had been reduced to crumbling decay—abandoned, burned, or broken down, if not all three. It was like watching an apple core rot, slowly turning less and less vibrant over time until one day, it was just gone.
I shivered, both at the thoughts and the weather. Hopefully, the chilly air had dried some of the dampness from my forehead; Nora did not like a sweaty apprentice. Pushing the creaky door open, ethanol and astringent mint assaulted my nostrils. It was my favorite scent.
“Arwen, is that you?” Nora called, her voice echoing through the infirmary’s hallway. “You’re late. Mr. Doyle’s gangrene is getting worse. He might lose the finger.”
“Lose my what?” a male voice squawked behind a curtain.
I shot Nora a withering look and slipped inside the makeshift room, separated by cotton sheets.
Bleeding Stones.
Mr. Doyle, an elderly bald man who was all forehead and earlobes, was in his bed, cradling his damaged hand like a stolen dessert that someone aimed to take from him.
“Nora’s only kidding,” I said, pulling up a chair. “That’s her fun and very professional sense of humor. I’ll make sure all fingers remain attached, I promise.”
With a skeptical huff, Mr. Doyle relinquished his hand, and I got to work carefully peeling away the layers of rotting skin.
My ability twitched at my fingertips, eager to help. I wasn’t sure I needed it today; I liked the meticulous work, and gangrene was fairly routine.
But I would never forgive myself if I broke my promise to cranky Mr. Doyle.
I covered one hand with the other, as if I didn’t want him to see how gruesome his injury was—I had gotten very good at finding ways to sneak my powers into patients. Mr. Doyle closed his eyes and leaned his head back, and I allowed a flicker of pure light to seep from my fingers like juice from a lemon.
The decaying flesh warmed and blushed pink once more, healing before my eyes.
I was a good healer. A great one, even. I had a steady hand, was calm under pressure, and never got squeamish at seeing someone’s insides. But I could also heal in ways that couldn’t be taught. My power was a pulsing, erratic light that poured out of my hands and seeped into others, spreading through their veins and vessels. I could fuse a broken bone, give color back to a flu-ravaged face, stitch a gash closed with no needle.
Yet, it wasn’t common witchcraft. I had no witches or warlocks in my family heritage, and even if I had, when I used my powers there was no uttered spell followed by a flurry of wind and static. Instead, my gift seeped from my body, draining my energy and mind each time. Witches could do endless magic with the right grimoires and tutelage. My abilities would fizzle out if worked too hard, leaving me depleted. Sometimes it would take days for the power to come back fully.