In a world where magic is punishable by death, seventeen-year-old Allyria Pilar faces execution for saving a girl accused of witchcraft. Her only escape? A blood oath to the Death Dealer of Redbone, the king's most feared contract killer. Forced to bind herself to him or die in the prison of Redvine, Allyria's fate takes a dangerous turn.

Thrust into a brutal realm where survival hinges on combat, Allyria is torn from her home and trained under Cassius, the enigmatic Captain of the Death Dealer's immortal guard. Her goal: to win the deadly Elder Tournaments, a series of brutal trials that pit the most powerful fighters against each other, and earn her freedom.

But when the murder of a fae prince pushes the world to the brink of war, Allyria and the Death Dealer must join forces in a desperate bid to save their world—both human and immortal. As the stakes rise and the lines between duty and destiny blur, Allyria must navigate a war-torn land, confront her growing feelings for the Death Dealer, and decide where her true loyalties lie.

Can Allyria rise to become the hero her world needs, or will she let it plunge into eternal night?

---

	Preorder
GENRE Fantasy	EBOOK Amazon Kindle Smashwords Nook Apple Google Play Kobo
Available March 18, 2025
Teen

---

Excerpt

By royal decree, in accordance with the Abolition of Maleficent Practices Act, all practitioners of the arcane arts are henceforth to be hunted down, their powers stripped, their bodies broken, and their souls burned in the fire of holy sanctimony. Their artifacts shall be set ablaze alongside their flesh, grimoires eradicated, and rituals outlawed. The mention of magic is regarded as treason and thus met with equal severity.

Book one, Stanza One,

Litigation of Action Against Maleficent Practices.

First Age of Man, Year 13

* * *

 

Redvine Prison

First Age of Man Year 102

Allyria’s Point of View

 

Allyria Pilar found no reason to learn the name of the woman sentenced to die that day. In Redvine Prison, the less she knew about the other prisoners, the better. After all, what purpose did it serve to learn the names of those already marked for death? To her, the woman was just another life ending—a body she or one of the other inmates would be tasked with burying in the sweltering, unforgiving summer heat.

Designated as inmate #9486114, the newcomer had only just arrived. Her entrance was nearly overlooked amid the surge of new arrivals that week. Yet, whispers about her ashen complexion and flowing white hair circulated quietly among the prison's inmates—not that she’d last long in a place like this. Beautiful things never did.

Her stay among the general population was fleeting. Before anyone had a chance to learn her name or her crime, she was taken away, disappearing into the bowels of the Dreadhold—the notorious section of Redvine’s underbelly, known for its dark, bloodstained interrogation chambers. She hadn’t been seen since.

Then this morning at dawn, the Warden’s voice roared through the rusting intercoms. “Rise and shine, scum! Today, work hours will end early. All inmates are required to gather in the main square to witness the execution of inmate #9486114. This means all lost time must be made up. Expect no leniency!”

The announcement ended abruptly, sending a ripple of hushed whispers and frantic speculation through the sleeping quarters. No one knew what #9486114 had done to capture the Warden’s attention, but by sunset, it wouldn’t matter. In Redvine, there were no burials, no rites, no mourning. She would join the nameless dead, her body discarded into the foul-smelling trenches carved into the prison’s periphery. By nightfall, the endless swarm of rats and worms would descend, feasting hungrily on the newly dead.

Batons in hand, the guards charged through the entrance like wolves descending on helpless prey, their weapons cracking against the legs and backs of those too slow to move. The shuffle of thousands of bare feet filled the barracks. Even the most exhausted prisoners dragged themselves upright, their trembling limbs powered more by terror than strength. In Redvine, hesitation brought pain, and defiance led only to death.

That was twelve hours ago.

As the sun climbed higher, Allyria Pilar—known only as Prisoner #5638214—continued to dig, her long, crimson hair a stark contrast in the sea of gray. She kept her focus low, hiding behind her flowing locks, as she shoveled spark rocks onto a large wooden cart. The air was thick with crushed stone dust. Row upon row, the enslaved toiled under the relentless sun, their tools hammering the earth repeatedly.

Bend, thrust, heave. Day in and day out, as the years slowly rolled by, she persisted in her endless digging.

Next to Allyria, a woman momentarily straightened her back, stealing a brief moment of rest. Allyria caught the glint of leather just before the whip cracked through the air, witnessing the woman collapse, a stark line of blood marking her split cheek.

The guard struck again, his harsh voice slicing through the heavy air as he shouted, “On your feet, you useless worm!” He hit her again. And again.

The workers kept their heads down. “Get up,” Allyria whispered under her breath, her eyes locked on the struggling figure. “If you don’t stand, he'll kill you.”

With what seemed to be her last reserves of strength, the woman pulled herself upright, using the handle of her shovel for support.

Though Allyria’s body burned with exertion, she kept her eyes down as she continued to dig at her station.

Scoop, pry, haul.

Red dust stained Allyria’s palms as she waited for the bell's toll. Her hands were already raw and bloodied, her nails torn, and her fingers cracked, filled with wooden splinters from the old shovel handle.

Finally, the announcement came, followed by the ding-dang-dong of the clamoring bell.

It was time.

“Attention, all!” boomed a guard's voice atop the prison watchtower's high walls. “By order of the Warden, all fieldwork is to halt immediately. Prisoner #9486114 has been convicted under the royal decree and the Abolition of Maleficent Practices Act and has received a death sentence. All inmates must make their way to the main square, where you will bear witness to His Majesty’s justice.”

As grim as it was, an execution offered a fleeting reprieve. For a brief moment, it meant setting down their tools and escaping the unending torment of the mining fields. These barren, accursed lands, divided by mineral type—iron, cobalt, red spark rock, and rare gemstones—stretched endlessly under a cruel, searing sky. Day after day, prisoners shattered their bodies against unyielding stone, their strength siphoned away with each swing of the pickaxe, their sweat mingling with the bloodied dust beneath their feet. The announcement felt like a small mercy, a rare pause in their suffering—though it came at the expense of someone else’s life.

Mud squelched through the holes in Allyria’s torn weasel-hide boots as she stood upright for the first time in hours. Her back released its tension with a series of cracks and pops, sending waves of stiffness and soreness radiating along her spine. She allowed herself a brief moment to feel her muscles unwind, raising her hands skyward, fingers splaying wide. The sky above perpetually wept soot, and the air clung heavy with the stench of despair. Despite this, a slight sense of relief coursed through her body as she arched her back in a deep, satisfying stretch.

Unable to linger in the fields any longer, she noticed the crowd converging on the main square, signaling it was time to move. With a sense of urgency, Allyria merged into the stream of people, doing her best to hold her breath as she neared the sanitation facilities. The air became heavy with the putrid stench of human waste, an overpowering odor emanating from a vast open pit in the ground. She swatted at numerous flies that buzzed relentlessly around the pit, drawn by the foul smells hanging in a thick, rotten cloud.

She skirted around the perimeter, where several watchtowers rose like silent sentinels against the sky. The guards stationed there, garbed in stark black and red, remained vigilant, their gazes sweeping over the expanse of the fields for any signs of trouble. In the distance, the background hum of distant rumbling machinery mingled with the hiss of escaping steam, punctuated by the heavy footsteps of patrolling guards and sporadic commands shouted to maintain order.

Allyria continued to weave her way through the yard, her path taking her beyond the sleeping barracks and toward the heart of the complex, where guards were strategically positioned, overseeing the flow of prisoners with a watchful eye.

Finally, Allyria found herself standing in a long line of unwashed bodies, all waiting to have their tattooed prison ID numbers scanned by a guard. When her turn came, she presented her arm without a word. Uninterested and mechanical in his duties, the guard barely glanced at her face as he scanned the ID. “Move along,” he grumbled, marking her as present with a dismissive wave.

The prisoners crowded around the elevated platform at the heart of the executioner’s square. This square, connected to the Dreadhold by a solitary raised pathway, resembled a dark spine slicing through the area. Here, judgments—beheadings, hangings, stonings, and, on rare occasions, burnings—were mercilessly carried out. Executions usually went unnoticed until the axe fell, accompanied by the sickening thud of flesh and bone and the splatter of blood. Hanging, however, was more agonizing, with the sound of suffocation and the struggle lasting minutes. Although such deaths were routine to keep down the swelling numbers inside the prison, with ten to twenty occurring daily, prisoners were not compelled to witness them. However, Prisoner #9486114's fate was different. The question was, why?

Allyria kept her head low, carefully falling into line until she found the familiar face of an elderly prisoner named Ravka. Their eyes held for a moment, a silent nod of mutual recognition passing between them.

Ravka's gaunt figure was unmistakable, ravaged by years of starvation. His skin clung to brittle bones, his back permanently bowed by time, and his long white beard stood out starkly against his bald, sunken head. He had been a prisoner for over thirty years. Yet, despite his frailty, there was a surprising warmth to the old man. He had a way of calming both guards and prisoners, often defusing tensions before they escalated, which was likely why he had been allowed to live for so long.

As the heavy, iron-bound doors of the Dreadhold creaked open, a procession of guards in pristine uniforms emerged into the fading dusk light. At the forefront of this grim parade was a woman, presumably Prisoner #9486114. Her features marked her as Syllerian from the Far East, colloquially known as Silvers for their unique, subtly shimmering silver-tinted skin and striking moon-white hair that flowed like liquid silver. Her beauty was further accentuated by delicate, star-like ivory freckles across the bridge of her nose.

The woman's mouth was gagged, her wrists shackled in iron braces, and she was surrounded by a formidable escort of nearly a dozen guards—all for just one individual. But why? What made this execution different? Surely, she couldn't have been that dangerous.

“What's going on, Ravka?” Allyria whispered under her breath. “Who is she?”

“Don't matter. She ain't long for this world.”

He was right. At the center of the execution post stood a towering iron stake, surrounded by a pyramid of large wood piles just waiting to catch fire. Guards, holding lit torches, moved toward it with clear purpose.

Allyria's eyes stretched wide in horror. “They intend to burn her alive? Why?” Usually, prisoners were beheaded or swung from a rope.

Ravka grumbled. “There's only one reason ya' burn a woman. It's so she don't have a body to return to once she's dead.”

The cold realization set in. “They think she has magic?”

Ravka nodded. “Can't say for sure. Many have claimed a woman to be a weaver of magic. Whether she is or she ain't, don't make much of a difference. But my guess is the latter. I've been here thirty years and seen a good few accused sent to the pyre. Each one proved their innocence by burning up without a flicker of power. Didn't help them though. They were still deader than a doorknob.”

Barely older than Allyria herself, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, the woman's presence stirred a mix of emotions within her. Legend spoke of weavers, capable of conjuring magic with arcane words and shaping elemental forces like weaving a tapestry. They were said to summon lightning with a flick of their fingers. The idea of Prisoner #9486114 being a weaver seemed far-fetched; after all, magic wielders had been exterminated in the Purge just over a decade ago.

Allyria spoke in a hushed tone, ensuring her words remained unheard. “Someone should help her.”

“That's a death wish,” Ravka muttered in response.

“You helped me when I first arrived,” Allyria countered.

“That’s different. You weren't being escorted by twelve guards to your death. You know what happens when someone interferes with an execution. ‘Specially when they be thinkin’ she’s a Weaver.”

“This isn’t right,” Allyria said as she glared in the guard's direction.

“Now, now. Don't do anything stupid,” Ravka warned.

Allyria gritted her teeth. “There are five thousand of us here. If we all united, we could easily overpower them—”

“Shut it!” Ravka snapped, his warning clear. “Never let me hear you say that again. If the wrong ears catch your whispers, you'll end up as food for the roaches before dinner.”

Allyria bit her tongue, brushing a strand of hair from her face. But Ravka was right. Allyria could do nothing but watch. After all, what power did she have to stop the execution?

“Sad, isn't it?” a familiar female voice remarked.

Allyria glanced at Gwen, the second longest surviving prisoner within these walls. Gwen's face was framed by natural gray, short hair, and tan skin—a testament to her daily toil under the sun. Despite her delicate grandmotherly appearance, Gwen's spirit remained unbroken. She possessed skill as an herbalist, often foraging for weeds among the muck, which she would then conceal in her gray blouse to tend to the sick or injured.

Allyria clenched her fists. “I wish I could do something.”

Gwen nodded. “I know...I feel that way every waking hour of every bleeding day.” Allyria studied Gwen’s face—the hint of red along her wrinkled cheekbones. There was anger there at the injustice of it all. The same boiling rage that made Allyria shake. Gwen was an idealist—someone who believed in a better world. “But Ravka’s right. If you try anything, then even that mark of yours won't save you.”

Allyria's eyes went wide. “How did you—”

“Oh, please. I've cleaned up your wounds more times than I can count, and don't be fooled into thinking that I'm the only one who's noticed that tattoo.”

Allyria knew Gwen wasn't referring to the Prisoner ID number tattooed across her wrist. Instead, her hand instinctively went to the distinctive emblem on her back, located precisely at the juncture of her neck and spine. Concealed by her dark red hair, this symbol was a tattooed oath, sacred and solemn, from the voluntary promise she had sworn with her very blood on the day of her trial.

“Squeeze in,” a guard urged, his indifference palpable as he prodded the prisoners forward, their chains rattling in response.

“Ravka,” Gwen said in greeting, bowing her head slightly as they approached him.

“I see you’re still here.”

“Alive and kickin', which is more than I can say for you, ya old sack of bones.”

“Barely. Looks like you've aged sixty years since I saw you last.”

“I saw you yesterday.”

“Oh, did you? Time flies in this charming place. Well, don't worry; I still only have eyes for you. When we get out of this shithole, I promise I'll take you out for drinks and a proper date.”

Gwen smirked, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “You better. I need something to rejuvenate these old bones.”

“In that case, I'll make sure it's the strongest drink they have. We'll party like we're twenty again.”

Gwen smirked, but the expression did not reach her eyes. “You've been saying the last thing to me for thirty years, Ravka. You would think, with all the time on your hands, you could come up with a better pick-up line.”

“In this place, it's the familiar things that keep us sane.”

Gwen chuckled, her laughter echoing through the grim surroundings. “If we ever leave this place alive, Ravka, I'll hold you to that promise.”

“A gentleman never backs down on his word,” Ravka declared, puffing out his chest in mock formality.

Gwen shot him a sidelong glance, yet Allyria paid no heed to the two elders. Instead, she redirected her gaze to the girl with long white hair cascading down her back like strands of spider silk.

“Don’t watch when it’s time, girl...There’s no shame in looking away,” Gwen muttered in a grave tone.

“I’ve never seen a burning.”

“The flames consume the flesh and bones slowly.” Ravka’s eyes grew distant. “The agony is prolonged, and the screams begin even before the flames touch the skin. In the end, only ashes and embers remain, as if the person never existed.”

“And those screams...they haunt you, long after the ashes cool,” Gwen added. “It’s a terrible thing to witness.”

Allyria’s hands clenched the shovel's handle, the rough wood pressing into her palms. Maybe Gwen was right. Maybe she should just close her eyes and try to picture the faces of her family and Wesley Thatcher—the boy she hoped to one day marry. Yet, averting her eyes felt like a betrayal. Among the prisoners, maintaining eye contact with those facing death was a silent tribute, a final acknowledgment of their existence. She'd want the same compassion if their roles were reversed. For someone—anyone to care.

“Quit your thinkin’, girl,” Ravka murmured through tightened lips.

Allyria’s jaw clenched; her resolve hardened. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

“Good. Then keep it that way. Clear that pee-brain head of yours of whatever thoughts you got rattlin’ around in there. You got me?”

“How can you be so heartless, Ravka?” Allyria challenged, her voice tinged with accusation.

“Because,” he whispered, leaning in close so only she could hear, “survivin’ thirty years in this helhole ain’t about bein’ a hero. Heroes don’t last. And that girl? She’s as good as dead.”

Ravka’s speech was rough and unpolished, shaped by the years he had spent waiting to die in Redvine. Still, Allyria couldn’t help but notice how Ravka straightened his back and chose his  words carefully when Gwen was nearby. He was smitten with her—but falling in love in a place like this was dangerous.

Gwen only nodded in agreement. “He’s right, you know? You're close to getting out; don't let a moment of reckless courage ruin your chance of freedom. The last time you tried to help someone, it almost killed you. You can’t do nothin’.”

Allyria's grip on the shovel loosened, her palms sweaty from the tension, as Major Tiberius emerged from the officer barracks. His striking black and red uniform was adorned with an eagle emblem. In his mid-thirties, Tiberius moved with purpose, commanding the attention of all around him with his authoritative presence. Allyria watched him go, watched those powerful muscles shifting in his back, visible even through his uniform.

As the final bell of the hour chimed off-kilter, echoing through the hushed square, Tiberius signaled the torchbearers to advance toward the pyre with a swift hand gesture. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he vanished inside, as if the execution were nothing more than a tedious formality.

As the flames ignited, crawling up the pyre towards the prisoner's feet, Allyria braced herself, expecting pleas or cries. Yet, Prisoner #9486114 calmly surveyed the crowd. Her eyes, reminiscent of molten silver, locked onto Allyria, creating an eerie silence. At that moment, no more than a whisper, a voice seemed to weave through the crowd.

“Save me.”

 

↑ Return to Top ↑