Soul of the Crow: An Epic Dark Fantasy (Reapers of Veltuur Book 1)

take a step forward, then another, until my breath fogs the door of one of the cages.
As I peer inside, it doesn’t look like much. Each small box is modestly decorated with a handful of dirt, a few twigs, and a couple of prickly rocks. To an untrained eye, it likely looks like there is nothing inside. But that is far from the truth.
The spiked rocks twitch at my nearness, and I shriek, jumping back and bumping into a table of plants when it and a dozen others charge at me. In near unison, they hit the faces of their containers with a thud and a hiss. After a few sharp breathes, I step forward again, becoming closer to an aacsi than I should be comfortable with. Its short tentacles are splayed against the glass, giving me the perfect view down its writhing throat. I expect to find the parasitic worms that I know live inside it, the ones that clogged my brother’s and mother’s bloodstreams in a matter of seconds, but I don’t. All I see is the hollow of the death bug’s esophagus.
More aacsi start hissing, disturbed by the others’ sudden interest in prey. I take them all in—a hundred of the deadliest creatures on the planet. I wonder which one of them killed my mother, which killed my brother.
I’d like to blame my perspiration on the humidity of the closed quarters, the trembling of my hands because I’m doing something I’m not supposed to, but denying my fear of these tiny creatures would be pointless. Besides, there’s no shame in fearing them. Even my father won’t come in here. In fact, he’d rather they were all destroyed, but the Reapers wouldn’t approve a request for the genocide of an entire species.
I’m not sure lifelong, isolated captivity is much different. They will never mate again, and my father has given scouts the order to search for aacsi worldwide and capture them.
By the time I leave the garden, warmth from the ever-rising sun has started to fill the ornate palace halls. Servants walk about to their varying tasks in the kitchen, the launder, and the stables. There are deliverers in some of the wings, arriving with the food, decorations, and offerings that will be used for the festival beginning tomorrow. I even recognize a few members of the royal family as they start to flood Dove Plaza, but as I make my way through my obligatory greetings, I spy my sister’s wet nurse weeping on a bench where intertwining paths cross.
I rush over to her.
“What’s wrong?”
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my show of concern is primarily selfish. I’m too afraid of the possibility that she might have bad news about my sister, and after everything that happened with my mother and brother… I can’t afford anything to happen to Gem.
The wet nurse startles, freeing her hands from her eyes to reveal blotchy marks on her cheeks. At the sight of me, she sniffles and dons a cracked smile. “It’s nothing, your highness.”
I’m so afraid to hear what happened that I can’t even so much as swallow. It’s like there’s an aacsi lodged inside my throat, and if I make one wrong move, I’ll meet my demise.
“We both know that’s not true. You don’t cry over nothing, Esabel. You once told me that you broke your arm when you were eight years old, and you didn’t even shed a tear. I would’ve blubbered like an infant. So, I know it’s not nothing. Just tell me. W-what is it?”
“It’s… it’s Gem. Your father—my king has finally made the decision.”
As my eyes widen with horror, Esabel stands and dashes toward the entrance. I can hear her sobs even as she leaves, but all I can do is blink stupidly at the place where she was sitting, thinking over and over to myself, He’s finally done it.
When I finally gather myself, there’s a part of me that is compelled to chase after her. Seeing her so hurt and overwhelmed—seeing anyone like that just makes me want to try to make them feel better. But I know she’s already gone. And to chase after her would cost me valuable time, time that I could instead spend trying to stop whatever my father has already started.
I burst into a run. On the first leap I take, my feet slide out from underneath me, landing me on my rear with one leg in front of me and the other buckled beneath me. A few of the women of the court giggle. I flush, cursing the shoes that are artful and regal in craftsmanship, but much too soft for things like running.
Head down, I scramble upright and vacate the courtyard, heading toward Quetzal Wing where I expect to find my father waiting for me. We were scheduled for a fitting before breakfast, so it’s no surprise when I find him there, in the throne room, waiting.
“You’re later than I’d like,” he says with a sigh pausing only to take a swig from a golden, bejeweled goblet. When he pulls it away, red tints his mustache. “But you arrived before the tailor, which I suppose is of some importance. Come. Sit. Give the tailor the impression that you’ve been waiting longer than you have been.”
There is something about my father that has always—always—made me feel insignificant, fragile, an ant at the mercy of his giant, regal foot. I’m not sure if it’s a king-thing, a him-thing, or just an I’m-average-and-he’s-mammoth-thing, but the second I walk into the room, he leeches my resolve.
I drag my feet to the empty chair, flattening my tunic under me as I sit.
“I’ve received another report of bandits in the Ngal woods,” he begins. When he speaks, he sounds like he could command boulders into forming mountains. King Renaudin leans back in his chair, the quilted jade-green accents hanging from his shoulders almost identical to mine, except his are accented by a golden plate on either shoulder, encrusted with Oakfall’s towering