Jennifer A.Nielsen

I was thirteen when I’d been sent from my father’s home, still young enough to excuse his flaws as my own failures of understanding. I’d been young enough then to love him despite his coldness, and to pretend that he cared for me too. After three years,

Someone grabbed me from behind, and a blade pressed against my neck. “No,” a voice hissed. “You’re no longer giving the orders, Princess. Drop your knife.”

His hair was a darker shade of brown than mine, and closely cropped on the sides, but longer on top with a fringe of hair near his forehead that I suspected was often out of place. If he were a higher form of life than a Corack, his strong, square jawline might have been considered attractive. His brown eyes were striking, with thick lashes that gave them prominence, I’d give him that much. Something was familiar about those eyes, though I couldn’t place the memory. But I would, eventually.