Desperate people didn’t have the luxury of fear. He’d enslaved her with a magic that had made her scream in agony, one that ensured she would serve the house of Asher until her death or until Cumbria sold her and passed on the secret of the stone to a new master. At seven years old, she’d been terrified of the stern, beak-nosed priest who’d assessed her with an icy, measuring eye and bought her from a starving mother with a handful of coins. Cut into flawless facets that caught the sunlight and bounced rainbows into her eyes, the azure jewel was the cage for a part of her soul. She gazed at her master, saw the silver chain holding her spirit stone threaded through his fingers. “I still allow you the choice, Martise, but there’s no turning away once we take this road.” The scent of curse magic streamed from the fog-shrouded road, making her nostrils twitch.
Martise studied the long path leading to Neith manor and considered whether she was an apprentice or a sacrifice.
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