In the Wake of the Wicked (Veridian Empire #1)

3. Rose

3

Rose

I t took Beau three days to get over the shock of watching Beth fall prey to the curse. He hadn’t ever seen it happen up close before—perhaps from a distance, when we were at the market or a crowded area and someone was struck. But never right before his eyes. Never someone he knew.

I’d witnessed it four times now. Five, if I counted Beth. And I remembered each as vividly as if it happened yesterday.

Once when I was seven, a group of girls were playing a ways from me in the schoolyard, and one of their toys landed at my feet. When I picked it up and walked it over to the little girl, her limbs suddenly locked and she crashed to the ground, unable to be roused.

Again when I was ten—I was racing through the forest near our house and came upon our neighbor collecting various herbs for spells. He smiled and waved cordially, but before I could return the sentiment, he froze and collapsed. I remembered fleeing back to my uncle so he could retrieve the body.

Several years later, on my first date, the boy was escorting me home when he stumbled and fell face first into the snow. I had to scream for someone to come help carry his limp body to his family.

This was when the quiet whispers of the town turned to ferocious gossip. That made three times I’d been with someone when they were cursed. One or two they could overlook, but three was no longer a coincidence.

The fourth time was a year ago. An elderly gentleman and his wife had come to the Arcane looking for a pain remedy for his arthritis. I turned to grab a vial, and when I looked back, his wife was slumped over the counter, unresponsive.

That was the nail in my metaphorical coffin. Nobody wanted anything to do with the Arcane after that, if they could help it.

Each time someone fell to the curse, it was the same. They collapsed as if in a deep slumber, their blood-red eyes the only sign of the Somnivae Curse. Not dead. Asleep .

There was no warning. It could take any of us in an instant, in a single breath. There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think I might be next. Or Beau, Morgana, Ragnar.

It started twenty-seven years ago, before I was born. This curse, this fear…it was all I’d ever known. I couldn’t even imagine a time before , when the empire didn’t have this heavy weight looming overhead.

According to those who had lived through it, the night the royal Aris twins had been born to the former Emperor Branock Aris and his wife, a curse had descended upon the entire land like a bright red plague. Some said it was because the royal family was cursed by the Fates, or the twins were an abomination, or Emperor Aris had sold his soul to amass his wealth and this was the punishment.

Our world was forever changed in that single night. Emperor Aris’ empire crumbled and he was unable to face the growing insurrection, choosing instead to abdicate and hole himself and his family away, hoping his penance was enough to stop the curse from ravaging his people.

That had been over two decades ago. And still, the curse raged on.

In the beginning, it had started slowly, claiming a handful of victims across the provinces every few months. With time, however, it grew greedier. Hungrier. More and more cases popped up all over the empire. This past year alone, almost a hundred people from Feywood had fallen to it.

Not a soul had been able to figure out how to counteract it. Even here in Feywood, where curses and charms were in our Alchemist blood. The Somnivae curse didn’t kill —it didn’t seem to do any bodily harm, as far as we could tell. The victims simply fell into a deep sleep. Their bodies stayed preserved and healthy, even the ones who had been cursed decades ago. They didn’t age, didn’t need food or water or medicine. It was as if they were frozen in a moment in time.

Forever alive, forever asleep.

And now, it had claimed Beth. My closest friend—my only friend. Seeing her normal lively, excited features turn motionless and ashen had been like looking into the face of a complete stranger. I may only see her a handful of times a year, but she knew me better than anyone. I would never get to laugh with her again, to trade stories and gossip of our provinces, to hear her go on about her latest flame back in Celestria.

Another person taken from me.

More pain to hide beneath my layers.

Uncle Ragnar and I had argued over what to do with her—he insisted she would be better cared for at the local infirmary since we were about to be gone for an entire month, but I feared what the people of Feywood would do to her, an outsider in their midst. Plenty of locals wouldn’t shop at the Arcane because of my reputation and because they knew we sourced many of our herbs from Celestria. How would they react to a Strider kept tucked away in the Feywood infirmary, vulnerable and unable to defend herself?

“There’s nothing else that can be done, Rose,” Uncle Ragnar had told me. “Until we can find a way to contact her family in Celestria, we’re unable to cross the border. You have to let her go. She’ll be safe with the healers—that’s their job.”

His words did little to quell my anxieties. But I’d done what he said and let her go, silently promising to visit her every day until we left.

And I did. I sat by her side for half an hour each afternoon, reading her bits and pieces of our favorite books and shouldering the gossip and bitter stares that followed my every move.

I was walking home from the infirmary a week after Beth had been cursed, the brisk wind nipping at my nose and cheeks as I pulled my cloak tighter over my hunter green dress, when I saw Uncle Ragnar’s hulking frame coming toward me on the street. He was the spitting image of what I imagined Beau would look like in thirty years—the same light brown hair and silver eyes, with a clean-cut beard and wrinkles gracing his strong features.

He waved to passersby as he made his way to me, stopping every few feet to say hello to a familiar face or shake someone’s hand as they undoubtedly offered their well wishes for his impending trip to the capital.

My uncle was a cornerstone of this province. He inspired respect and admiration among the citizens—it was why he’d been chosen as the Feywood challenger. One year before every Decemvirate, each province held an election for who would be the lucky pick. I’d heard stories of how the other provinces selected—in Drakorum, where they held the power of shifting, there were rumors that the nominees had to fight to the death in their animal forms. And in Tenebra, the province with the power to wield shadows, their competitors were forced to spend weeks in the isolated, cursed Shadowmere wastelands, where shadows and spirits of the dead roamed the twisted branches and howling mountains. Whoever emerged with their sanity still intact proceeded to the Decemvirate.

If all of that was true, it made me thankful my province wasn’t full of masochists.

Here, the nominees had to attend a festival in central Feywood to present their talents. A series of tests, both in skill and knowledge, and a showcase among the governor of the province and his council.

It was a glorified popularity contest.

But popularity aside, Ragnar was powerful. And not someone I’d want to cross.

Eight years ago when divisions among provinces really started to get bad, a group of Illusionists from Iluze had broken across their border with us in the middle of the night. Their advances had quickly turned violent when they were caught by a couple of border guards.

I witnessed the attack firsthand. Our house wasn’t too far from Lake Leznem, the sole border between Iluze and Feywood, and I’d been collecting herbs nearby for a new potion I wanted to try. I would never forget the way the border guards had been stopped dead in their tracks by the powerful Illusionist magic, frozen in fear by some invisible mirage conjured for them and them alone. All I could see from my hidden spot behind a thicket of trees was the guards falling to their knees before the Illusionists, their faces contorted in horror. Screams pierced the air and made me cover my ears to stem the onslaught of terror that coursed through my body.

I hadn’t been able to move. I wanted to run for help, to do something to save those innocent men, but something about the Illusionists and their power had been so hauntingly familiar. They dredged up murky memories from the darkness of my past, leaving me useless and cowering in the grass and dirt.

Someone from the village had heard the attack and summoned Ragnar. I vividly remembered the image of my uncle charging to the lake side, his black cloak billowing behind him as his face lit with rage. A weight like a charging horse slammed into my chest, the very air sucked from the entire clearing, the taste of magic sweet and sticky on my tongue. I could taste it even now, eight years later.

In a heartbeat, all seven Illusionists laid sprawled on the ground, their arms and legs bent at horrific angles. The memory still spiked my pulse, the sound of their cracking bones just as sharp as it was almost a decade ago. Watching them writhe on the flattened grass with the shadow of my uncle looming over them, fury like ice across his hard features…

Perhaps this Decemvirate, Feywood stood a chance at winning.

When Ragnar met my stare a few yards down the street from where I strolled, he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head with an exasperated expression I knew far too well. I sighed. What had I done this time?

“Well, hello, Uncle,” I said pleasantly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as I approached him.

He shot me a look that said he wasn’t buying my act and turned on his heel to fall into step beside me. “I heard some interesting news from Madeline Bailey’s father today.”

“Oh?”

“Turns out, the poor girl has been sick all week. Headaches, can’t eat, has a terrible rash. He said it began after she purchased a sleeping tonic from the Arcane.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Care to explain?”

“Sounds like she’s come down with something,” I said with a shrug.

“Rose.”

I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, of all the things the two of us have done, this wouldn’t even make the top five worst.”

He grunted, and I pursed my lips to hide a smile. My uncle and I shared a similar sense of retribution, a fondness for bending rules and living in a gray area between proper and…well, poison, in my case.

“Be that as it may, I can’t have you using mine and your aunt’s business anytime someone crosses you?—”

“Crosses me ?” I scoffed. “You do remember what Madeline did to Beau, right?”

He furrowed his brow. “Well, I knew he was keen on the girl. He was upset when she got engaged to that Nathaniel fellow.”

I sighed and gave my uncle a pat on the shoulder as we walked. Ragnar and Morgana loved their son, but more often than not, parents never truly saw into the lives of their teenage children. “ Beau and Madeline had been seeing each other for months. He found out she’d cheated on him with Nathaniel three nights before the two announced their engagement. Did Mr. Bailey happen to tell you that part of the story?”

Ragnar blinked at me, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening in thought. “No, he didn’t. Nor did Beau. I—I had no idea.” He rubbed at the scruff on his jaw. “Is that why he’s been so…temperamental?”

“He’s only a kid,” I said softly. “He was embarrassed and heartbroken, and probably didn’t want to run to his parents about his love life. He’ll be okay. He’s doing much better now, but right after it happened, he was a mess. When I saw Madeline in the shop last week, I just…well, you heard.” I snuck a peek at Ragnar, wondering how upset he was going to be with me. He had a point—it wasn’t my best move, using their shop as a means to get revenge.

Hindsight, and all.

His face was unreadable. We walked in silence for a minute as we turned the corner and the Arcane appeared up ahead.

“So, how much foxglove did you give her?” he finally asked.

“I never said it was foxglove.”

“I know you, Rose. When you’re being petty, you use foxglove.”

I feigned offense, clutching my chest. Perhaps I was more predictable than I thought. “ Petty ? I was going for vindictive .”

He tapped his nose, eyes sparkling. “If you’re vindictive, you go for the bones.”

A grin broke across my face. The fact that we could now joke about that day in the clearing, the day he’d mutilated those Illusionists and broken almost every bone in their bodies, spoke volumes of our twisted humor. “Noted. And, for your information, I didn’t give her that much—only a pinch in her tea leaves. It should be wearing off soon.” As much as the words pained me to say, I added a quick, “I’m sorry, Uncle. I reacted rashly.”

Reaching for the door to our apothecary, he said, “Nobody died. In my eyes, that’s good enough. Just…don’t tell your aunt.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I said quickly, entering the shop and slipping my scarf and cloak onto a hook by the front door. “Are you sticking around, or do you need to get home?”

“Actually, I wanted to talk with you.” The unease in his voice made my hand clench at my side as I crossed behind the counter. “About the Decemvirate,” he added.

This couldn’t be good.

He scratched his head. “I’ve spoken with Morgana about this, of course, but Beau…well, there are some things he might not be able to handle.”

I hummed and rested my elbows on the counter. “He can handle more than you think.”

“Perhaps this isn’t a conversation I can handle, then.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “You know how dangerous this tournament can be. We don’t know what to expect, what trials the architects will design, who the other challengers will be. There’s no way to ensure I’ll be successful, or that I’ll even make it out in one piece.”

Fear rose inside of me, breaking through the layers I worked to squash it beneath. “You’re going to be fine,” I said curtly. “Nobody has died in a couple decades.”

“Death isn’t the only outcome. You’ve never met someone who’s come back from the tournament, Rose. Not all of them are…” He trailed off, a shadow passing over his eyes before he blinked it away. “Anything is possible. I must be prepared for all probabilities. Which is why I wanted to talk to you about the Arcane.”

My spine straightened. “What about it?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of parchment, folded into thirds. Holding it out to me, he said, “It’s yours.”

“What’s mine?”

“The shop .”

I froze. “ What ?” I asked with a strangled yelp.

That brought a small smile to his face. “We should have done this a long time ago. She’s been yours for years—at least now, it can be official.”

When I still didn’t take the paper, he shook it in front of my face with an amused expression. I snapped my mouth shut and reached for it, unfolding the pages carefully, drinking in the words.

The deed to the Arcane Apothecary. In my name. Rose Angelica Wolff .

I drew my gaze back to my uncle’s. “But…why?” I’d been saving to buy it from them one day—one day far, far from now, but still. I didn’t understand why they’d decided to simply hand it over to me. Unless…

I shoved the deed into his hands. “If this is some sort of ‘dying request,’ you can take it back. You’ll be fine ,” I repeated, colder than I intended.

While the rational part of my mind knew he was wise to make such preparations, another part, a deeper part, gnashed its teeth in protest. Ragnar may be my uncle, but he was like a second father to me, and the idea that even he had doubts about the upcoming tournament…

I didn’t know what I would do if I lost him. Or Morgana, or Beau. The number of people I had left in my life were few.

I needed my uncle to be safe. I needed Aunt Morgana and Beau to be safe. If they weren’t…if something happened to them that I couldn’t prevent, it would feel like my fault all over again. The way it had been when my mother died.

And my father .

Panic blossomed, and I quickly shoved that thought away. Gritting my teeth, I said, “I don’t want the shop out of pity or as a last resort.”

“It’s neither of those, Rose,” he said exasperatedly. “Don’t you think you deserve it, after everything you’ve done to keep this place running? Morgana and I have discussed it at length. We agreed it’s time. This is what your parents would want—it was their dream to begin with. We merely followed along.”

Guilt, yearning, and stubbornness struggled inside of me, a tangled web of emotions. What he said may be true, but I knew it was more than that. I knew he was preparing for the worst, should he die in the coming month. Perhaps this was his way of keeping control over the situation—as I was wont to do, as well.

And… Fates , I wanted the Arcane. More than I’d ever wanted anything.

I swallowed. “Fine.” An awkward tension sliced through the room as I lowered my hand, the deed clutched in my fingers. “I—thank you, Uncle Ragnar. I’ll make a payment plan, set aside part of the profit from each month to pay you?—”

He shook his head and cut me off. “That’s not necessary. We have more than enough.”

“I will pay you back,” I repeated, louder, sturdier. “I’ll force the money into your hands if I have to. And I expect to be able to annoy you about it for a very, very long time, you got it?” The last part was weaker—a question and a plea, wrapped into one.

His gaze softened. Placing his hand on my shoulder and squeezing, he said, “That’s the plan. This doesn’t mean I’m not going to fight, understand? I fully intend to show those bastards in Veridia City what we can do here. That they should never discount Feywood again.”

A smile crept up my lips. If anyone could do it, it was Ragnar Gregor. “Going for the bones?”

He swiped playfully at my nose. “Going for the bones.”