Elara's POV
I break the Council's seal with shaking fingers.
The letter crinkles in my hands—expensive paper that probably costs more than I have left in the world. Three copper coins. That's all I took from my family's estate before the servants literally threw my bag after me.
"Dear Miss Morwen," I read aloud in the empty street. My voice cracks. "The Mage Council requests your expertise in ancient magical research. Your extensive knowledge of historical texts has come to our attention. Transportation and housing will be provided. Please respond within three days."
I read it again. Then again.
Expertise? Knowledge? They want me?
"I accept," I blurt out, looking at the messenger. "I accept right now."
The messenger's sad expression deepens. "You have three days to consider—"
"I don't need three days. I don't need three minutes." I clutch the letter like it's a lifeline. Because it is. "When do I leave?"
"Two weeks," he says quietly. "We'll send transportation details to wherever you're staying."
Wherever I'm staying. Right. Because I don't have a home anymore.
DAY ONE
The boarding house smells like old cabbage and rat droppings.
"Two silver pieces per week," the landlady says. She's missing three teeth and doesn't seem to care that I'm still wearing a wedding dress. "Pay in advance or sleep in the street."
I have three copper coins. One silver equals ten copper.
"I can pay you in two weeks," I say desperately. "The Council is hiring me. I'll have money then. I promise—"
"Promises don't pay rent." She starts closing the door.
"Please!" I jam my foot in the doorway. Pain shoots through my toes but I don't care. "Just one week. One room. I'll do anything. I can clean, I can cook—"
The landlady eyes my wedding dress. "That silk worth something?"
My dress. The dress I was supposed to get married in. The dress I wore when my whole life fell apart.
"Yes," I whisper. "Take it."
DAY THREE
I have one copper coin left.
The boarding house gave me the worst room—a closet, really, with a mattress that smells like mold and a window that won't close. Rain leaks through the cracks. I use my only other dress to plug the holes, which means I'm now wearing the thin nightgown I sleep in.
My stomach hurts. I haven't eaten since yesterday.
I tried to find work. Every shop, every tavern, every family looking for help. But news travels fast in the Merchant Quarter.
"You're Lord Morwen's daughter," the baker said when I asked about washing dishes. "The one whose sister stole her wedding. The one with no magic." He laughed. Not meanly, but not kindly either. "Sorry, girl. Can't hire someone cursed with that kind of bad luck. It might rub off."
Everyone said some version of the same thing.
Cursed. Unlucky. Broken.
Maybe they're right.
DAY SEVEN
I spend my last copper coin on bread.
One small loaf that's half-stale and tastes like sawdust. I eat it in tiny bites, trying to make it last. My hands shake from hunger.
The landlady pounds on my door every morning. "One more week, then you're out! Don't care about your fancy Council job!"
I spend hours staring at the cracked ceiling, counting the stains. Forty-three brown spots. Probably water damage. Probably mold. Probably slowly poisoning me.
Would anyone care if I died here?
Mother wouldn't. Father wouldn't. Celestine would probably throw a party.
Maven might feel guilty for five minutes. Then he'd go back to his perfect life with his perfect wife and forget I ever existed.
The thought makes me laugh. Then cry. Then laugh again because crying takes too much energy.
DAY ELEVEN
I haven't eaten in three days.
My stomach stopped hurting yesterday. Now it just feels empty. Hollow. Like there's a hole inside me that goes on forever.
I'm too weak to leave the room. Too weak to look for food. Too weak to do anything except lie here and stare at those forty-three ceiling stains.
Maybe dying would be easier.
The thought doesn't scare me anymore. It should, but it doesn't.
What's the point of living anyway? I have no magic. No family. No money. No future. Just two more days until the Council sends transportation, and I'll probably be too weak to stand by then.
I close my eyes and wonder if this is how it ends. Starving in a moldy room, wearing a nightgown, completely alone.
At least no one can hurt me anymore.
At least—
A knock on the door makes my eyes snap open.
"Rent's due tomorrow!" the landlady shouts. "Don't think I forgot!"
"Go away," I croak. My voice sounds like a dying frog.
But the knocking continues. Harder. More insistent.
"Miss Morwen?" A different voice. Male. Official-sounding. "Miss Elara Morwen?"
Council messenger.
I try to sit up and the room spins. Black spots dance in my vision. I collapse back down, panting.
"Miss Morwen, if you don't answer, we'll have to assume you've declined the position."
NO.
That word screams through my mind. The Council job is the only thing keeping me alive. The only hope I have left.
I roll off the mattress and hit the floor hard. Pain explodes through my shoulder but I crawl toward the door. Five feet feels like five miles. My arms shake. My vision blurs.
I reach up and turn the handle.
The door swings open and I collapse at the messenger's feet.
"Saints above!" He drops to his knees. "When did you last eat?"
"Don't... remember," I gasp. "Please... don't take... the job away..."
He looks horrified. Then angry. Then he pulls out a wrapped package from his bag—bread, cheese, dried meat. He shoves it into my hands.
"Eat. Now."
I don't have the strength to be proud. I stuff bread in my mouth, barely chewing, my body screaming for food. The messenger watches with a strange expression.
"You were supposed to respond within three days," he says quietly. "That was eleven days ago. We thought you'd refused."
"I accepted." Each word is difficult. "Day one. I accepted."
"Then why didn't you—" He stops. Looks around the tiny room. At my nightgown. At my skeleton-thin arms. Understanding dawns on his face. "You had nowhere to go."
I can't answer. I'm crying and eating at the same time, which is messy and embarrassing, but I can't stop either one.
The messenger stands abruptly. "Pack your things. You're leaving tonight."
"Tonight?" Hope flares in my chest so hard it hurts. "But you said two weeks—"
"The Archmagus moved the schedule. Transportation is waiting outside." His voice goes odd again. That same sad, fearful tone from before. "We need to leave immediately."
Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle.
"Why the rush?" I ask, still clutching the bread.
The messenger doesn't answer. He just stares at me with those haunted eyes.
"There's been a change in the research location," he finally says. "Instead of the Capitol archives, you'll be going to... a different site."
"What site?"
His jaw tightens. For a moment I think he won't tell me. Then he whispers two words that make my blood run cold:
"The Scorched Wastes."
The Scorched Wastes. The dead zone. The place where nothing grows and nothing lives. The place where, according to legend, the dragons were exterminated three hundred years ago.
The place no one comes back from.
"Why there?" My voice comes out small and frightened.
The messenger's face twists with something like guilt. Like shame. Like grief.
"Pack your bag, Miss Morwen," he says, not meeting my eyes. "We have a long journey ahead."
He turns and walks out, leaving me sitting on the floor with half-eaten bread in my shaking hands.
And suddenly I understand why he looked so sad when he first delivered that letter.
Because he knew.
He knew this was never a job.
He knew where they were really sending me.
He knew I was going to die.