I S O L A T I O N

Prologue

People often romanticized the life of a mercenary. Traversing all stretches of land and sea, paid bloodshed, riches— it was an untouchable life with no equal. While it was true that it came with the perks of fame and fortune as they so liked to dangle from their fishing hooks, how anyone could idolize it was beyond Ferris.

He lived in the looming shadows of death, clutching a blade to which men, women, and children alike met their swift ends. It was an nondiscriminatory lifestyle, and the deeper he filled his eyes with the sights of rotting flesh and cleansing fire, the emptier he became. No matter how celebrated he was, no matter how many lands he traveled, everywhere he went he was met by the fear of innocents who knew him only as the king's callous sword. He was the executioner— chop first, never ask questions.

The fame came at a toxic price. He wasn't famous; he was infamous, maligned. And the fortune? No amount of crusty old gold could take away the screams of mothers as he cut down their infants because the king was afraid they would grow too populous. Not a single object in the world could quell the restlessness of guilt that snapped open his rib cage every night to remind him which side of history he was on. It was a joke.

The only consolation he could give himself, if only to make the liquor go down a bit smoother, was that he hadn't chosen the life. Under His Royal Highness, Most Honorable Protector of Felv, The King Rossca the Greater (and Humble)— no one really had a say in their destiny. Simply put, he was great at taking lives, and, in Felv, you did what you were good at not what you liked.

His swordsmanship was deft, adept; he seldom met an opponent who forced him to have to hold his sword in his spoiled hands longer than a minute. His feet were as quiet and swift as the swing of his blade. When he dipped under the cover of darkness, his body and form was indistinguishable from the shadows that curled their tresses around him. No, there really was no better career for him than the king's mercenary.

It didn't matter if little Ferris of Leftdream Village wanted to be a baker like his father or a ranch hand at his aunt's farm in the country. The day that the king's knights saw the potential in him was the day that he became a mercenary for the rest of his life— "rest of his life" length nonspecific on the variable of how long he was willing to keep doing the king's dirty business. And what an empty life it had been forging into.

Throughout the ten years that he had traveled, he saw everything the world had to offer, yet nary a drop had entered his lips. He'd watched children frolic and cling to their mothers, seen couples embrace in matrimony, witnessed the birth of friendships, and listened to the hearty laughs of the ages— alone. He traveled through it all in isolation, the shadow strolling through a warm sun he could not reach.

He watched mothers cry for the loss of their children,seen couples lying in a pool of each other's blood, witnessed the betrayal of friendships, and listened to agonized screams, and once again he did it all alone. He was isolated from the happiness the world had to offer, yet so too was he withdrawn from the sorrow he seeded with the edge of his sword.

Being a mercenary was not romantic. Ferris wanted nothing else in his life but to create something more than death and agony. He wanted to make life— not take it away.

That was when he met her.

Her name was Denza, the eldest princess of Felv and highest priestess of the Temple of Arami. Just as her goddess was, she was a woman who adored and gave flourish to life. There was a light to her that he could scarce describe, like a flickering candle in the dark— warm and bright, a fire that was gentle and soft like silk. Whatever she touched became consecrated, as if Lady Mother Arami was at her fingertips.

The moment that he saw her, sitting in her wondrous, thriving garden just outside the castle, he knew she was the answer to his mournful, lonely harmony. The way that the morning light had yawned against her skin, lighting up her glittering eyes and the most beautiful smile was like a performance that only the goddesses could have written.