Chapter 1

The stars were bright the night Dien’s world ended.

Someone thumped the front door hard enough Dien thought it might be a bear. The beasts tracked through the forest sometimes, looking for easy prey, but they never broke into homes. Much more likely to be a demon.

The thump sounded three more times in quick succession. Not a demon, then. Dien might never have seen one of the monsters and, Moon and Sun willing, she never would, but the stories were quite certain on one thing. Demons didn’t knock.

She left the dough she was kneading and wiped floury hands on her apron, then snuck towards the front door. She could hear her parents stirring from their room. Her ma whispered something sharp. Her da sighed.

Dien reached the door to their little wooden hovel just as whoever was outside thumped on it again, nearly making Dien jump out of her apron.

“Unter Hostain, you cheatin’ sack of cat guts, git your carcass out here or I’ll burn your hut to the loam with you inside, I will.”

That seemed like an impotent threat and no mistake; no one would risk a fire these days and especially not at night, no matter how deep in the forest they were.

Their little cabin was sturdily built, far more so than most of the other homes in the scattered forest village. Her da had made sure of it. But next to the door one of the planks of wood had warped just a little, enough to create the smallest of gaps. Her da had nailed a sliver of wood over it and that sliver could be twisted aside to reveal the gap once more. Dien pressed in close to the wall, twisted the splinter of wood, and peered out into the brightening morning.

Harsh yellow light blazed back at her and she had to blink away the brightness. Whoever was outside had brought a torch with them. At night! It was madness. Everyone knew you never risked a fire at night. Better to huddle in the freezing cold, whole families piled under a single blanket than light a fire. Better to stumble blindly in the dark, as like to trip over your own feet as find the path than risk a flame. Fires in the night brought demons, everyone said so. Everyone agreed. No flames, no fires, no torches. Never at night and not even during the day when smoke could rise past the canopy.

Dien squinted against the light, looking away from it. She saw three figures outside, all men she knew. There was Iger Brane, the village brewer and drunk both, holding the torch with his one good hand and his club hand nestled against his chest. Next to him stood Metwit Pa, his hair lip and wild eyes making him look like a rabid beaver. She couldn’t quite see the man standing in front of their door, but she recognised his voice now. He was Donnel Ocha, the Adjudicator’s eldest son and soon to take the position once his ancient father breathed his last, which everyone said would be passing soon. Though everyone had been saying the same for well over a year now.

Donnel thumped on the door three more times. “Last chance, Hostain. This den ain’t so sturdy I can’t break it down.”

The floorboards creaked behind her and Dien spun to find her da lumbering out of her parents’ room. He had his oldest shirt on, the one with all the rips and tears he only wore to cut wood these days and pulled on his workday britches. He filled the corridor, but then he had built it so it was just wide enough for his broad shoulders. He had built every bit of their little home, dug the foundations, laid every board, hammered every nail. He yawned and stepped forward, already waving at Dien out of the way.

Dien stepped in front of her da and spread her arms out wide as if she could stop him. She wasn’t as tall as her da, nor nearly so broad. Her ma said she had the Hostain shoulders though and the Hostains were all big. Sometimes her ma despaired about that, said Dien was almost a woman grown now and soon she’d have to find a husband, and that would be hard and harder once she grew into her shoulders so she better start looking soon. Her da always laughed at that and said any man who wanted to tame his little forge spark better be ready for the inferno she’d become. He often talked about forges, though Dien had never seen one. No one had. They couldn’t risk them.

“They mean harm,” Dien whispered as her da came close.

“Anger is a rotten log, little bug. Strong on the outside, but when you split it, you find nothing but weak fear within.” He smiled down at her, looking almost like a bear himself in the near darkness of their cabin. “A rotten log has many uses, but you can never build with it.”

With a casual strength, he placed his hands on her shoulders and steered her gently aside, then strode towards the door just as it thumped again.

“I hear you in there, Hostain. Out now!”

Her da paused and glanced to the side. The door to his tool cupboard was open. His axe and hammers, all the tools of his trade, hung in their cherished places on the wall, including the big hammer he never used. Sometimes Dien caught her ma glaring at those tools when da wasn’t around. She asked why once and her ma had cried and said that cursed hammer hadn’t been forged to build and she wished he’d be rid of it.

Her da reached out and slowly closed the door to the tool cupboard, then set his broad shoulders, twisted the locks, and threw open the door to the three men outside.

“Sun and Moons, Donnel Ocha,” her da said as he stepped out of their home into the crisp morning. The Adjudicator’s son backed up quickly, giving ground before his advance. “You lit a torch at night? Are you mad?”

“You’re a cheatin’ toad, Unter Hostain, and I’ll have retribution for it, I will.” With the torch flickering outside, casting its dangerous orange light all around, Dien could see Donnel’s fist clenched by his side.

Dien took a step towards the door and was pulled short by her ma gripping her hand. She was still wearing her nightshirt, too large around the hips but pulled in by a fraying length of rope, and her raven hair was a wild tangle about her round face. Dien sometimes envied her ma’s hair. She’d inherited her burnt sand skin, but she’d got her da’s dull oaken hair.

Her ma shook her head. “Your father will deal with it, Dien.”

Dien relented and let her ma pull her back a step, but she turned and stared out the open doorway.

“You want to tell me what this is about, Donnel?” her da said. “And I’ll see about answering for it.”

Donnel Ocha shuffled a step. The two men behind him spread out as if to flank her da in his own doorway.

“Act like you don’t know?” Donnel snarled. “Call your work sound? Shoddy. Ill made, I say.” He spat on the floor. “Wardrobe you made fell apart. Collapsed on my Shilly and almost crushed her. She can’t walk no more. Broke foot, so Arnut says.”

Arnut Poll was also known as The Knife, though never to his face. He was the village healer, or as close to one as they had, but everyone knew his skills with a blade weren’t meant for healing. Helena said he was as bad as a demon himself, all leering grins and wandering hands.

“If Arnut says so, it’s so,” her da said, nodding. “Knows his trade.”

“Better than you, for certain,” Donnel hissed. “I demand reparations.” He shifted and Dien saw Iger and Metwit closing in.

Her da glanced back into the house, his dark gaze sweeping over Dien before finding her ma. Then he turned back to Donnel, and took a heavy step forward, out of the cabin and onto the packed earth of the forest.

“It’s the nails, Donnel. The lack of, to be exact. Can’t make nails without a forge. Can’t risk a forge for the same reason young Iger here should know better than lighting a torch. Put it out, lad. You’ll signal the demons right to us.”

Donnel raised his hand and poked a finger against her da’s chest. He didn’t budge. “It ain’t fire gonna call the demons. It’s cheating shits like you. Think I don’t know you, Unter Hostain? Think I don’t know the past you’re runnin’ from?”

Her da sighed again. “It’s the lack of nails, Donnel. Gotta use dowels instead. They slot nicely, hold it together just fine. But too much wear will loosen them some and then…”

“My fault now, is it?” Donnel shouted.

“Voice down, lad,” her da warned. “Sound travels at night.”

“Shilly’s fault, is it?” Donnel barrelled on. “Pulled the wardrobe down on herself, did she?”

Her da raised his hands, not threatening, just placating. “I’m not saying that, Donnel. I’ll come repair the break at first light. Make it good as new.”

“And what about my Shilly? Broke foot, so Arnut says. Can’t walk. Can’t tend chicks, fetch water. Can’t do nothin’ but bitch at me. What’ll you do about her, Unter Hostain? Cheating pile of shit, what’ll you do about her?”

“Any grievance you got should be brought to the Adjudicator, Donnel,” her da’ said. “That ain’t you yet.”

Donnel stopped shifting about and went still. Dien sensed a dangerous change in the air. Her ma’s hand tightened on her arm.

“Yet,” Donnel said. He lurched forward and Dien’s da grunted as a fist connected with his gut, but still, he didn’t move.

“Don’t want to do this, Donnel,” her da growled.

They closed on him from three sides like wolves hunting deer. Metwit had a wooden club and smashed it into her da’s leg. He staggered, went down to his knees, and then they were all there, raining punches and kicks down on him. Her da raised his arms, protecting his head, but he didn’t fight back. Iger dropped his torch so he could use his good hand to punch. His fist caught her da’s ear and he fell to the floor under a flurry of thuds and grunts.

Dien tried to go to him, even knowing she couldn’t help. Her ma kept hold of her, pulling on Dien to hold her back. Dien’s eyes fell to the torch Iger had dropped. It was sputtering, sizzling. The flames were licking at the wooden wall of their cabin, blackening it. If it started burning, they wouldn’t be able to stop it. The fire would spread and consume their home. And worse, the smoke would call the demons to them. The whole village would pay.

Her blood boiled. Like the fires from the torch were coursing through her veins. Burning. Tight and painful and demanding she do something. Dien wrenched free of her ma and ran for the door. She slipped around the melee, shoving her broad shoulder against Iger and sending him stumbling. She snatched the torch from the ground before the cabin wall could catch light, then turned to face her da’s attackers, torch held in trembling hands.

“Get away from him!” Dien shouted.

Donnel looked up, then kicked her da in the ribs again. Metwit stopped his assault and stepped around the struggle, heading for her. Iger snarled and launched himself at her, reaching with his one good hand. Dien staggered back, swung the torch with both hands. The fiery end smacked into Iger’s chest, crashing against his club hand. He screamed, fell back, his shirt sizzling.

“Stupid bitch!” Metwit snarled and reached for her.

Dien swung for him, too, but Metwit grabbed the torch halfway up the haft, halting the swing. The back of his hand smashed into Dien’s face. She fell, clutching at her throbbing cheek, hit the wall, and moaned, tears already flooding her eyes. Metwit had the torch in his hand now and advanced on her.

Donnel stumbled away as if pushed, almost fell. Dien’s da rose like a startled raven taking flight, sudden and dark as beating wings. “Don’t you dare touch her,” he rumbled, taking a step forward and towering over Metwit. The smaller man backed away, wild eyes darting about. “You’ll leave my family out of this, Donnel.”

Dien’s face throbbed with her racing heart. The fire had gone out of her blood now, replaced by cold shock and sullen anger. She pressed a hand against her cheek where Metwit had hit her and it was already feeling swollen. Nobody had ever hit her before. She’d seen her father take punches many times, sometimes in anger and others in jest. It never seemed to faze him, but it hurt so much.

Donnel and the others ran then, disappearing into the forest, back to their homes. Her da watched them go. The sun was rising, brightening the sky so some of the other scattered cabins were now visible. Yet all the shutters were closed. If any of the nearby villagers had heard the scuffle, none came to investigate.

Her da knelt before her and peeled Dien’s hand away from her cheek. He sighed. “That’s gonna be a nasty bruise, little bug.” He stood and gently pulled Dien to her feet. Then turned and headed inside.

Dien’s ma was sprawled on the floor where Dien had shoved her, sobbing quietly. Her da went to her and checked her over too, then pulled her to her feet.

“Why?” Dien asked from the doorway, staring at her parents. “Why didn’t you fight back?”

Her da glanced over his shoulder at her and winced. “A man must face up to the consequences of his actions. Accept them. Own them.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” Dien said. She didn’t understand. “You said yourself, you can’t make nails. You made the wardrobe as sturdy as you could but…”

Her da shook his head. “That wasn’t about a wardrobe, little bug. And I’ve done plenty wrong. Consequences are like your shadow. Sometimes they’re before you, and sometimes behind, but they’re always there. You can never escape your shadow, no matter how far you try to run from it.”