THE GIRL WHO STOLE DEATH

Chapter One: The Dead Boy at My Window The first time I saw a dead boy standing outside my window, I thought hunger had finally driven me insane. It was a reasonable explanation. I had eaten nothing but half a loaf of bread that day, my roof was leaking, and the landlord had threatened to throw me out by the end of the week. Hallucinating seemed almost normal compared to everything else happening in my life. Still, I wished my imagination had chosen something less terrifying. The boy stood in the rain, staring at me through my bedroom window. His black hair clung to his forehead, and his clothes were soaked through. He looked about nineteen, with a sharp jaw and a face that might have been handsome if it weren’t so frighteningly pale. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. And there was something dark spreading across his chest. Blood. I dropped my bread. “Absolutely not,” I whispered. The boy tilted his head. I stumbled away from the window, knocking my knee against the bed. Pain shot up my leg, confirming that I was, unfortunately, still alive and apparently losing my mind. “You’re not real,” I told him. His lips moved. I couldn’t hear him over the storm, but I understood the words he formed against the glass. Help me. I should have screamed. I should have run downstairs and locked myself in the kitchen until morning. Instead, I did the stupidest thing possible. I opened the window. Cold air rushed into my room, carrying the smell of rain and something metallic. Before I could change my mind, the boy collapsed forward. I caught him just before his head struck the floor. He was freezing. Not cold from standing in the rain. Freezing, like a body left beneath winter snow. “Hey!” I shook his shoulder. “Can you hear me?” His head fell against my arm. “Please don’t die in my room. I can barely afford food, and I definitely can’t afford a funeral.” There was no response. I lowered him onto the rug and pressed my fingers against his neck. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. My stomach twisted. I had seen death before. Everyone in our village had. In the kingdom of Eldoria, people died from sickness, hunger, and the occasional visit from royal soldiers who considered questions a crime. But I had never watched someone die in front of me. And I had certainly never caught a dead stranger through my bedroom window. I looked down at his chest. The blood soaking his shirt wasn’t red. It was silver. My breath caught. Everyone knew what silver blood meant. It belonged to the ancient royal bloodline, the descendants of the First King. According to the Church, that family had been destroyed centuries ago after attempting to steal power from Death himself. Their names had been erased from history. Their bodies had been burned. Their bloodline had supposedly ended. Yet here I was, kneeling beside a silver-blooded stranger. “Oh, I’m in trouble.” I should have called the guards. Instead, I noticed the ring clenched between his fingers. It was silver, with a black line dividing a circle engraved on its surface. My mother’s symbol. Three years earlier, before she disappeared, I had found the same mark in an old book hidden beneath her bedroom floorboards. She had snatched the book from my hands and warned me never to speak of it again. Two weeks later, she vanished. No explanation. No farewell. Nothing. I reached for the ring. The moment my fingers touched it, every sound in the world disappeared. The rain stopped. The wind fell silent. Even my own breathing seemed to vanish. Then a voice spoke beside my ear. “Don’t touch that.” I screamed and scrambled backward. The dead boy was sitting upright. His chest was uninjured. His shirt was clean. There wasn’t a drop of silver blood on him. His eyes, however, had changed. They glowed gold. I stared at him, unable to form a sensible thought. He glanced around my bedroom, then looked at me. “Why did you open the window?” I blinked. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” “You were standing outside my window!” “I was trying to escape something.” “Wonderful. You escaped it and brought it into my house.” He looked at the broken cup beside my bed. “Do you always welcome strangers like this?” “Do you always die before introducing yourself?” For a moment, he simply stared at me. Then he laughed. It was a brief, surprised sound, as if laughter were something he had forgotten how to do. I hated that I noticed how handsome he was. I hated even more that he seemed to notice me noticing. “Who are you?” I demanded. He stood, brushing dust from his trousers. “Someone you should forget.” “That isn’t a name.” “It’s the only answer you’re getting.” I folded my arms. “Fine. I’ll call you Dead Boy.” His expression darkened. “Don’t.” Something in his voice made me stop smiling. Before I could ask what he meant, three knocks sounded from downstairs. Slow. Deliberate. A woman’s voice drifted up the staircase. “Seren, darling? Open the door.” My heart stopped. I hadn’t heard that voice in three years. My mother’s voice. I moved toward the bedroom door, but the stranger caught my wrist. “Don’t answer it.” I stared at him. “That’s my mother.” “No, it isn’t.” “You don’t know that!” His golden eyes held mine. “Your mother is not downstairs.” Another knock shook the house. “Seren, sweetheart. I’ve come home.” My throat tightened. Every part of me wanted to run downstairs and throw my arms around her. I wanted to demand where she had been, why she’d left me, and why she hadn’t come back when I needed her most. Instead, I remained frozen. Because the stranger was right about one thing. My mother had never called me sweetheart. She always called me her little star. The voice downstairs changed. “Give me what you stole.” The stranger released my wrist and reached beneath his shirt, pulling out a narrow silver dagger. “Stay behind me.” “What is that thing?” “Something that shouldn’t be here.” The front door groaned as though something enormous were pressing against it. Then came the sound of nails scraping slowly across wood. I backed away. “Who are you?” I whispered. He looked at me over his shoulder. “Kael Draven.” The name sent a chill through me. Every child in Eldoria knew that name. Kael Draven was the King’s Hound, an immortal assassin who hunted people accused of forbidden magic. Mothers used stories about him to frighten disobedient children into behaving. He was supposed to be merciless. He was supposed to be impossible to kill. And three days ago, according to the royal announcement posted in the village square, he had died. I stared at him. “You’re dead.” “So I’ve been told.” The door downstairs cracked. Kael raised his dagger. “Listen carefully, Seren. When that thing enters this room, do not let it touch you.” “Why?” He glanced at the ring still resting in my palm. “Because it has been searching for you for a very long time.” The silver ring suddenly burned against my skin. I gasped as a thin thread of light curled around my wrist. Kael went completely still. “What did you do?” “Nothing!” The bedroom door flew open. A woman stood at the top of the stairs. She wore my mother’s face, down to the familiar smile and the little scar above her left eyebrow. But her eyes were empty. Her smile widened impossibly. “There you are,” she whispered. Kael stepped in front of me. The woman ignored him. Her gaze settled on the glowing thread around my wrist, and she bowed her head as if greeting a queen. “At last,” she said. “I’ve found the girl who stole a soul from Death.” I looked at Kael. For the first time, the immortal assassin appeared terrified. And then the woman smiled at me. “Happy birthday, Seren Vale. Tonight, you die.”