Joyful music blasted, echoing into the high, arched ceilings of the palace of Olisgard. Servants, house staff and attendants scurried about, hefting jugs of wine and beer, toting armfuls of food to the feast in the great hall. The entire palace was in motion, a flurry of faces streaming in and out, boastful and elated.

One woman, pale and hooded, hovered on the outskirts of the commotion. This—all of this—was her doing. The party. The crowd of people storming the halls. The triumph in the air. It made her sick. She headed towards the kitchens, hoping to slip out the back doors and disappear into the night.

"Priestess! Priestess!" a squeaking voice called.

A sudden unwelcomed presence appeared at her side. She hesitated ten paces from the kitchen, where the doors swung open and closed. A young page jiggled beside her.

"That is not my title, boy."

"Uh, my lady—I mean no disrespect," he stammered. "You are from the desert temple, I—I thought you to be a priestess of Se—"

"What is it? I've somewhere to be."

The page straightened his jacket, standing tall and proud. "The king requests your presence in the throne room."

A cold wash of dread overcame her. It was too much to hope he would let her slip back into the shadows after asking so wrong a task of her. It was too much to hope at all.

"I will tell him you're on your way." He darted down the hall before she could growl out for him to wait.

Would there be no conclusion to this suffering? Would her humiliation never end? Cursing under her breath, she headed to see his majesty, King Dominick Kenos, killer of her people.

O.O.O.O.O

The indigenous people of the Hudar were a nomadic race, maintaining a vast territory of river valleys, parched deserts and snow-covered mountains. Legends told that the Hudar were a cursed race, gifted in craft, capable of powerful magic. Their leader, Daskis, was rumored to wear a helm carved of a wolf skull. Clad in leather and hides, he rode a massive grey horse that breathed fire. They had no city, no court; no temples. They were barbarians wandering an unforgiving land. But all it took to change one sovereign's mind was the lure of precious gems and metals hidden in that torrid, wind-scarred ground.

King Dominic Kenos spent months building an army to conquer the task. The forges of Norr glowed molten red all hours of the day, spewing out armor, swords and shields. Ambition drove Kenos to be the king who claimed the wild lands. All would remember his name. He was confident of his victory the day his troops first set foot in the Hudar.

And for more than a year, the soldiers failed miserably. Heavy with steel armor and swords, the soldiers were no match for the Hudar warriors on horseback. Light as the wind, they sailed through the ranks, curved swords, short bows and spears tearing the eastern intruders to pieces. The Hudar wore robes of purest black, headdresses hewn from skulls and scarves around their faces. The dark, tattered material flapped in the wind, billowing around them in wraithlike terror. Their horses were nimble-footed, quick, and as fearless as their riders. The few soldiers who made it back to Norr reported as such, calling the warriors za'hava. A Hudar word that translated to: one that walks the veil.

Furious with impending failure, Kenos scoured his nation for anything that might give him an edge in battle. Nothing worked, and as the body count increased, and national favor for the excursion dwindled, Kenos grew desperate. His name would forever be sullied, his soldier's deaths in vain. He turned to the gods.

Kenos consulted his priests, asking for guidance. Time and time again, the answer was clear: leave the Hudar be. It was a fool's game. But he would not be deterred. It took weeks of tedious searching, but Kenos was able to track down a secret hidden away in the desert.

A young woman, twenty-some years old. Born in the wilds of Hudar, she was captured near the southern province of Norr and raised under the strict tutelage of the high priestess of Sekhmet. She possessed the unique ability of foresight, honed sharp by the Priestess Khalimat, earning her the infamous title as Prophet.

And as such, Kenos summoned her to Olisgard in much haste. Her arrival at the palace was a highly anticipated affair, rumors of a barbarian witch spreading like wildfire. Kenos met her in a quiet room away from prying eyes. He wanted this meeting to go undisturbed. However, he had not fully prepared for her arrival.

A lanky, wary creature stepped before him, long hair the color of the night sky, braided loosely, held back from her face with a piece of leather chord. Violet eyes studied him briefly before flickering elsewhere. A beautiful woman, in a rough-spun, scowling way.

But, what was she wearing? Black robes, tattered and near transparent in places, and several fraying scarves wrapped around her neck. Rags. At least she wore sandals, albeit unkempt leather ones. Didn't the people of the temples wear white? Ah, but she wasn't a priestess. Prophet or not, she was a Hudar woman, clad in the clothing of her people. A misplaced soul in this land, looking every bit the part of what the rumors spoke; a witch. He dared not speak that in her presence. Not for fear of offending her, but for fear of her refusing to aid him. He had a feeling, from her aloof gaze, that threats and torture would be completely wasted.

The priest escorting her, Favir, drove the heel of his palm into her side. "Address your king!"

She glared at Favir instead, dark eyes like daggers.

Kenos chuckled. "She doesn't like you, does she, brother?"

"Apologies, your grace." Favir held his hands wide in placation. "She is weary from traveling. Give her a day to rest and I promise, she will give you all the answers you seek."

"An understandable request after such a long journey." Kenos gestured to the door, and a young servant girl darted in, obediently waiting at his side. "See to it that my guest is quartered comfortably for the night. Priest, I assume you will require a bed in the palace temple, yes?"

Favir hesitated, glancing at his charge. "Your grace, I've been sworn to guard the Prophet. She's of great valuable to the temple of Sekhmet. I must remain by her side until her return or Priestess Khalimat will have me beheaded—"

"Nonsense." Kenos waved the notion away. "My personal guard walks these halls every minute of the day. The Prophet will be safe and sound in her room, I assure you." He looked at her then, waiting for those odd violet eyes to dart in his direction. "You would prefer some time to yourself, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, your grace." She sent a calculated stare towards the priest. "I would like that very much."

Favir's scowl grew ten-fold.

Kenos laughed. Perhaps this Hudar wasn't too bad, after all. He slapped Favir on the back, jarring the thin-boned man into a startled, nervous smile. "See? The woman is weary of your company! Come, you and I will fetch a drink, and I will give you a personal tour of the temple."

Favir looked horrified. "I really must insist—"

"My word is final, priest," Kenos said.

"Yes, your grace." Favir sighed, and followed Kenos down the hall.

O.O.O.O.O

The Prophet watched Favir slink away, out maneuvered by the most powerful man in the kingdom. Proof, perhaps, that the gods did exist. "Great stars, I never thought I'd be rid of him."

The servant girl hovered at the open door, expression expectant. "My lady, this way."

Eighteen years or so, she was lithe and well dressed for a servant. Like so many in Olisgard, the girl had light blonde hair, a smooth olive complexion and well trained posture.

"I'm in no hurry to be locked in another room."

"My lady, the king instructed me to—"

"Yes, yes." Such devotion to protocol. It exhausted her already. "What's your name?"

She looked aghast at the question. "Did I do something to offend you?"

"No. Not at all. I'm . . . not from around here. All of this is a new to me."

"You are from Kebos. Adept of the temple of Sekhmet, the lioness, protector of the Crown. You are bound to Priestess Khalimat, here on request from the king."

It all sounded wrong. "How do you know that?"

"Everyone knows that." The girl wrung her hands. "We really must go, my lady."

"I'm not moving another step until you tell me your name. And stop addressing me as my lady. It's dreadful." She smiled, hoping not to scare the girl. She could never tell when her smile grew too wolfish. Too Hudar.

Going a little pale, the girl licked her lips. "My name is Melissah, my la—" she finished with a helpless gesture. Her light blue eyes were silent, but inquisitive.

"A lovely name." It was, wasn't it? A proper Norrian title, like the one given to her by the priestess. "My name is Raven," she said softly, unexpectedly, the word sounding odd from her own lips.

Melissa's expression brightened. "The companion of Odin. First pledged to Sekhmet, now named after the watchful eyes of The All Father of the North—no wonder you're called Prophet!"

Raven looked to the window, like always, feeling terribly alone in this foreign land. "We should go, shouldn't we?"

Melissah lead the way down the expansive halls of the palace. They passed a trio of guards jeering in the corner, growing silent as they neared. Raven sent them a cool glance, studying their uniforms, their weapons and armor. The metal seemed thinner than the kind worn by the last soldiers she'd seen. Altered. Advanced. What would spur that change? Melissah just hurried on, gesturing to keep up.

They turned the corner, crossing paths with a majestic woman. The servant girl jumped like a scared little bird. Her brow nearly touched the floor in her curtsy.

"Your grace! We didn't—my apologies, I did not see you!" she said. "Please, excuse us."

Raven just stood there blocking the way, staring at a fascinating pair of fuchsia eyes. The woman stood taller than herself and nearly her opposite. Golden hair fell to just her shoulders, pinned back in place, accentuating a beautiful, lightly tanned face and those striking, almond shaped eyes. Cat-like. Sharp, sly and intelligent.

A swirl of excitement shot through Raven. She'd never seen another soul with eyes as strange as her own. Yet here stood a Norrian woman, adorned with a silver headdress, robed as elegantly as imaginable, staring right back at her with a similar look of shock and wonder.

"No apology necessary," the woman said, studying Raven. "And who might you be, charming dark traveler?"

Raven blinked, at an unexpected loss for words.

"Your grace," Melissah said. "This is the Prophet from the south, here to aid the king."

The woman's smile grew. "I'm sure the Prophet can speak." Her low tone neither threatened nor mocked. It sounded like an invitation. "Unless of course, the cat stole her tongue."

Raven flashed her teeth, catching herself just short of snarling. Taking the hint from the wide eyes of the servant girl, she took a step backwards, giving the sovereign some space.

"Your grace." She bowed faintly, never dropping her gaze. "Excuse my rudeness. I'm but a barbaric cull from the south."

"The west, you mean." The woman gestured for her to straighten. "And you look like no cull to me."

This was definitely the queen, King Kenos' wife—what was her name? She couldn't remember.

"Dominick tells me he hopes you can help with charting maps of the wilds. I do hope he's letting you rest before this ridiculous charade."

Maps? The king wanted to chart the lands of the Hudar? She hadn't been there in fifteen years. "Yes." Raven added, "your grace."

Something eager hovered at the edges of the queen's smile. Those pretty fuchsia eyes ran over her again, cataloging. "Well. I'll leave you to it. Will I see you at dinner, shy, nameless Prophet?"

Raven's cheeks warmed. She nodded once and watched the queen glide down the hall until she disappeared around the far corner. She could have handled that better. The first person to set her heart racing and she gawked like a wide-eyed rabbit, unable to speak give her own name. Utterly embarrassing.

"I think you're going to give me an ulcer." Melissah brushed non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. "That was the queen, you do know that, yes?"

"Yes—what is her name?"

"Queen Alyssa Norxis, wife of Dominick Kenos, sovereigns of Norr—and you will be wise to address her as your grace," she warned. "Now please, we must go. I fear who else we might run into."

O.O.O.O.O

The ridiculous charade, as the fine queen had put it, turned into a prolonged affair.

Once required to use her gifts, to part the veil and see across time, Raven obliged. There was little choice in the matter, and the request seemed harmless enough. The king expressed interest in her culture, interest in reaching out to Daskis to form an amiable pact. Norr was known to be a peaceful nation, and had been for centuries. She had no reason to believe King Kenos was doing anything other than what he said.

Raven predicted the very day Daskis would lead the hoard north, through the narrow mountain passes. Banking on her alleged skill, the king grew eager with this new information. If Kenos couldn't defeat the za'hava wraiths, he would slay the man with the wolf-skull helm and fire-breathing horse. The Hudar were nomadic. Without a strong leader, they would be helpless against the Norrian force.

Assembling a team of well-trained northern soldiers, Kenos gave them modest directions. Scale the mountains. Locate the correct pass. Wait for Daskis to approach. Kill him and scatter his hoard. Nothing more, nothing less. With the day set nearly three months in the future, Kenos sent word to the temple of Sekhmet. The Prophet was to remain under his care through winter, into the following spring. Brother Favir was relieved of his duties and sent back to the desert.

And the king's magnificently simple plan worked. Just as Raven had predicted, on the third day of November, Daskis led his people through the narrow Yvelt pass on the Targantis mountain range. And there an army of two-thousand Norrians waited for him.

It wasn't until some weeks later that the soldiers returned from their journey, bearing the sword and great wolf-skull helm of the feared Daskis of Hudar. King Kenos had defeated the barbarian warlord. The path to the west, to the base of the great Spire Mountain was now free for the taking.

And Raven had been the tool with which he conquered the wilds.

O.O.O.O.O

The victory celebration grew louder as the throne room neared. Raven prowled the halls, eager to get this audience over with. Overwhelming guilt soured her gut, burned in her veins. Everywhere, people danced, drank, frolicked in a whirlwind of colors and bright, smiling faces. Raven parted them like a silent wraith, neutral expression plastered on with sheer, trembling willpower. She was the king's prophet. His pet witch. A domesticated jackal-child allowed to walk amongst the civilized world. After helping with this victory, the jubilant Norrians believed they had nothing to fear from her. The sight of her drab, depressing presence was brushed aside, something expected and unimposing, like a shadow in the late evening.

"Prophet!" someone shouted. "You bring glory to Norr!"

"Look! It's the witch."

"Shh—she can hear you. She might curse your foolish face off, idiot."

Raven stewed in her dark robes, gnawing her tongue, nails digging flesh from her own palms as she obediently went to the king. The two thrones at the far end of the great room made her dizzy with rage. On the wall above the king's chair hung the wolf-skull helm, and beneath it, Daskis' well-seasoned scimitar. A trophy. A mocking reminder of her ignorant betrayal of her very heritage.

And there, lounging on his throne, glowing with too much drink, sat Dominick Kenos. His short blonde hair, those sky blue eyes and handsome, confident face. Every single trait a glaring ridicule of her very existence in his kingdom. Upon spotting her approach, Kenos straightened in his chair.

"My lovely dark Prophet!" Gesturing with a raised glass, he shouted across the hall. "Come, quickly! I must tell you something."

Keeping the same pace, Raven came to a silent halt at the foot of the stairs leading to the thrones. "Your graces," she said, glancing to the frowning queen seated beside Kenos.

"Dearest Raven." Kenos set down his glass and peaked his large hands before his lips. "I want to extend my deepest appreciation for your assistance in this endeavor." He stifled a hiccup. "I've sent word to your priestess and she agrees. Your appointments in the palace will be moved to the northern tower. They're larger, befit for my prophet. You'll like them. You can see the great Spire from your window!"

The queen twisted in her chair and stared at her husband.

How wonderful. Raven swallowed the quivering desire to rip out his throat with her bare hands. "As you wish, your grace." She nodded once, so very slowly, willing her voice not to tighten. Do not betray his trust so soon. Do not let them see you suffer.

Smiling, Kenos hefted his glass high, waving to the wolf-skull helm displayed above for all to see. "Isn't it impressive? A true warrior's trinket, befit to grace my halls. I'm sure you've seen many like this, but never worn so proudly, eh?" He leaned forward, whispering so loudly the dead could hear. "Tell me, use your gifts. What are the wretched Hudar doing as we speak?"

Queen Norxis slammed her fist on the arm of her chair. "Will you not allow her an ounce of pride!" she roared.

The crowd quieted, all eyes turning to the thrones.

Kenos balked at the outburst and recovered with a graceful wave of his hand. "Of course, of course. You're dismissed, Prophet. Do as you please tonight. Go on."

Raven left the hall without another word; another glance; another breath.

It was a long, throbbing walk on her very last nerve. There was scarce room left to contain her anger. She would either erupt or die, and neither was favorable at the present. Shaking, she strode through the halls, hood pulled low over her eyes, worn sandals quiet on the stone floors.

She'd almost made it to her humble quarters when footsteps caught her ear, coming from behind. Turning with the subdued, resented grace of someone forced into the lesser class, Raven waited for the figure to turn the corner, praying that it wasn't someone here to bother her. She couldn't bear one more congratulatory exclamation from the goddamned Norrians.

Queen Alyssa Norxis approached. She sent a searching glance in both directions, opened the door to Raven's room and slipped inside.

Heart thundering, Raven followed and bolted the door behind them. Warm hands grasped her face, forced her to meet the queen's gaze.

"I'm sorry," Alyssa whispered. "So sorry. He's vile—I could kill him."

At least she had someone on her side in this terrible place. Savagery was an appealing trait, and the queen had plenty to share.

"You cannot kill him," Raven said. "Someone even more appalling would take his place, and then I'd be cast back to the chains of my desert hell. Would you dare follow me there for your conversations, your grace?"

Alyssa pressed her into the closed door and kissed her. Fiercely. "I've told you not to call me that. Especially here."

"But, your grace—what would the good citizens think if they heard the barbarian witch addressing their queen in such a casual manner?"

Alyssa removed the heap of scarves from Raven's shoulders, then set her lips toying with the expanse of neck now exposed. "What would they say if they heard I'd bedded the barbarian witch every night since her appearance in Olisgard?"

Raven made a low sound, allowing the woman to push the robes from her shoulders. "I believe they would kill me. Regardless of the circumstances, it would be my fault. You see, I've bewitched you."

"Truly, I think it's the other way around—"

Raven shoved Alyssa onto the simple bed. "You have." She slid on top of her, being sure her lips hovered just out of reach. "You put a claim on me the moment our eyes met. My people call it sira kavi. It does not translate to your tongue very well, but it's something like the exchange without words."

"That sounds accurate." Alyssa twined her fingers through Raven's hair and clutched tightly. "Now claim what's yours, charming dark traveler."

With deft fingers, she peeled away Alyssa's beautiful gown and cast it to the floor. The warmth of their bodies now touching, Raven kissed her deeply, trying to fill the ache in her soul. She knew this to be love, however foolish. An unexpected, welcomed gift in a sea of despair. She clung to it, to Alyssa, praying each night their secret affair would go undiscovered. For sparse moments at a time, always in this woman's company, Raven felt like a person again. There may be no future for them as a pair. This may end terribly. She knew; Alyssa knew. They didn't care.

And like so many nights before, the two of them moved together in a stream of moonlight, a mingled wave of gold and black, making every last moment last.

O.O.O.O.O

Alyssa's most cherished times were these; lying still and quiet, wrapped around the warm, content Raven. Normally, she would dress and take her leave before the sun broke the horizon, returning to the bed she shared with Kenos; the man she'd grown to loath. But tonight, with pain still too fresh, Alyssa didn't leave Raven's side. The fearless Hudar witch was but a purring kitten now, dark locks splayed across her shoulders as she slept. Alyssa traced the deep scars across Raven's back, the remnants of a disobedient childhood under the care of the Sekhmet Priestess. Beaten, whipped, starved—forced into complacency.

Fresh tears pricked Alyssa's eyes. She grieved deeply for this woman, every moment of her life forever changed when she was taken from her rightful home, transplanted into the chains of servitude. Even now, she was trapped, not free to choose her own path. It was folly to think there was something Alyssa could do to change this, but she did so anyway.

For weeks she'd plotted for a way to free the Prophet from the temple. Royal decree only went so far. No one, not even Kenos dared to go against the gods. Priests and priestess' were the embodiment of those deities here, and Khalimat had a tight claim on Alyssa's clandestine lover. Eventually she would grow tired of the king's demands and revoke his agreement, bidding the prophet back to the temple. It pained her to think of never seeing Raven again. It pained her to get up each morning, not having her at her side. Everything about the situation pained her—and yet, just one look from those violet eyes soothed away her troubles.

With the soft light of dawn seeping through the window, Raven stirred. She jerked upright and nearly fell out of bed.

"Alyssa, its morning! Holy mother of Set, someone will surely see you leave now!"

Unperturbed, Alyssa grabbed a handful of ebony hair and tugged the worried woman into a kiss. Raven was truly breathtaking. Seeing her freshly awake and hair disheveled—more so than usual—was blissfully heartwarming. "Then perhaps I shouldn't leave."

"You will be the death of me. Is that what you want?"

"Hardly. But as long as you're mine, I will take advantage of every waking second."

Flashing a slow, lazy smile, Raven peered at her through half-lidded eyes. "As you wish, your grace."

"Brat. I will throw you out this window."

"Then I shall learn to fly, because I will never cease to mock you, Queen Alyssa Norxis, wife of King Dominick Kenos, sovereigns of Norr."

"Oh, it's an outrageous title," she groaned, rolling to her feet. "Do not remind me of my marriage to that exasperating man. You, of all people, should never want to see him, let along speak his name."

"My wants are inconsequential. I'm his lovely dark prophet, after all. Here to do his bidding."

"Ha!" She stepped into her gown and pulled the material up over her hips. "He does not know the depths of your hatred for him. If ever given the chance, you would kill him. And I would love you more because of it. What a terrible thing to think. Isn't it terrible?"

"It's a wonderful thing if you are Hudar," Raven said. "Which I am, your grace."

"Indeed, you are, Prophet," she replied, easing back into their practiced roles. Straightening, Alyssa motioned for Raven to button up the back of her dress. She obliged, planting a few soft kisses on her neck as she did. Looking presentable again, Alyssa retrieved the dark, tattered robes from the floor and set them on the bed beside Raven. "I do wish you'd let me give you nicer clothes."

Raven slung on her traditional Hudar garb. "I'm lucky to have procured them at all. You Norrians seem to find the attire distasteful. But if you were out west, you wouldn't give it a second thought." Wrapping the scarves around her neck, she tucked them in, adjusting and settling the fabric, then slipped into her sandals. "Besides, in my land, the more tattered the clothes, the more respected the za'hava."

Alyssa paused, turning from where she listened at the door. "Are you suggesting you're za'hava?"

Raven quirked a thin brow and pulled up the hood of her robes. "I suggest nothing. You're the enemy, after all."

Alyssa walked up to her, tipped the hood back and cupped her pale face in her hands. "I do hope that's not what you really think of me."

"No," Raven said. "You give me something to live for."

Oh, how she could just melt at those words . . . The queen of Norr did not melt. She was a shrewd, ambitious ruler, partaking in an innocent, whimsical love affair. She was being foolish, but gods be damned, she didn't care. Alyssa kissed Raven one last time, deeply, passionately, and took her leave.

Neither queen nor prophet saw the stone-faced priest shadowed in the recesses of an alcove, watching their brief appearance together at the Hudar's door.