Page 1 of Reign

The Wetlands.

The Kingdom of Lyonesse was absent of magic but not of rain. A tempest had raged since the harvest festival, but it was a different kind of wet than yesterday. The night before, as I finally settled to sleep, the wind battered the thatch roof, and the rain knocked against the wattle and daub—as if pleading to be let in.

That afternoon, walking out of my village, Green Vale, I ventured toward the forest. The rain no longer lashed from the skies. Instead, it hung in the air—a thick mist that clung to my skin and veiled my path. The constant drizzle made me yearn for shelter—whether at the smithy, the tavern, or beneath the hawthorn trees. Yet I knew she’d be waiting, hungry, for me to feed her.

No one would notice my departure as I slipped away into the surrounding woodland. My father—the village blacksmith—had been sent on foot with the knights, sworn to their liege, the Lord of the Wetlands, to push back a malevolent invasion on the far shores of Cambas.

Meanwhile, my mother was busy raising my younger sibling or tending to her endless domestic duties, and in our father’s absence, my elder brother was consumed by forging iron to the high standards he was renowned for.

I tucked my long, brown braid into my woolen hood, which hung heavy over my face. It was so saturated with water that I longed for the dry days, before my cloak grew mossier than a tree stump. Clutching the basket of leftovers close to my chest, I feared that a hungry villager might smell the food and fight me for the feast hidden beneath my cloak.

Once I reached the dense forest on the outskirts of the Wetlands, I lowered my hood and silently thanked the trees for their shelter before hurrying to where I’d been nursing her. Amid the gentle patter of raindrops on the leaves, I hearkened to the sound of faint whimpers. In my haste, I moved the branches that formed the nest I’d built and, overcome with impatience, thrust my hand between the sticks.

Before I could feel her, a burst of warmth radiated from her hiding spot. A tussle of fur rubbed against my outstretched hand, followed by a wet nose that sniffed and licked my fingertips. I shifted the final twigs aside to be greeted by a wagging black tail.

Dog rolled onto her back, showing me her empty belly. I rubbed it until her leg kicked with joy.

“Good girl,” I murmured.

Sometimes, I wished I’d given her a name. When I first found her a few months ago, I never imagined she’d make it through the night. Unearthing her from a burrow where she whimpered in despair, I discovered that she had more black fur than meat on her bones. She limped when she walked, and flies rested on her face as if awaiting her death. I knew I’d become too fond of a sickly animal if I gave her a proper name—instead, I simply called her what she was. A dog.

I placed the basket down as Dog eagerly nuzzled her nose against the wicker. The moment the lid flipped open, she buried her face among the scraps. I scratched the scruff of her neck while she ate. Thin strands of light flowed through the breaks in the trees as if spun from golden thread. The rainfall quickened, dripping rhythmically from the sheltering leaves—its drumming the lone sound in the quiet.

My mother once told me tales from her girlhood—times when the forest hummed with life. Hares hopped through the long grass, while sprites swooped from branch to branch. Even during the chilling winter, when the grass wilted underneath a blanket of ice-cold snow, deer darted through the open plains.

But now, after the Dark Days when bloodshed had rivaled the rain for what would sodden the Wetlands, Mother said she had not once heard the growl of a griffin.

The forest might still have been green, but almost all creatures were gone.

Dog’s ears pricked up as she stopped eating and stared into nothingness, twitching as if attuned to something I couldn’t hear. My heart pounded harder than drumsticks beating a tambour at the thought of being caught—alone in the forest with a dog. If a villager stumbled upon me, hunched between the nettles, nursing a creature, they’d suspect I was a witch practicing magic—and I’d be hanged.

Then, Dog dove her head back into the basket; she no longer sensed any threat. If she felt safe, so did I.

Some villagers believed that animals understood the magical language of Yfelle. One frequent patron of our local tavern claimed to have heard a hound fluently speak the forbidden tongue as he staggered back to his lodgings after one too many tankards.

I believed that Yfelle would soon be remembered as myth. Though the Dark Days were long ago, I grew up hearing grim stories of the slaughter—of how every wizard, witch, and magical creature had been executed or forced into hiding because of their abilities.

Despite all the fables bred from fear, one certainty remained: Anyone or anything caught speaking Yfelle was killed.

Mother reminded me daily.

As Dog ate, I foraged for things only the forest could offer. I gathered sticks for the furnace and scavenged wild herbs for Mother to pestle into medicines. Dog tipped over the basket in search of more food, but she had eaten it all. After a final rub behind the ears, I set off toward Green Vale.

Emerging from the sheltering trees into the rainy Wetlands, I felt something brush against my leg.

Glancing down, I saw Dog nuzzling into me. “Stay,” I commanded.

Dog whined but obeyed; her gaze tugged at my heartstrings. Guilt gnawed at me for leaving her behind, yet I knew it was the only way to keep her safe.

The dewy grass soaked my boots as I trudged toward the crossways, where a sunken signpost—skewed in the claylike soil—loomed overhead. King James had decreed its placement to guide passersby to the nearest village. A lingering terror pervaded these lands, for many feared encountering a magical entity without knowing where to flee for refuge.

Four wooden arrows branched off the post, each pointing toward a village in the Wetlands: Green Hollow, home to the nobility and knights; Green Vale, Green Gallows, and Green Glenn, where the common folk dwelled. One arrow bore a faded painting of a river winding between two hills. I followed its trail toward Green Vale.

My family was tied to the Wetlands. Unlike the freemen who dwelled in the romanticized Walled City, we belonged to a lord—in exchange for our labor, he provided us with land and lodgings.

A sharp snap of a branch broke my focus and sent me stumbling along the uneven path. Regaining my balance, I surveyed the middle distance toward my village. From this hilltop, I could normally see everything from the old stone well to the local tavern, and even the thatched roof of the smithy.

But today, the mist shrouded it all, leaving only the tallest turret of the Lord’s castle piercing through the haze.