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JADE EMPIRE
Book One of Reign
BY TOASHA JIORDANO

Excerpt

Princess Genevieve stalks her prey. The beast must be massive to leave traces in this harsh snowstorm. Its prints fade into the frozen mud and are nearly covered with fresh snow. Only the deepest impressions of the heavy animal’s foot pad still remain. She pulls her tattered winter cloak tighter around her shoulders, places a hand back on the hilt of her dagger, and moves on.

The woods closest to her dilapidated cabin have been hunted out by her this harsh winter. Even the smaller rodents, which cannot fill her belly any more than the icy air she breathes, are sheltered from the storm. No, she is the only one crazy enough to be out in a storm like this.

Stop calling us crazy.

“You stop being so sensitive. If this were not a crazy venture, then we’d have found our shot long ago. This is the farthest we’ve gone into these woods in all our years out here.” Genevieve answers herself.

That may be well and true, but I do not have to sit idly by while you disparage us.

Genevieve shushes herself and shivers. “Maybe if you would stop yelling at me, we would not be scaring off the prey. Are not you hungry?”

Of course I am hungry.

Genevieve purses her lips then blows out a puff of air. “We both are. Let us not argue. My sincerest apologies.”

No response comes.

A couple more moments pass in silence as Genevieve waits and watches the whitewashed horizon. Her other self has a reputation of needing the last word.

When satisfied the argument has truly run its course, Genevieve once again adjusts the worn out gray cloak. The thick fur lining has long since given way to patchy clumps of matted hair. How long has it been since Ser Alexander brought it to her? Certainly not since her last growth spurt. The bottom hem of the cloak no longer reaches her knees and the clasp broke years before. Not for the first time, Genvieve’s heart breaks at the life she’s been forced into. Begging for scraps from a man her family once employed.

Genevieve pauses mid-step. Something feels off. She surveys the land before her, ears pricked like a cornered animal. The tips of her ears warm in warning. Danger is near.

Behind us.

Instead of turning to face her opponent – anything bad enough to trigger her inborne defense system is too dangerous to confront – Genevieve searches the barren woods for cover. In this bitter dead of winter, all the majestic oaks are twisted naked husks. Beyond them, stands walls of mountain ranges too precarious to attempt in her current attire. Snow blankets the summits and blends with the swirling air, distorting the skyline and making it impossible to judge distance.

Despite every part of her body screaming run, and no time for candles, Genevieve closes her eyes and whispers.

“Goddess burning bright
Guide me through this day and night
All of your love, light my way
‘Til safest night
Through darkest day.”

As the words leave her lips, Genevieve’s feet also leave the the snow covered ground. She raises her head to the heavens and allows the familiar rush of power to wash over her. When finished, she opens her eyes and sees the way.

A shimmering light dances in the air before her, impatiently waiting for her to rouse from the slight trance of her spellwork. With an imperceptible nod, Genevieve floats upright through the air, following the trail of light to safety. They rise, high above the young treelings and continue further past those ravaged by the unforgiving winter.

The scant gray cloak is no match for the torrent of arctic wind, though Genevieve tries to pull herself in. When she feels she can take no more, the edges of the cloak whipping around her, the light rests atop an elder oak and disappears between the spindly branches.

Genevieve picks up speed, desperate for shelter, and lands in the crook of two large limbs. She wraps the useless cloak around her front and huddles in.

Terror and cold are a haunting combination for Princess Genevieve. Memories of the last time she felt both in tandem claw their way to the surface. She sees a tall thin figure with the palest skin, dripping white diamonds of ice as she stalks closer to Queen Ivanna, Genevieve’s mother. The blinding vision is obscured by red, first of young Genevieve’s hair as she used it to cover her eyes, then the darker hues of her beloved mother’s blood.

A crackle in the distance startles Genevieve out of her wretched past, for which she’s momentarily thankful.

Below, the beast who nearly made lunch of her charges through the clearing. It’s larger than any bear she’s ever seen even in the leanest part of winter. The deep russet coat bristles in the cold, revealing a ruddy hide beneath. The animal sniffs the frozen air and turns, realigning itself with her scent. Moments later, it grunts and stalks over to the base of Genevieve’s tree, and sits.

Predator and prey lock eyes, Genevieve’s crystalline blue and wide, the bear’s glowing red. The beast opens its mouth in a bone chilling roar, revealing rows of sharpened teeth. A tracker.