Page 1 of Spar of Hearts

Chapter 1

Anya Delemond

“Furl the topgallant sails! Captain, begin tacking maneuvers! This little headwind won’t throw us off course if we play our cards right.”

“Right away, Your Highness!”

“You heard her! Get those tails movin'!”

Princess Anya Delemond stood on the bow of the Lupus Star, her dark clawed hands gripped tightly behind her back. Her fur-lined cloak and thick white and green winter dress were the warmest option she had without sacrificing agility. A leather bodice hugged her waist, keeping the dress taut against her toned frame. A lock of blonde hair flicked into her face, but it was a minor annoyance. She would tighten her bun later. She surveyed the deck with golden wolf eyes. This was her element: the open ocean, salty air, blustering winds, surrounded by a faithful Lycanian crew. She always felt more at ease with her fellow wereish descendants. If it weren’t for the diplomatic needs at the capital, she would sail the seas forever.

As the ship picked up speed, Anya strolled to the helm. “Captain Verden, I do say you have this well in hand, as always.” Captain Boris Verden effortlessly tugged the wheel to angle the ship against the wind. His salt-and-pepper beard was short enough not to be trifled by the whipping wind, nor was his navy tricorn hat.

He beamed at her, gap-toothed smile on full display. “You flatter me, Yer Highness!” he boomed, his thick brogue warm and friendly in the brisk winter air. Clouds of breath hung over the helm as they spoke.

“I will ask the quartermaster and cook to arrange the deck feast tonight. No need to stray from nautical tradition, yes? We will make sure the Centarians feel plenty welcome.”

The Centarians. Anya had gone from a near lifetime of not seeing a single one of the exiled Vampire descendants to spending the last month serving as celestial navigator for ships full of them. This was their final voyage, bound for the Valerian capital island of Eteross. She was mortified to find out the fertile paradise they’d been promised was a barren wasteland. The Divine Church had effectively enslaved them: Work the mana stone mines in exchange for food and clothing, or starve. It was a lucrative plot for the Church. Mana stones were a trove of raw, magical energy, something that Valerian society heavily relied on, given how limited Elvani magic was. Everything was going smoothly—until the King and Queen discovered that the mines had dried up, and the Church had ceased sending rations.

Aiding in the evacuation was the least she could do for the Centarians, though it was a weak apology for decades of oppression unbeknownst to the Crown. Her parents had placed far too much trust in the Priest Supreme of decades past, and the subsequent Priestess Supreme. This wasn’t something Anya could fix overnight. She knew that. But damn it all, she would try. She would try every day for the rest of her life.

“Don’t worry yourself, Yer Highness,” the captain said. “Lord Bryson already spoke with them last night. There will be plenty for all.”

How excellent. She took a deep breath to steady her ire.

“Then Lady Rowan and I will help distribute the breakfast rations.”

“Already taken care of, Your Highness.” Sir Octavio Oshfeldt’s level voice came from the steps leading to the bow. At first glance, one would think he was Lycanian, given his towering stature. The Elvani knight tipped his head respectfully. Silver hair slipped past his tapered ears, a token of his far-removed Elven forefathers. “His Grace and I finished it a minute ago.”

“Wonderful,” Anya hissed through gritted teeth.

“My Lord!” a voice shouted from the main deck. “Should we furl the main skysail too?”

Of course not, Anya thought. We will make far better time if we—

“Of course, Bernard, thank you for asking,” Lord Roderick Bryson answered, emerging from the lower deck. He was a red-haired, broad-shouldered Centarian man, alone of the presumed few that evaded the Gathering that ushered his people into exile. It came as a quite a shock to the Crown and Council to find out he was Centarian. Instead of the red irises that harked his kind, the Lord boasted glacier-blue eyes. What he did have in common with his people was two sharp fangs. Before they reached the island, he had kept them tucked up in his gums, perfectly disguised as regular canines. Now, he had them out all the time to show solidarity.

Anya had nothing against the Centarians. In fact, she and her lady-in-waiting spent a large portion of their free time on the ship reading up on their biology to better assist with treatment. The array of abilities they had was quite impressive. A century-long lifespan, ancient beast communication, and the ability to promote healing and fertility by consuming blood were just a few.

She rushed down the steps of the bow. “Bernard, keep the main skysail open. The angle will help the tacking maneuvers.”

Lord Bryson halted a step. “Keeping it open only increases our resistance.”

Bernard was a muscular Lycanian man with reddish-brown hair and a short beard. He towered above Anya, his golden canine eyes darting between them.

“I’m sorry, did you study with the head of the nautical guild?” Anya pointed an accusing claw at Lord Bryson’s chest.

“Respectfully, I was too busy actually sailing. Books and theory are one thing, Princess. Doing is another. Do not trouble yourself. Leave this to me.”

A low growl formed in her chest.

“Good mornin’, My Lord!” a deckhand chirped. She dropped the growl as they walked by, then swallowed her rage and stomped past Lord Bryson. As she passed, she caught the corner of a smug smile forming on his lips as his eyes met hers.

Those fangs. Those damned fangs.

“My Lady!” the voice of her Elvani lady-in-waiting, Blackbird Rowan, carried across the deck. A little Centarian girl no older than three toddled alongside her, red eyes glassy with tears. “This girl can’t find her mum.”

“Oh dear,” Anya said gently, crouching down to eye level with the girl. “Can you tell me your name, little one? We will help you find your mum.”