LITMIR.BIZ

      REBEL BASE BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

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      Rebel Base Books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2018 by Ryan Wieser

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      First Electronic Edition: March 2018

      eISBN-13: 978-1-63573-026-5

      eISBN-10: 1-63573-026-0

      First Print Edition: March 2018

      ISBN-13: 978-1-63573-026-6

      ISBN-10: 1-63573-026-5

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      For the family I come from and for the family Sam and I have made together.

      Always. Forever.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      I would like to thank Richard Curtis, first and foremost, for his unwavering patience and constant guidance; without his support this book would never have happened. I would also like to thank Martin Biro, for believing in the piece. There are so many people who have contributed to the successful completion of The Glass Blade. Zorro Duck, who read the first draft in a day and got back to me with notes—I have no words for how grateful I am to you. You’ve always dropped everything to read my work, and it means the world to me. Bird, the constant champion of my writing, your support means more to me than you could ever know. To my mother, who has always encouraged my writing, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Nana and Ralph, your work has inspired me all my life. Claw, you are the kind of reader authors long to write for. And always, I thank Sam, who has endured the late night edits and hours-long plot line conversations with never ending support and patience.

      CHAPTER 1

      The tavern was dark and quiet, barring the muted voices that filled the corners with whispers of quiet corruption and deceit. Hushed sounds traveled on thick smoke to the ceiling and her eyes trailed over the dimly lit corners and over the musty cloaked patrons. Dirty exchanges took place everywhere, too-young girls being offered coins and despair by corrupt travelers, whose lies traveled like fire across the alcohol on their lips. This wasn’t a typical bar, this dark, underground dwelling in the heart of Azgul where there were more shadows than light, more smoke than air. It was a seedy, unsafe locale where illegal exchanges could occur. A place favored by those in the city’s most important positions, for in this underground dwelling they could act as they truly wished.

      From where she sat, with her cloak draped low over her face, she could easily make out the group of Aren. They were more discreet than she had anticipated, but few could go unseen to her well-trained eyes. They were scattered about the bar, donning the civilian attire of common Azgul nomad passer-by. The Aren weren’t common travelers though; they were fatalistic believers who waited anxiously for a supposed impending end. A doom and darkness that would swallow the entire Daharian galaxy whole—their belief in some unimagined state of horror for the universe made her certain that not a man amongst them had ever laid eyes on Aranthol.

      She scanned the room, counting twelve of the zealots. Without their robes they appeared as normal men, barring their brand, which could be seen on the base of several of their necks. The tender nape of the neck was where all in Azgul had their brands. She knew that their mark was not well-known though, not as well-known as they would have liked it to be. Thinking of the brandings nearly had Jessop reaching for her own neck, certain she could almost feel the hot iron against her still. The smell of burning, blistering flesh unnaturally recoiling from heated metal filled her nostrils. She shivered at the putrid memory and forced it back to the depths of her mind, where she kept all her locked-away thoughts and all her darkness.

      Suddenly, the oddest sensation roused her, overcoming her senses. She could feel silk running across her skin, dragging her fine hairs on end, exciting her cells. The energy of the room had completely changed, thickening the air more than any smoke or liquor could do. She had only ever been around one other of her kind, and to feel the changing electromagnetic charge in the room without him present was as compelling to her as it was terrifying. The draw was a beast’s cry calling her in, feeding her need to find the one like her. It was a pull strong enough to grip her, strong enough to shoot adrenaline through her, to dilate her pupils and ready her muscles and tell her, without question, that Hunters were near.

      She closed her eyes and narrowed in on their presence. She could smell the faintest scent of grease on one of them; it had an acidic air to it—like the oil slick found in the Western corner of the city. She could hear his voice though he did not speak. She could see the diminutive smudge of black slick over his boot though she did not open her eyes. Her senses—so refined—ensured she could see most of him without ever glancing his way.

      And then she laid eyes on him.

      She found herself staring at a silver star-shaped scar, a twisted knot of marred flesh the size of a plum carved into his cheekbone. He had a mess of blond hair that he wore pulled back and dark eyes that he scanned the bar with. His frame was large but he held one shoulder slightly higher—due to recent injury, she imagined. As one of his large hands curled around a drink, the other

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