Welcome to Fire & Night — an epic fantasy romance serial novel. The entire novel will be released one chapter at a time over a period of 31 weeks {every Tuesday and Friday}. If you’d like to learn more about the novel check out the synopsis/book blurb here, and the Table of Contents here. If you’d like to learn about the world of Fire & Night, check out this page.
10th of Terraen, 1573
Gripping onto the wooden seat beneath her, Evylin scanned the edge of Whickam Village. A cool breeze brushed into the valley over the rolling emerald grass, ivory patches of sheep dotting the landscape. Tucked into the foothills, the sun cast a rosy hue onto the pale, weathered-stone cottages, morning and evening. Lush greenery brushed up against the buildings as ivy climbed along the walls and fences. As though Terraeus itself was giving the village a warm hug.
Or as though it was trying to drag it down beneath the dirt. Evylin never could quite decide the planet’s intent with her home.
But as she scanned the edge of the quaint village in the pale afternoon light tents, horse pens, campfires, and hundreds of men in uniform marred the picturesque view.
Seeing soldiers always sparked a conflict within Evylin. Her instinct was all excitement; eyes darting about the men as they practiced swordplay, huddled around the campfires, and lined up at the kitchen tent. She envied their chance to travel and explore the whole of Ephria. Yet, that anticipation and intrigue soon settled into concern.
Every time the Ephrian Army came to Whickam Village they ended up taking half the population or the majority of their food stores. Sometimes, both. The Army marked trouble for the village, no matter the visit.
“They can’t be drafting again,” Evylin said, looking over to her uncle on the cart beside her. “We hardly had enough men for them last time.”
Hewitt’s gray eyes flickered from the campsite, but he gave her no response. Reins held loosely in one hand; he raised the other to scratch at his disheveled beard. Singed from the forge and unkempt from bachelorhood, he bore every hallmark of the small-town blacksmith. Broad as two men, he carried so much muscle and height that he could frighten a bear.
The cart clattered down the dirt road, jarring Evylin’s back. After hours on the road, she wished once more that she could ride one of the horses. It’d make the trips to and from Trollens Town so much nicer. But the wares they took to sell at the market each month demanded a cart even as small and rickety as this.
“Can our army be so bad off that they need another draft?” Evylin whispered to him, as though the soldiers might hear her from the half-mile distance.
The brown mare hitched on the right pulled at the reins in anticipation of home and Hewitt tightened his grip. “It’s not a draft,” he said, his tone almost bored.
The wind cut through Evylin’s coat, and she wrapped her arms across her chest. “How do you know?”
“You see those soldiers over there? The ones clustered around the fire.” He nudged his head toward the group. “They’re enjoying themselves. They’re eating, talking, laughing. That lot near the road is even playing pins.”
Evylin watched the group cheer as the wooden ball knocked down all nine pins at once.
Shaking his head, Hewitt kept his gaze on the road before them. “No, if this was a draft, these men would not be happy to be here.”
“So why are they here?” Evylin asked as the men set the pins back up.
Hewitt encouraged the horses with a flick of the reins. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
The rapid trot of the horses increased the cart’s bumpy nature, but Evylin didn’t mind, knowing they’d arrive home sooner. Then she could relieve her aching back with the short walk home and find out the truth of the Army’s presence.
A few short minutes brought them to the boundary of the encampment. Several soldiers glanced up at Hewitt and Evylin as they passed. Only a few were diligent enough to pay attention to the newcomers to decide if their level of importance required action. The rest continued with their prior engagement—whether merriment or work—oblivious to their presence.
Evylin watched, wary of her uncle’s assurances. She wasn’t foolish enough to think the Army would come this far into the Shires for no reason at all. Down here at the southeastern edge of Ephria, they were but a mere footnote to the Ephrian King. Their farms and ports made them more valuable than some cities, but their distance from the capital made them easy to forget.
If King Ephren sent his men down to Estshire, it was for a reason of great significance.
They rode further into the camp and Evylin noticed a small group of sparring soldiers. Only a handful of the men practiced while two officers coached them through their paces. Many of the soldiers clutched their swords with clumsy grips. One dropped his altogether after his opponent swung, made contact, then pitched forward from his momentum.
Evylin couldn’t help laughing. “They’re new,” she whispered to her uncle.
Hewitt grunted.
Of course he’d noticed. No doubt he’d seen more than her in half the time.
The cart clattered through the buildings on the edge of town. Due to the narrow street, the horses slowed to a walk. To Evylin’s right, Mrs. Lyvingston swept her porch, breaking to pass the pair of them a smile and a wave. Evylin returned it while Hewitt glared at the road ahead. Late in the day, many of the shopkeepers were busy closing up. Only the tavern kept its doors open past dusk. And even that closed earlier than any in Trollens Town, shutting down after dinner time.
A small group of soldiers walked past their cart. The men talked amongst themselves, their voices a blend of depths and tones. Evylin caught the words of one man whose sharp timbre cut through the others. “Look, Pat! Doesn’t that shop remind you of Uncle Rooney’s?” he said with a boyish snicker. “Can you believe it’s been a month?”
The young man at his side shook his head. Beyond their matching gray uniforms, their matching black hair, cleft chins, and short yet lanky figures marked them as Setshire men. The farther south in Ephria, the better the odds of dark complexions and colorings. Even in Estshire, the average citizen bore quite a deep tan compared to the northerners.
Evylin felt all these new southern recruits were the evidence she needed to prove a draft to Hewitt. Yet he frowned at her with a disappointed tilt to his thick brows at the suggestion. “Then why are there so many recruits?” she demanded.
“How should I know?” he replied, the indifference plain in his gravelly monotone. “The Ephrian Officers stopped informing me twenty years ago.”
“Uncle.”
“Evie.”
“You were a general.”
“Were, which means I’m not anymore. I’m not privy to the Army’s management these days.”
“But you were, which means you know why they might be here.”
“At best, it’d be speculation.”
“Then speculate.”
Hewitt let out a growl. His foul temper scared all four of Evylin’s sisters—and most of the villagers, for that matter. But she’d always found it endearing. “They’re volunteers,” he grumbled. “The Army must be looking to bolster their numbers and they’ve decided to come into the Shires looking for men.”
The idea seemed ridiculous to Evylin. “Who do they expect to find? They took all our men five years ago.”
Hewitt stared straight ahead.
The street widened to a large circle that marked the village center. To their left, another road led off toward Berkeley, a two-day journey north. Along that route lay most of the homes and farms within the village boundaries. Evylin never spent much of her time out there. As the magistrate’s daughter, she called the village square home.
Straight ahead, the village hall welcomed them back. Despite its repair, stains of soot marked its peppery stone exterior from the fire, thirteen years back. Evylin turned away from the building. All the important meetings or holiday parties took place within its walls. Her father, Magistrate Lawton Glaas, also used it to preside over his cases, no matter how few a year. But Evylin did her best to avoid the building as did Hewitt, neither of them willing to relive the memories that it carried for them.
Despite its dwindling size and lack of need for a magistrate, her father managed Whickam Village under the authority of King Ephren. Over thirty years ago, the settlement was large enough to require such an authority. But the Army had drafted almost half the population since that time and there wasn’t much need for law and order anymore. The draft took their prior magistrate as well, the man being one year shy of the cutoff. They hadn’t seen Magistrate Caarlton since and only heard from him a handful of times. The village gossips liked to talk about how fortunate he was, only leaving behind his widowed mother and spinster sister. Frequent were the remarks on the luck of the bachelor, saying what an absolute shame it would be if he’d left behind a wife and children.
Despite the earlier magistrate’s so-called luck, the draft had not dealt most villagers such a favorable hand.
With all the men between the ages of seventeen and forty-five drafted five years prior, the few who remained were either sons too young or grandfathers too old to be of much use. This left many of the women in Whickam Village either widowed, married but alone, or single. The few men who returned, discharged from the Army, experienced so much trauma or injury that they were little good to the women their first years back.
Thankfully, Lawton Glaas was there to step up those five years ago, to help the village stay alive and thriving. Or, at least, that’s what Evylin’s father managed to convince the populace when he put forth his name to become their magistrate. Once a soldier himself, he knew how to run the perfect regime. He’d been a captain having many of his own companies to look after. Though not half as many as his younger brother, Hewitt—and, in Evylin’s opinion, with far less success. Yet under Lawton Glaas’s steady—if heavy—hand, Whickam Village did thrive more than most of the other small settlements in Estshire.
Without any direction from Hewitt, the horses stopped in front of the conjoined stables and smithy. While he worked to unhitch the horses, Evylin unloaded the small bundle of swords left in the cart. Her thoughts drifted back to the men camped outside their village. Draft or not, they were here for more when they’d already taken too much. The Centurial War between Ephria and Wauld was a cause of justice no Ephrian would dare to deny. But that didn’t change the illogical management of it.
Her father had returned from the war after six years of service, having sustained an injury and received an honorable discharge. The injury was no graver than a stab wound that needed long-term rest and resulted in a scar on his abdomen. But he reminded the village folk of his bravery in battle every chance he got.
Hewitt, however, had fought for twice that amount of time. He’d risen through the ranks unlike any other officer the Ephrian Army had ever seen. And he’d only returned when events at home demanded it.
Evylin had always been in awe of her uncle. Any time he’d come home on leave, she’d followed him around like a kitten toddling after its mother. Upon his honorable discharge, she’d clung to his side and never left it, soaking up all the stories and wisdom of his time in the service. Through the aid of Hewitt’s rhetoric, the influence of her many fantasy novels, and her childlike reasoning, the young Evylin formed the opinion that there were a great many flaws in the running of the war. Principle among them: The conclusion that after fighting a war for over a hundred years, something in your battle plan ought to change.
Yet even now, twenty-some years later, nothing had.
Not the war effort.
Not the emptying of Whickam Village or other settlements like it.
Not Evylin’s opinions, either.
Hewitt returned from stabling the horses and Evylin helped him pull the cart off to the side of the smithy. He grunted his approval of their work before heading inside the small wood and stone structure. “Give me a minute and I’ll have your share,” he said.
Stepping into Hewitt’s office behind him, Evylin watched as he counted out the money. Having made all the weapons and trinkets, he got the larger cut of the two piles, but only by a marginal sum. She’d tried to argue with him once about paying her more than she’d earned. Instead of replying to her rational appeal, he’d swept the entirety of their earnings in the bag and thrust it into her hands. She’d kept her objections to herself ever since.
“Here.” He tossed her a leather pouch that clinked as it hit her hand. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Evylin grinned. “Oh, but there’s this lovely pink dress back in Trollens Town,” she let out an exaggerated sigh, “and I simply must have it.”
Hewitt grunted. “If only you were serious. Then you might catch one of those Town boys your mother always hints about.”
“She doesn’t hint,” Evylin said, tucking the bag into her coat pocket. “She insists.”
His gray eyes swept over her in a sarcastic examination. “You are getting old.”
“Thank you for noticing,” she said with a mock curtsy. She grabbed her canvas pack from the workbench and began backing away to the door. “See you at dinner?”
“Do I ever have a choice?”
“None at all.”
Hewitt chuckled as she headed out of the smithy.
The walk home took a mere two minutes, a soft breeze pulling at her already windswept hair. Few people milled about the square at this time of day. The citizens of the village were too busy finishing up their chores or heading back to their farms on the outskirts. A handful of gray uniformed soldiers paraded around, however; no doubt, disappointed by the lack of entertainment offered by the village.
Aside from the pub, the handful of small, close-set cottages that surrounded the square housed the few tradespeople who didn’t make their living through farming. People such as Mrs. Lyvingston, the town healer and midwife. Or old Mr. Dover, the parson of their tiny chapel. They had a cobbler, a butcher, and a chandler—all women now—but with so few people in their village, whatever trades didn’t require specialties, the citizens managed to do for themselves.
Nearing the ivy-covered, two-storied residence of the Glaas family, Evylin had a two-second notice to prepare herself when the darkly stained door burst open. “Evie!”
A body collided with Evylin’s, as arms too thin to be so strong wrapping around her waist. Air knocked from her lungs by her sister’s hug, she fought to say hello.
“How was the market?” Dolia asked. “Did you see lots of beautiful things?”
Evylin returned her sister’s hug. “As always. And, of course, I have a letter for you.”
Dolia pulled back, brushing some of the dark brown curls away from her face. Despite having watched her grow up, Evylin still couldn’t fathom how she’d turned from a girl into a woman. Her once-rounded features were losing their more youthful qualities. With her high cheekbones, lithe figure, and cheery disposition, Dolia caught the attention of every young man in the village and the nearby town. No matter how few suitors there were these days, the youngest Glaas daughter had the luck of her male peers missing the draft five years prior. And the charming, twenty-year-old Devaan MacKenna from Trollens Town had caught the girl’s heart. Upon the young man’s request for Dolia’s hand, Magistrate Glaas feigned reluctance at the idea of his youngest leaving him. However, Evylin knew, his pleasure rivaled that of their mother’s.
Light pink spread across Dolia’s cheeks as Evylin held out the letter. “Thank you!” she exclaimed, squirreling it away into the folds of her dress. She leaned in close, eyes wide as though her next words were the greatest of secrets. “We have a guest staying with us.”
“Do we?” Evylin asked, amused by her sister’s excitement.
“A soldier,” she explained, her curls bobbing around her face as she nodded. “And not just any soldier. A captain!”
Evylin patted her sister’s cheek, amused. No matter her sister’s love for Mr. MacKenna, her girlish sensibilities sought out romance in everything. “Is that so?” She headed for the door. “And would I be correct in guessing that this captain is handsome?”
“How did you know?”
“Because you wouldn’t be so excited if he wasn’t.”
“Are you talking about Captain Deckard?” Calyn asked as they stepped into the house. “I knew you wouldn’t wait for me to tell her, Doli. You’re such a child.”
Dolia turned on their sister. “If I’m a child, how come I have a fiancé and you don’t?” she asked, waving her letter from Devaan under Calyn’s nose.
Calyn turned red as a tomato.
Heaving a sigh, Evylin pushed between her sisters. “Both of you are children, fiancé or not. Now, are you going to tell me about this handsome captain of yours?”
Calyn and Dolia shared a glance, then hurried to follow Evylin up the stairs.
“We can’t talk about it out here,” Calyn insisted, her voice hissing in panic. “He could show up at any moment.” Her brown eyes flickered about as though her words might bring him around the corner.
With seven years between them, Evylin didn’t dismiss Calyn’s dramatics. Though their personalities were often like night and day, Evylin remembered the seriousness of being nineteen. Life and death existed in every action taken in those days. And while she might consider such theatrics ridiculous now, she could not forget her own youthful foolishness.
Once they were all in Evylin’s room, Dolia shut the door behind them as though they were entering a sacred meeting.
“Well?” Evylin prompted.
Calyn sighed as she fell onto the bed next to Evylin’s pack. “He’s perfect.”
Evylin couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her and Dolia doubled over.
“Perfect?” Evylin arched her eyebrows high in mock surprise. “Sounds as though I need to meet him for myself.”
Calyn snapped up at once. “I know you’re joking. But you wouldn’t like him. You’d say he’s old and boring.”
Evylin turned to Dolia, scrunching up her nose. “Is he old and boring?”
The younger girl continued to giggle at the exchange.
Evylin brushed a hand in Calyn’s direction. “You can have him then.”
Indignant, Calyn shook her head. “He’s not, but you’d think so. And even if you didn’t, you couldn’t have him anyway.”
“Oh? Why not?”
Calyn straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Because I saw him first.”
Evylin and Dolia exchanged a pained expression.
Biting her tongue to hold back the sharp retort that came to mind, Evylin put a hand on Calyn’s shoulder. “My dear sister, I would never presume to take a man from you. But tell me. . . .” She tilted her head to the side. “Has this captain in any way suggested that he has an interest in you?”
Dolia’s laughter burst through the room as Calyn’s blush deepened to beet red.
Evylin attempted a look of compassion for her sister’s sake, though she doubted her success. “I’ll take that as a no.”
Calyn sighed. “It isn’t like he’s had a chance, really. The Army only arrived this morning.”
“What?” Evylin gasped. “You’re telling me you’re so in love with this man after one meeting that you’ve decided to marry him?”
“Mother always says, ‘when you know, you know.’”
“Tell me then, how do you know? Why are you so enamored with this man?”
Calyn looked off into the distance, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Captain Deckard is a gentleman of the finest quality. He’s charming, gallant, and kind. He’s the sort of man every woman dreams of.”
Evylin looked to Dolia, hoping for some modicum of sanity from her sisters.
The youngest Glaas daughter beamed. “He’s got a good sense of humor too.”
Skeptical, Evylin eyed the pair of them. “Doesn’t sound like much of a soldier to me.”
Calyn rolled her eyes as she huffed. “That’s just because you haven’t met him yet.” She let out a dreamy sigh. “He’s the noblest soldier I’ve ever seen.”
Staring at her sisters, Evylin resolved that her monthly trips to Trollens Town were too long to leave them alone together. With the eldest two Glaas daughters married with children, and Evylin the only level-headed one amongst the lot, Calyn and Dolia had little chance to grow into anything but silly women without her at their side.
“I’m sorry, Caly, but that is ridiculous,” Evylin insisted. “You can’t fall in love with a man you just met. It doesn’t matter if he’s the most eligible bachelor in the entire world. A handful of hours is not enough to know. Love is not easy and it’s not fast. Ever.”
“So, you’re telling me that my feelings aren’t real?” Calyn punctuated her words as though to prove a point.
“Not at all,” Evylin said with a smirk. “I’m telling you that your feelings are not trustworthy. Attraction and love are two vastly different things.”
“And how would you know?” Calyn demanded. “You’ve never been in love.”
“No. But I have read about it. And, honestly, isn’t that the same thing?”
A knock on the door halted Calyn’s rebuttal as their mother appeared. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you two,” she said to her youngest daughters. “There’s a certain captain that would appreciate having dinner before midnight, I’m sure.”
At that, the two girls rushed past their mother with cursory shouts of, ‘welcome home, Evie,’ as they headed off to the kitchen.
Letting the girls by, their mother turned to Evylin. “Welcome home, dear,” she said, crossing the room to hug her. “Did you have a good time in town?”
“Yes, it was nice, as usual.” She pulled back to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I hope the Army’s encampment hasn’t been too taxing on you.”
The deep brown eyes of Lady Glaas twinkled. Though they crinkled at the edges, not one other mark blemished her mother’s aging features. Once the beauty of Trollens Town, Laurisa Pinnette married the then-dashing Lawton Glaas at a young age and moved to his home in Whickam Village. When the draft conscripted him into the Army, he left his young wife alone for long stints, only returning on the rare leaves granted by his officers. During that time, Laurisa raised the first three Glaas daughters on her own. Yet time graced her with the retention of her beauty.
Evylin’s elder sisters, Euna and Albina, often remarked on what good fortune it suggested for the rest of them. They’d all inherited their mother’s youthful looks, trim frame, tanned complexion, and delicate features. And though she hated to admit her vanity, Evylin couldn’t help the relief it brought her to think she was half as beautiful as her mother.
Laurisa smiled at her middle daughter. “It’s brought excitement, to be sure,” she confirmed. “But at least it isn’t a draft.”
Evylin’s eyebrows rose at the confirmation of Hewitt’s speculation. “It isn’t?”
“Not according to Captain Deckard,” she said, then winked. “Speaking of—your sisters are quite enjoying the encampment. And I must say, it’s significantly improved my life as well. It keeps me from having to listen to them complain.”
“A true blessing, if there ever was one.”
Her mother squeezed her arm. “Hurry and get yourself cleaned up. We should all enjoy our peaceful household while it lasts.”
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I love this so much already!
Eeee I love sister relationships in books! And this world and all the soldiers...swoon! 😍🥰