Demi Winters

Flíta: Similar to butterflies, their membranous wings were transparent and thin as silk. With each flap of their wings, orange light flashed like streaks of lightning from the wispy veins.

An unedited excerpt from The Road of Bones

A hush fell along the street, the flíta flickering serenely as indigo chased the last of the light from the sky.

At last, the old woman who’d passed out the baskets gave the signal. “Ljóma,” she said.

The crowd opened their baskets, and Silla rushed to do the same. The flíta flashed into the night, their transparent wings sparking orange light with each flap upward. She gazed up in raptured silence as thousands of flíta flew into the night, illuminating the sky like living stars. Lips parted in wonder, it was the most beautiful sight she’d ever laid eyes upon.

Silla’s eyes stung, and she suddenly felt so small, so sheltered. She was unreasonably angry at her father, this time for shielding her from so much. What had she been doing all these years? It wasn’t living. It had been surviving.

The past few weeks had been both terrifying and exhilarating, the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. But it was as if she’d awoken, as if she was truly living for the first time.

The echo of her mother’s voice rang in her ears. The flíta are Íseldur’s symbol of hope and rebirth, Moonflower. When they reach their old age, they go up in a blaze of light and glory. And when the ashes clear, a caterpillar emerges, and the cycle begins anew.

Silla smiled at the beautiful winged insects. How fitting to be reminded of them on this, of all nights. Perhaps she was a lot like the flíta. Emerging from the ashes, vulnerable and hungry.

An unedited excerpt from Chapter 2 of The Road of Bones

Silla blew a wayward coil of hair away from her face with a heavy sigh. After twenty turns of winter, she had never kissed a man. It had been so long since she’d had a true friend. She loved her father. She was safe and loved in return. Things could be worse. But they could also be better.

She craved something. She craved more. Friendship. To fall in love. To live. How could she do this while always looking over her shoulder, while she and her father floated through life like wraiths in the darkness?

An unedited excerpt from The Road of Bones

“Silla walked with speed and purpose through the woods. Her eyes swept left to right, glancing behind her more often than she ought. The need to put as many miles between herself and those dead warriors was urgent, and she pressed herself hard, the hammer gripped in one hand, and the strap of her shouldered bag clutched in the other.

The woods were eerie enough during the daytime, but they were a different world at night, a land of shadows and shapes that constantly shifted on the edges of her vision. Clawed branches and twisted roots seemed to move of their own volition, tangling in her hair and rising before her feet, causing her to stumble.

It was unnaturally quiet, almost as if the forest were holding its breath. Still, Silla pressed on between the gnarled trunks of the Twisted Pinewoods.

This section of the woods had garnered its nickname due to a distortion in the pine trunks, warped and misshapen into menacing forms. Some Skarstad locals blamed the phenomenon on a tree sickness, while others claimed the lingering effects of an ancient witch’s curse. Whatever the cause, it had a decidedly eerie effect that kept Silla’s feet hurrying.

In the back of her mind, she knew it was not safe for a woman to travel alone on this road. Not only was it dangerous, but Rognir’s teachings dictated that women must be chaperoned by their husband, brother, or father after darkness.

“You have none of those,” said the girl, swinging a stick at a clump of willowy underbrush.

Silla hummed. “We must be quick,” she said.

The road had laws unto itself, rife with thieves, warbands who controlled passage through various sections, and other dangerous, desperate men. Her only hope was her stealth, to remain undetected.

“Best to keep in the woods; we’ll travel by night, sleep by day,” murmured Silla.

“Are we almost there?” whined the girl.

Silla snorted. “Give or take four nights.”

Four long nights, and she’d reach Reykfjord. Then she could breathe, re-evaluate, and decide what to do next. It felt monumental, impossible when considered as a whole.

Instead, she put one foot in front of the other.

It was all she could do.”