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About the Author

Brenna Nation resides in a crowded old row home in Baltimore, MD. After graduating from the University of Maryland with an English degree, Brenna began her career as a marketer for media companies. Her first book, The Shattered Lands, was born from early morning wake-ups. When she’s not writing, she can be found petting her dogs, getting tattoos, searching for the spiciest food in the room or crying to Taylor Swift songs while she drives around aimlessly. You can follow her writing journey on TikTok at @brennawritesnow.

Dedication

For you, my reader.
You deserve to have your stories told.

CHAPTER ONE

The Saints no longer heard their pleas for mercy.

That much she knew. The thought pushed her forward as she gripped the hilt of her dagger more tightly. The Home could not afford another night of her returning empty-handed. As she positioned herself against a large tree, she looked up to the sky. It was a deep shade of grey – as it had been for months now, but it seemed darker … sinister even.

It would make her hunt that much more difficult.

Sapphire tugged the sleeve of her ill-fitting tunic back on to her shoulder and tightened her cloak. To her right, a gaunt squirrel rustled the leaves, attempting to burrow into the damp soil, hunting for scraps just like she was. Dagger in hand, she focused her eyes and mouthed a fool’s prayer to the Saints, hoping they would allow her this one favour.

The dagger pierced the creature’s abdomen and it let out a desperate cry. She wasn’t sure she would ever get used to taking a life, but morality had no place in barren lands. Gathering her kill, she headed out of the woodlands.

When she stepped into the Home, she could tell something was different. No one met her at the door. And the musty smell she was used to had been replaced by something sticky, something sweet enough to almost make her stomach turn.

It did not fit the weathered and draughty walls of this place.

As she slipped off her cloak, no one rushed to help her. There was no hum of voices.

Something wasn’t right.

She pressed her thumb into her palm, tracing the thin, jagged scar that ran across it. As she moved deeper into the hall, she noticed a tiny flickering light in the centre of the makeshift dining room.

Cautiously sticking her head through the doorway, she sighed in relief as she took in the smiling faces.

‘Happy birthday!’

On a table in the middle of the room was a small cake that must have taken months of rations to make.