Bought by the revenant, p.1
Bought by the Revenant, page 1
BOUGHT BY THE REVENANT
Copyright © 2025 by Cara Wylde
Cover and Interior Art by Nomad Raccoon
All rights are reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Alia Terra
Chapter One – Amity
Chapter Two – Riven
Chapter Three – Amity
Chapter Four – Riven
Chapter Five – Amity
Chapter Six – Riven
Chapter Seven – Amity
Chapter Eight – Riven
Chapter Nine – Amity
Chapter Ten – Riven
Chapter Eleven – Amity
Chapter Twelve – Riven
Chapter Thirteen – Amity
Chapter Fourteen – Riven
Chapter Fifteen – Amity
Chapter Sixteen – Riven
Chapter Seventeen – Amity
Epilogue
About the Author
Alia Terra
No one remembers the world before the Shift. It was thousands of years ago, all lost, all forgotten. Scientists and historians say that before, the world was better, brighter, and our planet belonged to us, humans. There were proud countries and bustling cities, and technology was at its peak.
We can hardly imagine all that. There is no proof, no written texts, no pictures of Alia Terra before the Shift. All we know is the face of Alia Terra now. The land haphazardly divided into territories, the walled cities, the poor living on the fringes, barely surviving.
The monsters.
The temples where young maidens can take a DNA test and be matched to one of them. Being owned by a monster is often the only way a woman can save herself or give her family a chance to not starve.
But for women who are not maidens, or whose blood never found a match, there is another path. The bride market offers a desperate chance. Here, women pay a small sum to enter a public auction. Monsters bid, but in the end, it is the bride’s choice. Will she go with the highest bidder, or will she choose the less monstrous?
This is Alia Terra. Their world, more than ours.
Chapter One
Amity
Rain pounds the cobblestone street, turning dirt to mud that splashes up my legs as I run. The sound of my footsteps mingles with the downpour, but not enough to mask the heavy boots gaining behind me. My chest burns with each breath, and my legs shake from exhaustion after running for a month straight, moving from one town to the next with less money and energy each time.
I turn into an alley without thinking, just hoping it leads somewhere else, somewhere I can lose them again. The walls press closer together the deeper I go, and then I see it – a brick wall at the end. No way out. I turn around and pull out my knife, trying to keep my hand steady while three dark shapes fill the entrance to the alley.
“There’s nowhere left to run, witch.”
Thorne steps into the alley first, rain streaming down his gaunt face. The village Elder’s son has always been religious, but now he’s worse than his father ever was. Elgar follows him, a tall man who never seems to blink and makes my skin crawl just from the way he stares. Behind them both stands Brone, built like a bull and just as mean, the same man who used to make me cross the street to avoid him when I was younger.
“The drought has worsened,” Thorne says, and his voice takes on that strange rhythm people use when they’re praying or preaching. “The last crops have failed. Witherglen dies while you live, defying Draug’s will.”
“I saved a mother and child.” I press my back against the wall. “That’s all.”
“You defied our god.” Elgar’s whisper carries through the rain. “Draug demands balance. Those meant for his court in the sky must join him. You prevented it.”
“The sacrifice must be completed.” Brone moves forward, and the rain pours off his massive shoulders.
How ironic that it’s pouring here, while Witherglen hasn’t seen a single drop of rain in months. We’re miles away from my hometown, we could be on the other side of the continent for all I know – I haven’t checked any maps, too busy running. If only they could take the rain with them and leave me be.
I grip my small blade tighter and let my shoulders drop, making myself look beaten down and ready to give up. Brone reaches for my arm, and that’s when I move, driving the knife deep into his thigh with all the strength I have. He screams and stumbles back, giving me the opening I need. I shove past them and run, finding energy I didn’t know I had left. Behind me, Thorne shouts orders, but I don’t look back. I follow a sound I heard earlier. A train whistle. Right now, it’s my only chance of escape, because I can’t keep outrunning three strong, well-fed men on foot, not even when one of them is hurt.
The station appears through the sheets of rain, its lights glowing against the darkness. A train sits there, already starting to move, pulling away from the platform inch by inch. I force my legs to keep going even though all I want to do is collapse, as my lungs feel ready to burst. I reach the last car just as it clears the platform and grab for the railing.
My wet fingers slip off the metal. I grab again, catch it this time, and pull myself up with a jolt of pain that shoots through my shoulder. I roll onto the hard floor of the open freight car and lie there gasping while the rain still hits my face. After dragging myself away from the edge, I finally look back.
Thorne stands on the platform, his face twisted with rage as the train picks up speed. Elgar holds up Brone, whose leg leaves a dark trail of blood on the platform. They get smaller and smaller, then disappear completely when the train goes around a curve.
Now I can breathe.
I lean against the wall of the empty car and check myself for injuries. My palms are scraped raw from grabbing the train, and my shoulder throbs from pulling myself aboard. I open my small bag to make sure everything survived the chase: a change of clothes, a leather pouch with my last few coins, and the worn leather roll containing my midwife tools. I run my fingers over the tools and feel the smooth wooden handles attached to different metal pieces, each one made for helping babies come safely into the world. These tools save lives, but my village wants me to give up my life instead. The thought makes me shake my head at how backwards everything has become.
I rest my head against the wall and listen to the steady rhythm of the train on the tracks. I don’t know where it’s going, and I don’t care. My eyes close on their own, and exhaustion pulls me under while I huddle in the corner, grateful that I’m safe for now.
Hours later, the train jerks at a slower speed and wakes me up. I blink and try to remember where I am. The rain has stopped, and moonlight comes through the open door of the freight car. I crawl to the edge and look out at unfamiliar buildings sliding past. A station comes into view, lit by gas lamps that throw yellow light across an empty platform. My eyes dart to a dirty sign that says “Crosshold”. I gather my few things and wait for the train to stop completely before climbing down, staying in the shadows so the station workers won’t see me and ask why I was on a freight train.
Crosshold. I’ve never heard of this place, which makes it perfect for starting over. I walk away from the station and look around. It’s an ordinary town, a human settlement that looks like dozens of others I’ve passed through. Market stalls sit empty for the night with their canvas covers tied down against bad weather, workers walk home after finishing their day’s work, and windows glow as people light their lamps. Everything looks peaceful and normal, the way my life used to be before everything went wrong.
My body feels heavier with each step as I walk through streets that get narrower and more run-down the farther I go. The buildings here lean against each other, their walls stained and crumbling. This is where I belong now, in the forgotten parts of town, where people mind their own business and don’t ask questions. Near the edge of town, I find what I need: a three-story building with a faded sign that says “The Wayfarer’s Rest.” The peeling paint and crooked shutters tell me the prices might be low enough for my nearly empty pouch.
The innkeeper barely glances up from his book when I walk in. He’s an older man with deep wrinkles on his face, and he tells me a price that makes me cringe even though it’s probably the cheapest I’ll find.
“Two nights,” I say, counting out the coins. What’s left looks pitiful. I need to find work soon or I’ll starve.
He gives me a key attached to a wooden block with the number seven carved into it. “Top floor, end of hall. Washroom’s shared, one per floor.”
I climb the stairs that creak under my weight, and each step takes more effort than it should. The hallway has just one lamp to light the whole space. I unlock the door to room seven and find exactly what I expected: a narrow bed with a mattress that’s seen better days, a small table holding a water basin, a wobbly three-legged stool, and a window with a crack running through the glass. But the door locks, and that’s all that matters right now.
I set my bag on the bed and pour water from the pitcher into the basin. While I wash the dirt and blood from my hands, memories I don’t w
Six winters ago, sickness swept through Witherglen and took my family one by one. My mother went first, then my father, then my younger brother – all dead within a few weeks. Only I survived, though now I wonder if death might have been kinder.
Then came the night that ruined everything. A neighbor summoned me to help Marla Weaver give birth. The baby was turned wrong, and the mother was bleeding too much. Death waited in that room, ready to take two lives. I wasn’t going to have it. I worked through the night using everything my mother and grandmother had taught me about birthing. I used herbs to slow the bleeding, turned the baby with careful movements, and kept talking to Marla when her strength started to fail. After hours of work, both mother and child lived when they should have died.
The whispers started the next morning. People said no one should have survived such a hard birth. They said it wasn’t natural. Maybe I had used forbidden magic or made a deal with dark forces.
Three days later, the drought began. Week after week without rain. The water in the wells dropped lower every day, crops died in the fields, animals grew thin and weak, and the whispers grew louder and uglier. The elders gathered and announced that Draug, our god of balance, was angry with the village. They said I had interfered with his will because the mother and child were supposed to die and join his court in the sky. By saving them, I had upset the natural order of things. Balance had to be restored with a sacrifice – mine.
I ran that same night, taking only what I could carry and leaving the only home I’d ever known.
A tear runs down my cheek as I shake my head and try to pull my mind back to the present. I splash cold water on my face to chase away the memories. My hands tremble as I dry them on a thin towel. I unlace my boots and stretch out on the bed without bothering to change clothes.
Sleep comes fast but brings nightmares instead of rest. In my dreams, they tie me to a stone altar while Thorne stands over me with a ceremonial knife, chanting prayers to Draug as he brings the blade to my throat. I wake up gasping, my nightdress stuck to my body with sweat. The room is dark except for weak moonlight coming through threadbare curtains. I get up and sit by the window, pulling my knees against my chest while I watch the empty street below.
How much longer can I keep running like this? My money will last a few more days if I’m careful, but then what? The hunters won’t stop looking for me. Their faith tells them that saving their village depends on killing me, and that kind of belief doesn’t fade or give up.
When the first light of dawn starts to show on the horizon, I accept what I already know. I need to find work and a place to live that’s better than this inn. I need to build a life here, save money, maybe even find people who might help me. Running has kept me alive so far, but I can’t run forever.
I look at my midwife tools again. These skills have value anywhere because women give birth in every town. People need herbs gathered and prepared. Wounds need care. Maybe here, far from Witherglen and its superstitions, people will see my abilities as helpful instead of evil.
I watch the sunrise turn the shabby buildings golden. I look down at my nails, still painted deep blue even after months of running and hiding. It’s my one small luxury, a reminder that I’m still a person with choices, not just an animal being hunted. I am Amity, midwife and healer, not a sacrifice for someone else’s god. I never believed in Draug, not even as a child. My family was sort of religious, but only because it was expected of us. In our home, however, where no one heard us, my father told me and my brother that Draug was a concept more than a god, a being created by the human mind to make sense of the world. Why the people in our village chose to invent an entity that required blood sacrifice was beyond me, and my father couldn’t give me an explanation, either. Now, at twenty-seven years old, I think I know why. People who live in hardship create hard gods.
I straighten my worn clothes as best as I can, brush my dark hair with my fingers, and get ready to face whatever this day brings. The market will be my first stop. I need food, and maybe I’ll hear about work. One step at a time. Get through today. Make plans for tomorrow.
I stand up straight and unlock the door, pushing fear aside and holding onto determination instead. This town will be my new start, no matter what it takes.
Chapter Two
Riven
Midnight finds me pacing the long corridors of my mansion, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness. I’ve walked this path for decades, and my mismatched feet have worn a groove in the marble floor. One foot is bigger than the other, and both came from corpses long forgotten. The mansion used to mean something to me when I first built it, but now these high ceilings and elegant furnishings feel like a prison.
I pass another draped mirror. I’ve covered or removed them all. The last time I glimpsed my reflection, I shattered the glass with my fist. The servants cleaned up the shards without comment. They know better than to mention it.
I reach up and grab my white hair, pulling hard until the stitches on my scalp hurt. The pain helps me focus and reminds me that this body made of different parts is just a container. The real me is the spirit trapped inside this ugly form that I never wanted.
“Master Riven?” Nell’s voice breaks the silence, and I see her standing at the far end of the corridor. She’s the oldest of my three servants. “Is there anything you need?”
“No.” The word comes out too sharp, but I don’t apologize. “Go back to bed.”
She bows her head and walks away, and I listen to her footsteps fade down the servants’ staircase. These three humans – Nell, Fria, and Tomas – are the only ones who can stand being around me now, and that’s only because they’ve had years to get used to how I look. Even they were scared when they first saw me.
I never hire revenants to work in my house. I tell people it’s because I think all revenants are noble and equal, and that we shouldn’t serve each other. I pay my human servants more than most nobles pay their entire staff, so no one questions me. But the real reason is different, and I don’t like to think about it too much: I can’t stand the idea of perfect revenants serving me and watching me with their glowing eyes, while they pity the monster who made their perfection possible. It’s far easier to have humans around.
I walk to my laboratory and push open the heavy door. This is where I figured out how to put revenant souls into stitched bodies properly. Journals fill the shelves, and each one shows how I improved the process, so newer revenants look almost human, their stitches barely there. Only their glowing eyes show what they really are. By perfecting the process of soul-to-matter transference, I gave them what I can never have myself.
I’m careless as I cross the space to my workbench, and I briefly catch my reflection in the glass panel of my medicine cabinet. A memory flashes before my eyes, and I see a young woman’s face change from curious to horrified when she gets a clear look at me. She turns and runs while screaming, and I try to push the memory away, but the hurt stays. In a burst of frustration, I sweep my arm across the workbench, knocking glass vials onto the floor, where they shatter. The breaking sound feels good for a second, but it’s temporary. I drop into my chair, and the wood groans under me. The white glow from my eyes bounces off the shiny desk surface.
I’m tired of living in this body, and tired of being alone. I could end everything by pulling my spirit out of this flesh and going back to the empty void where I came from. I’ve been thinking about this more and more over the past few decades.
But there’s one more thing I could try first. I’ve seen notices about bride markets in human towns. Places where women choose to be purchased by beings like me – monsters, creatures, non-humans of all kinds. They do it for protection, for financial security, sometimes just to escape worse fates. And unlike other arrangements, these markets give the women choice. They see their potential husbands first. What if someone could look at me without running away? What if someone could see more than just this ugly outside?
I stare at the wall clock. Nearly dawn. I make up my mind: I will go to the market in the nearest human town. It’s several miles away, as Luminea remains largely isolated from humans. This is my last try before I either surrender to eternal solitude or choose not to exist at all.
