Murad is an Imperial Messenger, and he has a secret... He’s a witch.
On a visit to the foreign court of Mercia in Britain, he has a vision of the crown prince, Aaron, in serious trouble.
In his desire to save Aaron’s life, Murad becomes entangled in Mercia’s political strife, border disputes, and rising Paganism.
At the heart of the conspiracy, Murad encounters a powerful blood witch who has plans to sow division in the land.
Her magic is too strong for Murad on his own, so he seeks out new allies in two very different witches: a green witch, and a Viking seer.
As lines are drawn in the sand, both at court and on the battlefield, Murad stands with Aaron, bolstered by their allies. Together, they can unite Mercia for good.
At the Border of Destiny
C. Quince © 2026
All Rights Reserved
Late February — London, the Kingdom of Wessex
The busy port of London straddled the River Thames on the border between two kingdoms, Wessex and Mercia. Trading vessels of all shapes and sizes sailed in from the North Sea entrance on the eastern side and unloaded their goods onto the crowded docks: salt from East Anglia, wool from northern Mercia, more wool from the southern kingdom of Wessex, fine cloth, metalwork and glassware, and fresh and dried produce from the continent. Apples all year round.
Sailors and dock workers sang as they unloaded the ships:
“Heave-ho! Heave to!
“Ship to shore, here we go!
“I got a piece o’ silver in my pocket and a barrel o’ ale on my docket!”
The men called back and forth in unison as they swung heavy crates down in rope nets, rolled the barrels, or carried the smaller boxes. Some of these goods would be distributed in London’s markets, and some would be loaded onto larger vessels for trade elsewhere.
Murad had come in on a Venetian ship with plenty of extra room on board because trade with Britain had been strictly limited. He and his party disembarked and split off at the docks. They each had their tasks to complete before they could regroup and leave London.
Murad’s task was coin exchange.
He made his way toward the bustling town, past the pungent fish market and the waterfront stores with merchants calling out loud enough to startle him more than once. He dodged past a herd of huge oxen on their way to the livestock market, using his small size to nimbly slip through the crowds in good time.
Everywhere around him, traders and merchants called out short rhymes and dirty limericks at ear-splitting volume to catch the attention of passers-by. Murad ignored the noise and distractions as best he could, focused on his destination.
When he arrived at the coin exchange house, there was a queue to get in. Not unusual for this time of day, but armed guards stood at the door. More than Murad had counted on his last visit to London.
That didn’t bode well.
He caught his breath from his dash across town as he waited, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else in the queue.
People glanced at him, but locals were used to seeing all kinds of people come through their port. Their stares weren’t more than a passing interest.
The guards sized him up. Murad watched them quietly confer amongst themselves for a moment, but when it came to his turn, they didn’t stop him from entering, nor search him for the weapons hidden under his patchwork cloak.
Murad entered the dingy, damp-smelling foyer of the coin exchange.
“Next!” called the clerk, a stout, pale man with a greying beard. He sat behind a small, barred window, safe within the reinforced cell. Candles burned near him for light within the gloom.
Murad stepped up to the window, producing two pouches from his belt. “Local coin for Wessex, the other for Mercia,” he said, sliding both under the narrow gap.
The man quickly scooped up the pouches, tipping out the contents one by one to weigh them on his scales. The contents were gold talents, bearing the official treasury mark of the United Empires. While relations between the kingdoms of Britain and the United Empires were somewhat prickly, gold was welcomed warmly in any kingdom.
The talents were accepted, and the man barked out currency orders to more clerks hidden from Murad’s line of sight.
“Collect them over there,” he told Murad, gesturing to the side wall.
Murad knew that already, but he merely nodded.
“’Ere,” the man said, leaning closer to the bars to stare at Murad. “You one of them messengers?” Before Murad could answer, the man continued, “When are they gonna reopen trade routes? There ain’t been any nutmeg on the market for months, and the price of a pinch of pepper these days is through the bleedin’ roof!”
Murad didn’t have an answer for him. Trade sanctions were for rulers and councils to agree upon, not him.
“I am only a messenger,” he answered.
“Coins for Wessex and Mercia!” came a muffled shout, followed by the plink of couch purses landing in the chute.
Murad had to collect his coins and leave to let the next customer in.
On his way back, he got distracted by two young children in threadbare clothes trying to steal a fish from a market stall. They weren’t very good at it.
He paused to assess the scene, eyes going to the fishmonger who was currently occupied with another customer.
If those children hurried, they could take a fish. Murad was silently rooting for them, but the children had a mishap. The little boy who was giving the little girl a leg up slipped, and they both fell over in the dirt with a wet fish landing on top of them.
The fishmonger noticed.
“Oi!” he shouted, barrelling over to them. “You thieving li’l beggars!”
Murad swiftly stepped in. “I will pay,” he said firmly, producing a silver coin of Mercia. “How many fish does this buy?”
The fishmonger eyed the coin. “You can ’ave four big or six small for that.”
Murad glanced down at the children, who were staring back at him in surprise. They were small themselves.
“Small,” he said, handing over the coin.
When the exchange was done, the two children grinned at Murad before hurtling off, cradling their wrapped fish tightly in thin arms.
Murad watched until they disappeared into the crowd, wondering who they were running home to, or if they even had a home.
They reminded him of himself at that age.
The fishmonger shook his head at Murad. “You’re a fool, you know. Those beggars are here every morning, trying to steal.”
Murad couldn’t help a smile. “How does the saying go?” he replied. “Foolishness is a lesser evil.”
This at least got a laugh out of the man.
Then Murad was on his way. Time to meet his fellows, procure horses, and draw lots for which kingdom to enter.
They had important messages to deliver.
He found Kai first, spotting his brightly coloured uniform of red and blue silk robes, the same uniform Murad wore under his cloak. Kai was huddled in a private conversation with a London local Murad recognised: Yorgos the Greek. The man those in the know went to if they needed anything from the infamous black market.
It seemed Murad had happened upon Kai during a clandestine transaction, as the two large men exchanged small pouches in practised sleight of hand movements. Kai’s spices for Yorgos’s unmarked silver was Murad’s guess.
Yorgos left with a grin, and when Kai turned around, he was also grinning…until he noticed Murad and realised he was caught red-handed.
Murad raised his eyebrows minutely to let Kai know that he had not been so slick.
Kai responded by raising his finger to his lips, a gesture Murad had seen him do often whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.
Murad fought a smile. He wouldn’t tell on Kai; the older man was his dear friend, his mentor. But if Kai started lecturing him about side trades in the future, Murad now had ammunition to hit back with.
“Did you collect the currency?” Kai asked.
Murad nodded. And, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Collected some of your own, I see.”
Kai patted his belt where no doubt the silver had gone. He chortled, and his long, thin black moustache swayed with the movement. “The price of basic seasoning is very high. What a fortunate time to come!”
“Yes, they already complained about that in the exchange,” Murad told him. “Asking when sanctions will be lifted.”
“Well, just tell them it’s nothing to do with us,” Kai replied. “After all, we’re only the messengers.”
Purchase
Quince is a MENA-British author who lives in England, enjoys sci-fi and fantasy, history, and Halloween.
TORN BY FATE by Lylah James
Release Date: 
BLURB
Serafina
About the Author:
