A Day for Dead Saints (Testaments of the Forsaken Book 1), page 1
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A Day for Dead Saints Copyright 2026 © Ryan Kirk
Cover design by JV Arts
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
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Contents
1. Reunion
2. Of Grief and Madness
3. What Remains
4. A Date for Malric
5. Lightning Under the Full Moon
6. Lies Between Friends
7. Carved of Wood and Spirit
8. Explosions in the Sky
9. Blood Upon the Stones
10. On That Day
11. The Truths of Legends
12. To Wake a God
13. A Path with No Return
14. Of Choices and Consequences
15. Hunter and Hunted
16. Kill Your Friends
17. Allies in the Dark
18. A Perfect Night for Murder
19. The Price of Knowledge
20. New Friends, Old Problems
21. Fishing for an Assassin
22. A Remnant Revealed
23. Harvest’s Final Blessing
24. A Long Cold Night
25. Blooded
26. Learning from Death
27. A Meeting of Assassins
28. Between Friends and Family
29. First Steps
Also by Ryan Kirk
About the Author
Oliver Heber Books
Chapter 1
Reunion
My prayer for you, young ones, is that you’ll never have to wipe the blood of vengeance from your hands.
— FROM THE LOST WISDOM OF BRENNOR
Veynar thought about murder as he swept his broom lightly across the stone walkway leading to the halgard.
High Keeper Maeryn’s warning echoed in his thoughts. Slow down! You’re not racing anyone, so there’s no need to murder the creatures who learned to call this place home in our absence.
He brushed aside an anthill built between two stones and watched the ants scurry to safety as their home was destroyed. With a gentle hand on the broom, he swept them into the long grass bordering the walkway. Two ants tried to return, searching for a home they’d lost for good, and again he brushed them away.
Maeryn always spoke with clarity and purpose. If she said “murder,” it was with the intent to pass along a teaching, but what lesson was he supposed to take from her word choice?
Murder carried with it the stench of dishonor, of dark deeds done out of sight. Why use it to describe the death of ants and spiders if he swept too vigorously?
No matter how long he considered the matter, he found no answer.
The sound of fabric brushing against itself brought his gaze up in time to see an acorn speeding straight for his nose. His hand, quick as a snake’s tongue as it tasted the air, snatched the acorn before it struck true.
An exaggerated groan came from behind a nearby silver maple. “I didn’t think you’d react in time.”
A tall young man stepped from behind the tree and swept curly black hair away from his eyes. Long legs closed the distance between them in a few unhurried steps. Dark loose-fitting robes hung off Malric’s lanky frame, concealing enough sharpened steel to arm a small garrison.
“The Keepers still demand we complete our physical training. I haven’t gone that soft,” Veynar said.
“Care to spar sometime and prove it?”
His friend was nothing if not consistent. In a clan of hunters, warriors, and trackers, the Keepers stood apart. They carried the clan’s history, knowledge, and traditions, the candle of wisdom burning bright against the ever-encroaching dark. Malric recognized the need for the Keepers, but he wished loudly and often that his friend carried steel more often than paper.
Malric stepped onto the section of the stone path Veynar had just finished sweeping. A spider scurried in front of him. He squished it with his toe, then wiped his boot clean against the stone, leaving a smear of dead spider.
“You know full well he’s not allowed to spar until his apprenticeship is complete,” came a third voice, whose owner followed the path of the walkway as she approached.
Coriselle had braided her long hair in an intricate pattern, her appearance revealing her plans for the day. She wore a set of vivid blue robes that she’d only worn once before, at her older sister’s wedding. Her gentle gaze settled on Veynar, and she smiled, warming him to the core. He returned the smile as heat rushed to his cheeks.
“I still can’t believe that my closest friend, the man I’d have by my side no matter the danger, chose the white robes.” Malric put the back of his hand to his forehead and pretended to swoon like some woman from the cities. “My heart is shattered into a thousand pieces.”
Cori’s eyes rolled up in her head. She told Veynar, “I was surprised to hear you elected to remain at the halgard. Most everyone is visiting Brenwick today to catch the beginning of the Harvest Festival.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go. The Harvest Festival was an annual tradition for Caelen’s Clan, a time when they handed off their duties at the border of the Broken Lands to other clans and journeyed west to Brenwick. It was the only time of the year where they could truly be at ease. They feasted and met with old friends, and when they returned to the border, it was laden with the fruits of the harvest. Ever since he’d been a child, the Harvest Festival had been the best time of the year.
Veynar fumbled for an explanation, but Malric saved him from having to answer. He threw his arm over Cori’s shoulder. She shrugged it off immediately, but it didn’t make Veynar want to hit Malric any less. The glint in Malric’s eyes told Veynar his old friend was well aware of the effects of his actions. With a sardonic grin, he said, “Cori and I are joining a group heading in today. Want us to visit your sister for you?”
Cori elbowed Malric in the side. “Ignore him. We came to invite you, too, if you’re interested.”
Veynar gripped his broom tighter. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll stay here. I’ll join you some other day.”
Cori tilted her head, as though a slightly different perspective would shed some light on her friend’s refusal. She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. She reached into her robes and pulled out a sealed letter. “This came for you in today’s mail from Brenwick.”
Veynar took the letter, recognizing Lirael’s handwriting at a glance. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her time in the House of Brennor had improved her already beautiful calligraphy. He tucked it into his white robes without opening it. “Thank you.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to join us?” Malric asked. “I promise a day of entertainment you’re not likely to forget. I’ve already made some new friends in town.”
Veynar grinned. Malric could be as abrasive as a whetstone, but a day in his company was never without excitement. “Hearing that only makes me want to stay well away. Cori, you’re a braver person than I am.”
She laughed. “I’m sure Malric will be on his best behavior.”
Malric’s grin revealed Cori’s hope to be empty, but she knew well enough what trouble she courted by accompanying him into Brenwick for a day. It was her choice to make, though Veynar wished she would stay behind and go for a walk with him after his chores were done.
After a long farewell, the two left Veynar alone with his broom. The moment they disappeared from sight, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter from his sister. He broke the seal and devoured the words within like a starving man set before a feast.
Autumn leaves crunched beneath Veynar’s feet as he hurried through the forest between Brenwick and Caelen’s Rest. Had the ground not been coated with the vivid reds and oranges of fallen maple leaves he would have tried to silence his steps, but only a wandering spirit could have slipped between the trees without a sound, and so he gave up on his hope of surprising his sister.
He was also late.
His right hand reached into the pocket of his robes, and his fingertips brushed against the note tucked within, reassuring him that this was real and not a dream. When she’d left, she’d promised to hold him in her thoughts, to keep the memory of their family close.
He hoped her time in the House of Brennor hadn’t made her change her mind.
Almost ten months had passed since Veynar had hea rd from Lirael, and ten remained before he would have expected to. That she’d risked reaching out to him was evidence enough of—something—though he couldn’t guess what. If trouble, she would have reached out to their parents instead of him. More likely, she was lonely, desperate for a familiar face after being surrounded by strangers who shared little in common with a former Keeper.
His left hand brushed against the treasure held in the other pocket, a collection of candies he’d quickly run to the outskirts of Brenwick to buy with what little money he possessed. Sisters in training weren’t allowed sweets, which had made Lirael’s decision to join them that much more surprising. If her time in the House of Brennor had doused the fire in her spirit, the candies would help rekindle it.
The House of Brennor was, in many ways, a mirrored reflection of Caelen’s Keepers, though one that looked beyond the obvious differences. The House of Brennor kept the lore and wisdom of its god, just as the Keepers did. Only they served on a scale Caelen’s handful of Keepers could only imagine. In the legends of Brennor, he’d been a builder whose masterwork was the foundations of the city of Brenwick. The House he built had attracted scholars and their books from across the land, making it a destination for all who sought to dive deep into the mysteries of the world, including his sister.
The Sisters who inherited the wisdom of the House did more than just study, though. They were active in the administration of the city, from the Head Sister who sat at the side of the King to the apprentices lending their services to neighborhoods in need. The Sisters and the city sometimes felt as though they were one and the same.
Veynar reached their tree before the sun fell below the tall spires of the Brenwick’s castles and looked up. Lirael’s slight frame wasn’t among the branches. It was unlike her to be late for anything, but he couldn’t guess what obstacles she’d had to overcome to escape the Sisters’ clutches. His family believed he was still at the halgard and wouldn’t suspect he’d left for a bit, and so he leaned back against the tree and waited.
Their tree was a wide, old maple whose leaves turned a vibrant red as the season’s first frosts approached. They’d chosen it as children because its limbs had always been spaced in such a way that they could run up the trunk, grab its lowest-hanging limbs, then climb to the highest reaches of the tree. In those days, hours had passed like minutes, and each had found a favorite perch that suited them well. Veynar had lost track of the number of sunsets he’d watched from its upper boughs. The clan didn’t spend much time at Caelen’s Rest, but every time they visited, Veynar and Lirael had returned to the tree.
He hadn’t been here since Lirael had left. They’d spent their last evening together at the tree, a tradition they hadn’t completed as often as they’d gotten older and assumed more responsibilities within the clan. That sunset had been bittersweet, and Veynar had sensed it would be among the last times they climbed the maple’s limbs together. With each passing year, they surrendered a bit more of their childhood to the unceasing demands of adulthood.
After Lirael had left, there’d been no point in returning to the tree. It had been theirs, not his. He’d embarked upon his first Watch, and now he apprenticed under the Keepers.
He reached into his pocket and ran the edge of his thumb around Lirael’s note. The calligraphy inside had been neat but hurried, and he wondered again what had caused her to break the isolation of her training to reach out to him.
The soft crunch of leaves on the other side of the tree almost made him jump out of his boots. It was too loud to be one of the chipmunks in the area, but he could have sworn he was alone. He leaned over and looked around the tree. Someone was sitting there, legs sticking straight out.
“Lirael?” he asked as he pushed off the tree and stepped around it.
His older sister sat on the other side of the maple, her back propped up in a hollow between two roots that snaked deep into the soil. She stared ahead, unblinking.
Blood bubbled from her throat. Her eyes shifted slowly, rising to the sky, the first sign that she was still alive.
The sight froze Veynar faster than a mid-winter blizzard.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out, and Veynar’s shock shattered like ice struck by a pickaxe. He dropped to his knees and reached for his sister, but he couldn’t convince himself to touch her, a deep and irrational part of his spirit warning him that if he did, this would be real and there’d be no returning to the life he’d once known.
He tried to ask what had happened, but the words tripped over one another as they left his lips, and all that escaped was an incomprehensible, blubbering mess.
Her eyes completed their long journey, resting on his face. Her lips moved again, but all he heard was the pounding of his heart. The wound on her neck, thin as a sheet of paper and wide as his thumb, bubbled once more, then stilled. Her eyes were open, but the light had fled.
“Lirael, no!”
He grabbed her shoulders and shook. Her head bobbed limply and fell forward, almost striking him in the nose. He yelped and pushed her away, toward their tree. Her back struck the gnarled bark hard, and for a moment, he feared she would tip forward, but she remained upright.
Veynar scrambled back until he was a few feet away. Leaves crunched and snapped beneath him.
“Lirael?”
As if he called to her, she would come back from whatever halls her spirit had entered, as if death could be reversed with a word alone.
The trembling started in his arms and spread through his gut and down his legs. He clutched his knees tight to his chest, but he couldn’t stop the tremors. His teeth chattered.
He had to let the wardens know. Quickly, so they could search the area for clues and hunt down the killer. Only he trembled too much to stand, too much to even call for help, though he was deep enough in the woods it was unlikely any would hear him.
Veynar released his legs and tried to stand. They betrayed him and gave out, sending him face first into the dried leaves surrounding the maple.
Exhaustion ambushed him. He wanted nothing more in the world than to sleep, to dream this all away. His eyes started to close.
No.
The wardens. He needed to reach the wardens and tell them what had happened.
Summoning all the strength in his body, he pushed himself carefully to his feet, willing his legs to support him. A single step tired him to the point of surrender, his foot landing as heavy as an anvil. The crunch of leaves rang in his ears, and he covered them with his hands to dull the sound.
His eyes closed against his will, but he took another halting step forward.
He could take no more.
His body toppled forward. He waited for the pain of impact, but someone caught him in strong arms and lowered him to the ground like a parent putting an infant down to sleep.
His last thought before darkness took him was that he hadn’t heard the crunch of leaves.
Chapter 2
Of Grief and Madness
Mourn not for those whose spirits no longer dance among you, children, for those that have served me well dine by my side forevermore.
— FROM THE BOOK OF BRENNOR
Veynar woke from an endless nightmare. He sat straight up and twisted to take in his unfamiliar surroundings. Four bare walls gave him little clue where he’d woken up. His eyes landed on a familiar pack, still filled with clothes and supplies. He wore his white robes, rumpled from a full night of sleep but otherwise clean. Early morning light streamed through a window cracked open. Sounds of familiar clan activity trickled through the crack and snuck into his ears.
Neighbors greeted one another. A gruff voice muttered to himself about rising prices as he walked past the window. Two children chased one another between the houses.
His heart slowed. He knew this place and knew this bed, for it was his. Or, at least, it was the bed he used when the clan camped at Caelen’s Rest. He hadn’t yet adjusted to the thick walls and warm bed, or to living with his parents again after living in his own tent for so many months, and he hoped the clan would leave before he did, before the comforts of living near Brenwick softened his spirit.
Lirael!
