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SNEAK PEEK: Read a Preview from Leigh Bardugo’s King of Scars 

In the first chapter from Leigh Bardugo’s new novel set in the Grishaverse, a young boy faces his worst nightmare on a stormy night.

King of Scars

If you’re not familiar with Leigh Bardugo’s Grishaverse yet, prepare to be utterly bewitched. The Grishaverse is an unforgettable world of dark fantasy, and the setting for the duology Six of Crows, and the Shadow and Bone trilogy. The bestselling series Six of Crows and Shadow and Bone are coming to Netflix soon in an original series from the writer of Bird Box and the executive producer of Stranger Things. In the meantime, Grishaverse fans have an exciting new novel to read—and The Portalist has a special preview from the first chapter. 

King of Scars is the first book in a new Grishaverse duology centered around Nikolai Lantsov. First introduced in Shadow and Bone, Nikolai is a fan-favorite character who knows how to adapt quickly in order to stay alive. Formerly a privateer, now the young king of Ravka, Nikolai is struggling nobly to defend his kingdom and feed his people in the face of unscrupulous invading forces. But Nikolai—and Ravka itself—is under attack from within, too. Nikolai is hiding a secret he’s kept buried deep inside him … but demons don't stay quiet forever.

In this sneak peek at the first chapter in King of Scars, Dima—the picked-on youngest son of a farming family—decides to prove himself by venturing out on a stormy night to secure a banging barn door. But there’s more than just a swinging door waiting for Dima in the shadows …

King of Scars will be released on Tuesday, January 29. Read on for a SNEAK PEEK of Chapter One, and then order your copy! 




King of Scars

By Leigh Bardugo

As soon as Dima opened the kitchen door, the wind tried to snatch it from his grip. He slammed it behind him and heard the latch turn from the other side. He knew it was temporary, a necessity, but it still felt like he was being punished. He looked back at the glowing windows as he forced his feet down the steps to the dry scrabble of the yard, and had the terrible thought that as soon as he’d left the warmth of the kitchen his family had forgotten him, that if he never returned, no one would cry out or raise the alarm. The wind would wipe Dima from their memory. 

He considered the long moonlit stretch he would have to traverse past the chicken coops and the goose shed to the barn, where they sheltered their old horse, Gerasim, and their cow, Mathilde. 

RELATED: Leigh Bardugo's The Language of Thorns Explores the Dark Side of Fairy Tales 

The geese honked and rustled in their shed, riled by the weather or Dima’s nervous footsteps as he passed. Ahead, he saw the big wooden barn doors swaying open and shut as if the building was sighing, as if the doorway was a mouth that might suck him in with a single breath. He liked the barn in the day, when sunlight fell through the slats of the roof and everything was hay smells, Gerasim’s snorting, Mathilde’s disapproving moo. But at night, the barn became a hollow shell, an empty place waiting for some terrible creature to fill it—some cunning thing that might let the doors blow open to lure a foolish boy outside. Because Dima knew he had closed those doors. He felt certain of it, and he could not help but think of Pyotr’s malenchki, little ghosts hunting for a soul to steal. 

Stop it, Dima scolded himself. Pyotr unbarred the doors himself just so you would have to go out in the cold or shame yourself by refusing. But Dima had shown his brothers and his father that he could be brave, and that thought warmed him even as he yanked his collar up around his ears and shivered at the bite of the wind. Only then did he realize he couldn’t hear Molniya barking anymore. She hadn’t been by the door, trying to nose her way into the kitchen, when Dima ventured outside. 

“Molniya?” he said, and the wind seized his voice, casting it away. “Molniya!” he called, but only a bit louder—in case something other than his dog was out there listening. 

Step by step he crossed the yard, the shadows from the trees leaping and shuddering over the ground. Beyond the woods he could see the wide ribbon of the road. It led all the way to the town, all the way to the churchyard. Dima did not let his eyes follow it. It was too easy to imagine some shambling body dressed in ragged clothes traveling the road, trailing clods of cemetery earth behind it. 

He heard a soft whine from somewhere in the trees. Dima yelped. Yellow eyes stared back at him from the dark. The glow from his lantern fell on a pair of black paws, ruffled fur, bared teeth. 

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“Molniya!” he said on a relieved sigh of breath. He was grateful for the loud moan of the storm. The thought of his brothers hearing his high, shameful shriek and coming running just to find his poor dog cowering in the brush was too horrible to contemplate. “Come here, girl,” he coaxed. Molniya had pressed her belly to the ground; her ears lay flat against her head. She did not move. 

Dima looked back at the barn. The plank that should have lain across the doors and kept them in place lay smashed to bits in the brush. From somewhere inside, he heard a soft, wet snuffling. Had a wounded animal found its way inside? Or a wolf? 

The golden light of the farmhouse windows seemed impossibly far away. Maybe he should go back and get help. Surely he couldn’t be expected to face a wolf by himself. But what if there was nothing inside? Or some harmless cat that Molniya had gotten a piece of? Then all his brothers would laugh at him, not just Pyotr. 

Dima shuffled forward, keeping his lantern far out in front of him. He waited for the storm to quiet and grabbed the heavy door by its edge so it would not strike him as he entered. 

The barn was dark, barely touched by slats of moonlight. Dima edged a little deeper into the blackness. He thought of Sankt Feliks’s gentle eyes, the apple bough piercing his heart. Then, as if the storm had just been catching its breath, the wind leapt. The doors behind Dima slammed shut and the weak light of his lantern sputtered to nothing. 

King of Scars
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  • Photo Credit: m wrona / Unsplash

Outside, he could hear the storm raging, but the barn was quiet. The animals had gone silent as if waiting, and he could smell their sour fear over the sweetness of the hay— and something else. Dima knew that smell from when they slaughtered the geese for the holiday table: the hot copper tang of blood. 

Go back, he told himself. 

In the darkness, something moved. Dima caught a glint of moonlight, the shine of what might have been eyes. And then it was as if a piece of shadow broke away and came sliding across the barn. 

Dima took a step backward, clutching the useless lantern to his chest. The shadow wore the shredded remains of what might have once been fine clothes, and for a brief, hopeful moment, Dima thought a traveler had stumbled into the barn to sleep out the storm. But it did not move like a man. It was too graceful, too silent, as its body unwound in a low crouch. 

Dima whimpered as the shadow prowled closer. Its eyes were mirror black, and dark veins spread from its clawed fingertips as if its hands had been dipped in ink. The tendrils of shadow tracing its skin seemed to pulse. 

Run, Dima told himself. Scream. He thought of the way the geese came to Pyotr so trustingly, how they made no sound of protest in the scant seconds before his brother broke their necks. Stupid, Dima had thought at the time, but now he understood. 

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The thing rose from its haunches, a black silhouette, and two vast wings unfurled from its back, their edges curling like smoke. 

“Papa!” Dima tried to cry, but the word came out as little more than a puff of breath. 

The thing paused as if the word was somehow familiar. It listened, head cocked to the side, and Dima took another step backward, then another. 

The monster’s eyes snapped to Dima and the creature was suddenly bare inches away, looming over him. With the gray moonlight falling over its body, Dima could see that the dark stains around its mouth and on its chest were blood. 

The creature leaned forward, inhaling deeply. Up close it had the features of a young man—until its lips parted, the corners of its mouth pulling back to reveal long black fangs. 

It was smiling. The monster was smiling—because it knew it would soon be well fed. Dima felt something warm slide down his leg and realized he had wet himself. 

The monster lunged. 

The doors behind Dima blew open, the storm demanding entry. A loud crack sounded as the gust knocked the creature from its clawed feet and hurled its winged body against the far wall. The wooden beams splintered with the force, and the thing slumped to the floor in a heap. 

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  • An image from Leigh Bardugo's Grishaverse-set story, "The Too-Fierce Fox." 

    Photo Credit: Fierce Reads

A figure strode into the barn in a drab gray coat, a strange wind lifting her long black hair. The moon caught her features, and Dima cried harder, because she was too beautiful to be any ordinary person, and that meant she must be a Saint. He had died and she had come to escort him to the bright lands. 

But she did not stoop to take him in her arms or murmur soft prayers or words of comfort. Instead she approached the monster, hands held out before her. She was a warrior Saint, then, like Sankt Juris, like Sankta Alina of the Fold. 

“Be careful,” Dima managed to whisper, afraid she would be harmed. “It has ... such teeth.” 

But his Saint was unafraid. She nudged the monster with the toe of her boot and rolled it onto its side. The creature snarled, and Dima clutched his lantern tighter as if it might become a shield. 

In a few swift movements, the Saint had secured the creature’s clawed hands in heavy shackles. She yanked hard on the chain, forcing the monster to its feet. It snapped its teeth at her, but she did not scream or cringe. She swatted the creature on its nose as if it were a misbehaving pet. 

The thing hissed, pulling futilely on its restraints. Its wings swept once, twice, trying to lift her off her feet, but she gripped the chain in her fist and thrust her other hand forward. Another gust of wind struck the monster, slamming it into the barn wall. It hit the ground, fell to its knees, stumbled back up, weaving and unsteady in a way that made it seem curiously human, like Papa when he had been out late at the tavern. The Saint murmured something and the creature hissed again as the wind eddied around them. 

Not a Saint, Dima realized. Grisha. A soldier of the Second Army. A Squaller who could control wind. 

She took her coat and tossed it over the creature’s head and shoulders, leading her captured prey past Dima, the monster still struggling and snapping.

She tossed Dima a silver coin. “For the damage,” she said, her eyes bright as jewels in the moonlight. “You saw nothing tonight, understood? Hold your tongue or next time I won’t keep him on his leash.” 

Dima nodded, feeling fresh tears spill down his cheeks. 

The Grisha raised a brow. He’d never seen a face like hers, more lovely than any painted icon, blue eyes like the deepest waters of the river. She tossed him another coin, and he just managed to snatch it from the air. “That one’s for you. Don’t share it with your brothers.” 

Dima watched as she vanished through the barn doors, then forced his feet to move. He wanted to return to the house, find his mother, and bury himself in her skirts, but he was desperate for one last look at the Grisha and her monster. He trailed after them as silently as he could. In the shadows of the moonlit road, a large coach waited, the driver cloaked in black. A coachman jumped down and seized the chain, helping to drag the creature inside. 

Dima knew he must be dreaming, despite the cool weight of silver in his palm, because the coachman did not look at the monster and say Go on, you beast! or You’ll never trouble these people again! as a hero would in a story. 

Instead, in the deep shadows cast by the swaying pines, Dima thought he heard the coachman say, “Watch your head, Your Highness.” 

Want to keep reading? Order your copy of King of Scars now.

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