After a very, very, very long wait, I’m excited to give my readers something substantial. I am currently aiming to release Nocturne late 2018.

The full prologue is ahead. Obviously, spoilers.

Prologue

Ash crinkled his nose uncomfortably. A static brush of magic crackled across his skin, itching and burning like a rash.

“My Lady?” he whispered. This place filled him with foreboding— no one was supposed to be here. It was a sin against the Realm. But necessary.

Amaranthe ignored him, keeping her gaze on the quiescent glow before her. A ring of hard stone circled it, carved in ancient elvish symbols that Ash couldn’t read. He wondered if these archaic runes eluded even his Lady’s understanding, despite her impressive knowledge.

Surrounding that, and consequently, them, was a crumbling spire. Beneath Ash’s feet the hard earth carried an acrid scent. Not good for life. Not good for growth. Leafy vines climbed the walls desperately, reaching toward the obscured sunlight, but they were sparse.

He found it difficult to focus. One part magic, one part the sad state of life here.

Elves had no business being in this place, not anymore.

His ankle still throbbed where the siren bitch had cut him. With the pathetic natural energy available, he doubted he’d feel relief anytime soon.

A low blow, he thought, remembering the girl on her knees, lunging for him with her knife. What an inferior creature.

He rubbed his forehead, meeting a bruise. A mark inflicted by that filthy half-breed, a constant thorn in his side. It hurt worse than his ankle. “Arashk!” he hissed.

Amaranthe gasped, the swear jarring her from her rumination. She laced her fingers together, turning to him. “Respect this place. Select your words with care.”

Ash’s face prickled as blood rushed to his cheeks. He buried it, forcing his body to comply as much as he could, but still felt the blush rise to his skin.

“My Lady,” he whispered again. “What is your plan?”

They couldn’t return to the forests— at least, not yet. For a moment, Ash wondered if he’d ever see Kaeylon again.

His Lady shifted, gripping at the tatters of her dress and shivering. Without a word, he removed his evergrass and draped it across Amaranthe’s shoulders. They stopped quaking.

She didn’t notice the kindness. She never did.

His Lady held up their mercury drop, sighing. The vial, once their escape, was rendered useless in this place.

With a sharp whip of her wrist, she cast it into the gleam below. A flare of magic jumped from the pit, stinging his eyes.

They couldn’t return home. If the bulk of her own troops had been driven to madness, driven to work for the traitorous half-blood, what could that possibly mean for the forests themselves? Though the Resistance was fledgling, they’d already proven more stubborn than Ash was comfortable admitting. More resourceful.

“She’ll be here eventually,” Amaranthe answered, smoothing the hard creases of her tattered gown. “So we wait.”

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.”

They could survive here for years if necessary, but Ash wasn’t fond of the idea. He glanced at the stunted vines stretching toward the thin sunlight. It would be an irksome wait.

A nagging question caught in the back of his throat like a lump of hardened pitch. He licked his lips, speaking a bit louder, “Are you certain, my Lady, that the siren will not simply reverse the damage her species caused?”

That had been the rebels’ claim when they’d tried to recruit him. Their words had done little to sway him, of course. His loyalty was unyielding. Despite that, the thought gnawed at him like a termite.

“No one knows sirens like I do,” she said, staring into the abyss again. “They’re creatures with selfish hearts. No matter her current intentions, she’ll falter when she reaches the Source. If we abandon our post, her selfish heart will be the undoing of our worlds. And so we wait,” she repeated, “to administer a remedy.”

The words were so emotionless, they almost provoked a shudder down his spine. He suppressed it, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“And what remedy do you have for her selfish heart?”

From the folds of her dress, Amaranthe produced a metal dagger.

“Remove it.”