Happy Sunday! It’s been approximately forever since anything has been mentioned about Book 3. I’m here to remedy that. The entirety of the Prologue is after the jump. It’s from Glenn’s perspective (everything else in book 3 remains in Lyra’s perspective. So don’t worry. I’m not going to be one of those authors that starts to change perspectives around 3/4ths of the way through.)

Next major announcement will be a release date.

Obviously, there are book 1 and book 2 spoilers.

“Don’t make me ask again,” she said.

I opened my swelled eyes. Even in this dim dungeon, my Lady was beautiful. Her irises were crimson and bright, her dress covered in live red roses, her face warmed by a pink flush.

Her golden hair draped over one shoulder, swinging as she walked. Breathtaking.

Once upon a time, I’d have done anything to earn her approval. But that was before I had something worth fighting for. Before Lyra.

Blood dripped down the back of my neck, hot and sticky. I had the compulsion to swipe at it, but my hands were bound to the wall at my wrists.

I took a shuddering, ragged breath and spat on the ground. My bloody spittle struck the stone floor with a plink. One of my teeth had dislodged. For some reason, I found that hilarious. A delirious laugh escaped my lips.

You’re nearing the end, mate, my rational brain hissed.

I’d stretched myself thin. There was no way I could hang on forever. But I needed to try.

Aim for forever, hope to hold out until oblivion.

Amaranthe moved to a table at the right of the room. An assortment of tools lay sprawled across it for her perusal. Her hand hovered over them, lingering above a thorny whip before she settled on a dagger.

She held it up with a critical eye, appraising the weapon. A cruel smile edged its way onto her lips. She giggled.

“My Lady enjoys her torture?” I slurred.

She sighed, her eyes filled with pity. I’d intended to provoke her with my question, enticing her to react like an elf— full of passion for life, for care, for healing. That she should resort to torture was surprising. That she should enjoy it was worse.

“It’s a simple question, Glenn. Where did she go?”

I laughed again, my ribs aching with every wheezing jostle. I’d rather die than give her the clues necessary to lead her to Lyra, though I doubted she could follow my little bird. If I’d thought it possible, I’d be at my siren’s side instead of locked in this dungeon.

“I’m certain you love her. You might even think she feels something for you. I can promise you: she doesn’t.” She slid the flat of the blade across my cheek. “Eventually, I’ll find her. And when I do, I can make her death quick and painless…” The edge bit into the flesh beneath my eye. “Or,” she said, slicing languidly through my cheek, “I can drag it on and on and on.”

I gritted my teeth. I hadn’t cried out before; I refused to start now.

An electric burn ripped through the muscle tissue. She’d corrupted the steel with magic or poison. Either way, it wasn’t natural.

I stifled my cry into a hiss, twisting my head away.

My vision swam again, bile rising in my throat. I wondered how long I could hold out.

A shuffling in the corner drew my ruined eyes. Between the blood and the haze of pain, I couldn’t make out who’d arrived in this corner of hell. But I could hear him.

“We searched the island. No sign of her.”

Ash. Another member of the Amaranth Guard.

I’d always hated him.

“Was there nothing left behind?”

“A hut of defiled grass and branches, the half-human’s disgusting work. A leather coin purse of the banshee’s— nothing inside but an opal and a few feathers. We emptied it to be certain.”

“An opal? Yet no sign of the siren herself?”

“Not even footprints. There was a marking in a stone near the tide, my Lady, but—” Hesitation. “I’m afraid she’s vanished into thin air.”

Amaranthe growled in response, throwing the knife with a clatter.

My brows lifted. If my Lady was so enraged, it meant she grasped at straws.

For the moment, Lyra was safe.

I smiled, the motion causing the cracks in my lips to break and bleed.

Amaranthe returned her attention to me, tilting her head. Sneering, she snatched a small object from the table. The scowl made her less beautiful. She strode to me, her feet clicking on the cobblestone floor. The roses of her dress lost petals in her haste.

Her callousness showed, more than anything, just how far she’d fallen.

She gripped my face in one hand. Her long fingers dug into the cut below my eye. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t dream of offending you, my Lady,” I answered sarcastically.

Amaranthe smiled at me with cold eyes. She held up the object I couldn’t make out before: a small pouch.

My Lady was always known for her skills in herbalism.

She poured a colourless powder into her palm. “Crystallized troll saliva,” she said. “A truth serum, and poisonous. Unfortunately less effective than siren’s blood.” She grinned, “This will hurt.”

“Good,” I returned.

She pressed the handful into the slice across my cheek, mashing it with my blood. A caustic sting exploded across my face, blurring my vision further. The crystal felt like phoenix talons— fire and claws that hooked into my flesh.

My back arched. In spite of my effort, I screamed.

Lyra…

Darkness clouded my mind.