Tristan choked on a sob and rolled to his side. He had to get up, he had to stand, he had to stop this. Gods, his brothers and sisters were here somewhere…and?—
Jasmien.
“Jas,” he rasped, reaching, reaching,reaching.
“It’ll be over soon,” the woman said to his wife.
Jasmien turned her head, and she smiled—smiled—at him.
Something shifted in the air—a ripple, a crack in the heat-haze above the sands.
Wings.
A hallucination. A shadow gliding across the blackened dunes. Then it landed—hard—on the plank that held Jasmien. The wood groaned beneath its weight.
A beast. All angles and ash. Wings flared like torn war banners catching the wind. Feet like hook scythes.
Its eyes—gods, its eyes—black voids that found him. Saw him.
And for a breathless second, time bowed.
The woman glanced up at the beast as if she’d expectedit all along. She gave the beast a respectful nod before turning her full attention back to Jasmien.
The woman’s blade sliced Jasmien’s throat, and the beast didn’t flinch. Only tilted its head andwatched.
Then it screamed. A soundless quake Tristan felt in his bones.
Blood pulsed from Jasmien’s wound, coating her chest, and her head bobbed one final time before hanging.
Dead.
They were all dead.
Tristan Thorne died with them all that day.
What rose from the blood-soaked sand wore his name—but was someone else entirely.
Love
so much
it haunts
the hate
in others.
- Christopher Poindexter
Part One
THE RISE OF DAUGHTERS
From the lost diaries of Iraklis Vidalatos
five centuries ago
I pray to the gods who remain that I haven’t damned my entire bloodline.
