Prologue
THYRA
Idied on the day I was born.
My mother had fallen asleep among the flowers in her garden, holding me to her chest while my father cradled her in his arms.
He told me how he breathed in the scent of roses in her hair one last time before he took me, gently and carefully, from her sleeping arms, wrapped me in a blanket, and strapped me to his chest.
Without her knowledge, he had already placed two bodies in her nearby cottage—that of a man and a newborn child, both lowborn fae who had died from a fever the week before.
Then he set the cottage alight.
My mother was safe where she slept. A wide, meandering stream lay between her and the burning structure. Even so, Father stayed hidden within the surrounding trees until she woke to make sure she didn’t run into the flames.
With a broken voice and tears in his eyes, he told me how he barely survived her screams as the fire kept her back and she collapsedfrom grief.
I don’t remember any of it. Not her screams. Not the flames.
Not her.
The only other things my father told me about her are that she was highborn, a fae with the power to conjure the most perfect white roses, and that she had no idea what she had given birth to on that day.
He commanded me never to ask who she was and never to try to find her, because even asking would put her in danger.
My young soul ached, and I begged him to tell me why, to which he replied, “The three kingdoms are at war, Thyra. Iron, Frost, and Ember. Their kings will stop at nothing to destroy each other.”
“What does that have to do with Mother?” I asked, my throat tight with anguish.
“It’s not about your mother,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s about you. You would be their weapon against each other, and they would hurt—evenkill—anyone to get to you. Your mother included.”
After a long moment, his gaze burning into mine, he added, “Thyra, you must be careful. The three kings mustneverfind you.”
That day, I learned my first lesson: I am a danger to anyone who loves me.
Chapter One
Thyra
Ashimmer of magic is the only warning that death is coming for me.
Golden power ripples across the air, filling the space above the sparkling water I’m wading in. The pulse of energy is so strong that it snatches the air from my chest.
I started work for the day only moments ago in the rock pools at the side of this coastal village, my feet and legs protected from the sharp rocks by high boots that extend up to my thighs. I was preparing to search for the pale blue shells that contain strands of gold and silver, for which highborn fae will pay good coin.
For the last three years, I’ve worked with this group of women: all of them lowborn, all of them generous with their care and attention as they took me under their wing and taught me how to harvest the shells without damaging the treasure within.
Now, each of the ten women jolts upright, water streaming from their hands, some of them clutching unopened shells,others in the process of prying the pale blue pods open with specially curved blades.
Their weathered faces turn deathly pale, and their faded eyes immediately focus on the sky.
A blaze of unnatural fire cuts across the deep blue above us, a streak of flames so terrifyingly quiet that, for a split second, I convince myself we’ll be okay.
Death will not claim us this day.
Then the flames hit the waves beyond the rock pools. Flames that, if they were ordinary, would be extinguished by the vast body of water.
This fire is not ordinary.
