Prologue
The Great Romances of the Old World: The Curse of a Phynnic Princess
Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Phynx, a Princess loved a Prince. When her beloved arrived at the castle gates, he wore a proposal on his tongue and the armor of her enemies.
“An heir of Brennax is a bitter foe; no Brennac son will have the hand of my daughter,” her father, the King, spat. “You are never to speak to her again.”
But the lovers were not so easily deterred. They continued their courtship and spoke through an enchanted mirror, concealing their love from the realms that wished them apart.
Wrathful Kings could not forbid what they both longed for so dearly. With solemn hearts, they hatched a bold, romantic plan to be together at last.
The Princess cast a curse upon herself—to sleep so soundly that even the healers would think her dead. All curses required a bargain; this one demanded a timeline. She would need to be roused within a fortnight or risk eternal sleep.
She left a tear-streaked note to her most trusted maid. “Have me buried deep within the wilds. I wish to be free. Leave me with my favorite stone—the one with the golden sun—and my hand mirror.”
Only the Prince knew how to wake her.
A kiss to the stone, then to the lips from her truest of heart would break the spell.
But the Princess’ choice of confidant was a mistake. Needing money to feed her family, the maid stole the valuable stone and left a counterfeit in the tomb.
Storms delayed the Prince. He fought through the jungle to get to his lover with only minutes to spare. She lay so still. “My dearest, I will wake you,” he whispered.
He kissed the stone, then her lips.
Yet her eyes did not flutter open.
He tried again and again to no avail.
Weeping, he thought himself too late—he had lost her. The Princess would eternally sleep.
Before driving a dagger through his aching heart, the Prince cursed the tomb to protect them. In dreams and death, they would never again be apart.
Chapter 1
Elsedora
Three years into the Sethe curse…
Ihacked back overgrown foliage to reach the cliff where a tomb should lie. Fenris flanked me, grunting with exertion as he pushed away thick branches with his forearm.
A vine-covered rock face greeted us, stretching up toward a blue sky framed by the jungle canopy. It looked like a pile of boulders, too steep to scale and too expansive to go around.
“Are you sure we’ve gone in the right direction?” Fenris questioned with a furrowed brow as a bead of sweat ran down his pale, freckled forehead.
“This should be it.” I sucked in my cheeks. We’d taken no wrong turns, traversing deep into the wilds outside of Laome, the East Corridor’s capital.
“Sources, it’s muggy.” Fen pulled his shirt hem up to wipe the perspiration from his temples.
“You know… Cassidee complains less,” I teased. The Constable of Luz, and my dear friend, usually tagged along with me—provided I was allowing company.
Despite being told to stay back in Luz, my dear brother insisted on coming with me. I’d find the relics quicker without him, but I enjoyed his presence, nonetheless.
“Did Isolde’s dusty old book mention this place?” Fen asked.
It had been three years since Caym’s army destroyed the amphitheater. I’d spent that time looking for the First Reverist’s lost relics, tools to wield against him when he inevitably rose again.
That book of prophecies had proved no more useful than a doorstop. “No,” I said as I searched the rock face for interruptions in pattern or cracks. “Asterie found records of a burial site here.”
