Strange & Deadly.

(Imagine me with jazz hands right here. 👐)

In Classic Sooz Fashion, the ending of S&D involved a ton of colliding plot threads I had to weave together, so it took me a bit longer than planned. (Also Classic Sooz. Always optimistic I’ll finish faster than I ever actually do.)

But YAY! That’s my second book complete this year! Which means I’ve already hit my annual goal of finishing two books before 2027!

Maybe I’ll actually hit my stretch goal of finishing three books this year?! 👀 Wish me luck!

Reminder to pre-order!

Please, please pre-order Four and Twenty Blackbirds!

And just a reminder that all Murder Quartet books release as paperbacks and hardcovers on the same day! So hardcovers are a limited print run, meaning once sold out, then.that’s it. No more printed hardcovers. Only paperbacks after that.

ALSO: stay tuned because the UK cover is coming in just two weeks….🇬🇧

Sneak Peek Voting Results

Over on the Discord, I asked you all to vote on what books you wanted to see teasers from. Imagine my surprise when HALF THE VOTES were for “Something New We Don’t Know Yet.”

Well, okay then! Your vote is my command! Below, I’ve got a teaser from something new you don’t know yet.

Yet rather than give you only the introductory scenes of this WIP (called The Hand That Feeds), I decided to give you both Chapter 1 and Chapter 7. My reasoning? Chapter 1 introduces you to Claudia and her job/personality.

Then Chapter 7 is where you get to meet my most favorite character: Grayson Blue. 😍

Truly. Grayson Blue is quite possibly my most favorite character I have ever written.

I know, I know. I always say I don’t pick favorites—and that’s not a lie! I am obsessed with whomever I am currently writing, otherwise I have no motivation to write my books.

But ungh.

Grayson Blue.

He’s just so distinctly himself.And despite the gruesome name and also, yes, frequent murder and some monsters, The Hand That Feeds is probably my funniest book after TE3.

So enjoy the early look, dear friends!

The Hand That Feeds

On the hot, sticky Emerald Isle of Her Majesty’s Empire, in the vibrant metropolis of Larenia, three powerful families reign supreme. As the heads of industry, there is nothing the Diarz, Mota, and Blue families do not control—a lesson that duty-minded Detective Constable Claudia Cartwright has learned the hard way. After she failed to arrest Reginald Diarz for the murder of his wife a year ago, she found herself demoted from the tippiest top right on down to the grimiest bottom.

Her mother would say it’s her own fault for getting greedy. And while yes Claudia’s ambition sometimes sends her down rash pathways, her unwavering sense of justice always gets her back on course.

When the charismatic (and conspiracy-minded) reporter, Grayson Blue, shows up with a scoop on the allegedly magical serial killer known as Mack the Knife, Claudia’s first instinct is to kick Grayson to the curb. But when she herself has a run-in with the masked man of urban legends, her ambition and hunger for justice end up on a collision course.

From the science-filled Royal Institute to glittering galas at the opera, from holy temples to gas-filled mine shafts, Claudia will peel back a twisted world of gods, cults, and magic that she never imagined were lurking in the shadows of her beloved Larenia. Yet it’s the mysteries close to her heart that might be hardest for her to solve.

Chapter 1

Detective Constable Claudia Cartwright has always wondered if there might be something wrong with her.

After all, most people, when they look upon death, don’t feel flutters of excitement in their abdomen. They don’t think, Finally, something interesting to examine. And they absolutely do not start mentally cataloging every detail for later perusal in their mind’s eye.

Although, admittedly, the sheer number of flies is making it hard to get a good look at much of anything here in Awful Bank, where the stench of fish offal is so strong, it overpowers the coppery blood that should be wafting of this young man’s body.

Five steps away from Claudia, a match flares. The offal and sun-baked seaweed briefly disappear beneath sulfur dioxide…then tobacco smoke. Without a thought, Claudia summons a glass ashtray from her khaki constabulary uniform and slides her arm sideways. Several moments later, the first ash from Chief Inspector Erik Hudsson’s cigarette lands.

“Well,” he says from around his cigarette. “That’s a new one. Death by flagpole.”

“Yes,” Claudia agrees. She has seen quite a few corpses in her career—and in all manner of misery and mayhem—but death by flagpole…

Well, it shouldn’t be as exciting as it is.

Tap, tap, tap. Hudsson’s cigarette makes a familiar rhythm on the ashtray. “Any identification on him?”

“No, sir.”

“Any match to missing persons?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Hudsson sighs. “Anything useful at all for me, Constable?”

Claudia winces—internally only, of course. She has trained herself to be as expressionless as a can of tuna because Hudsson really doesn’t like all those lady emotions. (Which Claudia is pretty certain are the same emotions all other genders possess as well.)

Scientific detachment! reminds a voice like Terrence.

“No, sir,” Claudia says again. “There’s nothing useful so far, but I haven’t finished surveying the scene. And once the white coats have contained the area, they might uncover something that can help us.”

Hudsson takes a long drag of his cigarette. His broad chest expands within his suit. “Mightuncover something,” he says, “but probably won’t. It’s Awful Bank. Everything here is contaminated by the fish.”

And that, sir, is why you never solve a case. Claudia nods her head. “Very good point, sir. Although the canning factories are several blocks away. You’ll notice this alley is actually quite clean—”

Hudsson interrupts her with a jaw-cracking yawn. Thick blue smoke curls from his mouth. There’s ash in his mustache—old ash that Claudia suspects has been there since last night, given that last night marks one of his biweekly evenings at the Grand Casino on Eighth Ave…

And oh gods, why does she know this information? Why can’t her brain eject useless facts like the rhythms of her boss’s gambling habit? Why must she hang onto every useless thing she ever notices?

Once upon a time, she was the foremost detective in the Royal Constabulary. Youngest Chief Inspector in Larenia! A real prodigy! How the hell did she drop so low?

“Alrighty,” Hudsson says eventually. “I’ll leave you to this. I’ve got business uphill.”

“Up…hill, sir?” Claudia blinks. “Has there been a crime?”

“I assume so.” His mustache wiggles. His chest expands. “One of the families wants to see me. They’ve asked for me direct ‘cause they’ve got a case that needs solving—and they think I’m the man to do it.”

So much for scientific detachment. Claudia’s interest is so sharply piqued, her entire body cants toward Hudsson. The next flick of cigarette ash lands on her sleeve. “You, sir?”

Hudsson smiles. “Me, Constable. They asked for me.” He stubs the cigarette into the ashtray—which Claudia almost drops because she completely forgot she was holding it. Ash scatters like flower petals across the body.

Until a sea breeze gusts through. It scatters the ash into the sticky morning air, while the flag—ripped in half, so only part of Her Majesty’s golden crown is visible—waves as limply as Claudia’s hair.

“Report to me back at the office,” Hudsson declares before spinning on a scuffed heel and aiming for the alley’s end.

Claudia can do nothing but watch him go, her arm still outstretched. The ashtray still in hand.

One of the flies lands on its rim. She stares at it with unseeing eyes, while two different scenarios compete for space inside her brain. One: Hudsson goes uphill, where he takes a case for the most powerful families in Larenia; he fails miserably at solving it; and everyone at the Royal Constabulary will have no choice but to acknowledge Claudia should once more be Chief Inspector. (Youngest Chief Inspector in Larenia! A real prodigy!)

Two: Hudsson goes uphill, where he takes a case for the most powerful families in Larenia; he fails miserably at solving it; and whatever lives were at stake end up ruined because he’s good for absolutely nothing except shedding mustache hairs and cigarette ash.

Claudia frowns at the very ruined corpse that used to be handsome when he was alive. It’s an undeniably fascinating crime scene. A flagpole through the ribcage that feels just a little too posed for a hasty crime of passion. Three minutes ago, she was excited by it.

Now she is only annoyed.

Footsteps clomp. Familiar in their general air of grumpiness, meaning the first white coat has arrived. Everyone calls him Sawbones because no one ever remembers his real name, even though it’s written on all the coroner’s reports: Doctor Seamus Kelly. To everyone, he’s just plain Sawbones, the former navy medic turned coroner whose default expression is a scowl.

Scratch that. It’s his only expression. Even when he smiles, he scowls. And laughter? Scowl, scowl, scowl all while chuckles rumble up from his long chest. Mostly though, his scowls are simply the standard unhappy sort you’d expect.

“Cartwright,” he gruffs out.

“Sawbones,” she replies.

His white lab coat is buttoned over the usual antiquated suit he likes to wear. He’s not an old man—early forties at most—but he dresses like Claudia’s grandfather and even wears muttonchops. Brown ones with gray streaks. If not for the round, silver spectacles on his crooked nose, he’d look more like the sailor he once was than a medical professional tasked with examining crime scenes.

“Are you finished here?” Sawbones sets his usual black doctor’s bag and larger gray supply satchel on a “clean” space several feet from the corpse.

No is what Claudia ought to say, given she hasn’t actually explored much of this particular crime scene at all. And now that the morning sun has lifted high enough to beam past the hills of Awful Bank, she has excellent lighting inside this nasty alleyway near the dockyards.

And no is what she ought to say because if she can solve this murder while Hudsson is distracted by something uphill, she might actually be able to claim the credit that’s due her for once—instead of having him sweep in and steal it.

But dammit, what if someone in Upper Larenia needs help?

“Do you know why Hudsson was called uphill?” She turns a hopeful expression upon Sawbones.

Unfortunately, all she gets in return is the lift of a single bushy eyebrow, pale brown like his muttonchops and hair. “Is that where he was going?”

Claudia sighs. “Then no, I’m not done here, and I would very much like to drown my frustrations in viscera. First things first, Sawbones, I need a time of death.”

Chapter 7

The first thing you need to know about Grayson Blue is this: at least half of everything he says is a lie.

Second: anything he says that isn’t a lie is still most likely untrue because despite his—as painful as it is to admit—good reporting and beautiful writing for the Larenia Gazette, the man is also shockingly gullible. Prone to parroting out facts of dubious origin with all the conviction of an evangelist.

There’s slime people at the bottom of the bay, Claudia. I’m sure of it.

The Ritreicher Mine incident was a conspiracy involving an ancient curse, CeeCee. I promise you that.

Did you hear about that half-bat boy born over in Awful Bay? He’s got wings.

Which is why, on any usual day, if Grayson Blue darkens Claudia’s door with a proposal, she tells him to shove it where the sun never shines.

This always makes him laugh.

It does not, however, make him go away, as is plainly evident at this precise moment beside the Sultry Seven’s bar.

Over their six years of acquaintanceship, Grayson’s proposals to Claudia have ranged from, I’ll give you a tenner if you let me look in the evidence locker, to I need a date for the races, and you’re short enough not to block the view—wanna join? He has asked her to take bribes, give bribes, trade bribes, lie on record, lie off record, and once, enter the Goldenhand Cult under pretenses she’d like to join them.

There is no gutter Grayson won’t squirm into for a scoop, and no person he won’t drag into the gutter alongside him.

Tonight, however, before Claudia can offer her standard retort regarding sunless places, Grayson leans in and murmurs, “I’ve got information on your dead man, if that sweetens the pot at all.”

Claudia blanches. If Sawbones revealed details about their murder victim, then she doesn’t care if he’s the best coroner at the station. She will arrest him.

Grayson grins, as if following her thoughts. “Come on then, CeeCee. Follow me.” He shifts to leave.

And Claudia slaps a hand on his much higher shoulder. “This is my post. I have to watch the bar for pickpockets.”

Grayson blinks a guileless blink. “No you don’t. I already got Uncle Jorgen to let you go for an hour.”

Right. Uncle Jorgen. Of course Grayson would be related to the casino’s owner. Because all the families in Upper Larenia mix and match so that their beautiful, spoiled brats can produce more beautiful, spoiled brats.

Grayson nods, as if satisfied Claudia will follow, then he embarks. And unlike Claudia, he blends easily into the sea of wealthy and wealthy-aspiring with his perfect tux and easy confidence. With his long legs that move like a dancer’s (literally a dancer’s because his mother made him take ballet as a boy).

In moments, he has vanished, forcing Claudia to hop-to if she wants to keep up.

And curse her, but she does want to keep up.

Which has always been her problem with Grayson Blue: every now and then he will bring her a useful scoop. A bit like Roger the cat when he drops dead creatures onto Claudia’s doorstep.

Claudia scampers into the crowd, ice jostling in her glass as she resumes her earlier dip and weave. It takes her several seconds, but there. She finds the distinctive white streak in Grayson’s hair.

It slides from his left temple to the back of his head, tapering to a point like an arrow, and Claudia is thoroughly convinced it’s the work of bleach and a hair stylist. (If she ever finds evidence of this, she will absolutely leak it to Grayson’s rival, Thandris Gruin at the Daily Herald.)

At the hallway in which only high rollers are allowed, Grayson pauses long enough for Claudia to catch up. “She’s with me, Dickie,” he tells the bouncer.

The man bows his head.

And it is absurd to observe. A bull mastiff of a man genuflecting to the human embodiment of a greyhound.

Dickie ignores Claudia as she passes by, and since Grayson’s greyhound legs claim two steps for every one of Claudia’s, she has to run to keep up.

The hall stretches before her, splitting off at several points before ending in a rounded stairwell. They ascend, Grayson at the lead as the steps curl and curl. As the noise of the Sultry Seven fades to distant laughter. As the stench of tobacco clears to reveal a smell like lemons and old money.

On the second floor, panels of mirrors send Claudia’s reflection bouncing back and forth, each version of her smaller than the last. She looks stoutly at the red rug instead of all those little Claudias in their hideous puce gown. (Really, why did she waste her money on this thing?)

Three doors down on the left, and Grayson finally stops. Click goes a lock. Then Grayson swings the door open and motions for Claudia to step inside.

She follows and finds a simple space with a felt-covered table at the center, four chairs, a private bar on the left, and a great deal more red.

Grayson shuts the door behind her and after motioning Claudia to the table, he meanders to the bar. In seconds, he’s got a scotch on the rocks. Claudia doesn’t recognize the label, but she’s willing to bet it costs more than the Winter Tern.

Lamps turn Grayson’s naturally brown skin to coppery; the white streak in his hair flashes. Despite his lanky proportions and, frankly, only middling attractiveness (for a Blue, at least), there is something compulsively watchable about him. Maybe it’s the dancer’s grace, maybe it’s the rich-man confidence, maybe it’s the constant, constant droop of one shoulder to the side as if he and gravity can’t decide who’s in charge…

Whatever the reason, Claudia hates how hard it is to pry her attention away.

She claims a seat at the card table. Then she gulps back enough gin and tonic to make her brain hurt. “My dead guy,” she prompts once Grayson is step-ball-changing toward her. “Tell me what you know.”

“Counter proposal.” Grayson leads against the table’s edge, one ankle kicking over the other. “I tell you what I know after you hear why I’ve been trying to find you.”

“No.” Another sip of Winter Tern. It is entirely too smooth. “Tell me about my dead guy or I walk.”

“But CeeCee, this is urgent.”

“Your definition of urgent rarely aligns with mine.” Claudia sets her drink onto the table. “And you know I hate that nickname. Say it again, and I’m out the door. Immediately.”

“Fine, Claudia.” He lifts his hands. “Edward was killed by Mack the Knife. Now onto what I need—”

“Noooo. No, no, no.” Claudia tips her head back and groans at the ceiling. “Why did I think you might actually have something useful for me?” Another groan for good measure before she pushes away from the table. “When will I learn my blasted lesson about you?”

Grayson sidles into her path. “Hold up. It is a good tip, and I have evidence this time.”

“Mack the Knife isn’t real, Grayson.”

“Of course he is.” Heat flashes in Grayson’s eyes. His irises are nearly as dark as his pupils, and with his thick, black lashes, it sometimes looks as if there’s no whites in there at all.

It always makes Claudia think of the Eyeless One.

“You can go see for yourself at Queen’s Welcome. I’ll even join you, if you like.”

“Oh, will you? How generous. Just like when you offered to join me at the Mota factory, where they were putting…what was it? Mind-control magnets into their watches?”

“You still haven’t proved me wrong on that one.”

“And how about Her Majesty being a lizard person?”

“Do you have any evidence to the contrary?”

“Or that time…oh, when was it? A year ago, when you swore up and down that you had proof Reginald Diarz killed his wife? But on the day you were supposed to bring the proof to me, so I could get my warrant, you didn’t show up?”

Now he winces.

“I’m done here, Grayson.” Claudia really is done, and when she tries to sidestep him again, he doesn’t interfere.

He does, however, chase alongside her (like an actual greyhound).

“I will pay you, Claudia. Name your price. Hourly rate, daily rate—whatever you want, it’s yours. That advertisemet I put onto the station bulletin board was serious. I need help. I have a scoop, and I can’t crack it without your brilliance. Besides, don’t you want the evidence I have about Mack the Knife? You could arrest the man and go down in history for it.”

Claudia snorts. She’s almost to the door now. “Sure, Grayson, lay it on me.”

“Only if you help.”

“In that case, no. I don’t want the evidence.”

Grayson hesitates, which gives Claudia time to stomp into the hallway. Then keep on stomping. Because the reality is that, if not for Grayson Blue, then Claudia would still be Chief Inspector.

And worse—if not for Grayson Blue, then Reginald Diarz would be in jail right now, rotting away like he deserves.

Claudia reaches the stairs. But of course Grayson has caught up to her. “Don’t you want to know what Chief Inspector Hudsson is up to? Don’t you want to know why he was called uphill?”

Grayson is whispering these questions, as if he’s afraid all those endless ears in the endless mirrors are actually listening.

And although Claudia hates herself…she does stop. Then square herself toward him. He’s close enough for her to smell his whiskey and see how it has wet his bottom lip. “What do you know?”

“Shhh.” He dips closer. “I don’t know much. But it definitely has to do with your old friend Reginald, and...” A furtive glance left and right. A lick at that whiskey on his lip. “Well, his daughter Lilac is missing. But wait—don’t get upset about what I’m going to say next.”

Claudia scowls. “Of course I’m going to get upset, Grayson.” She opens her arms. “But say it anyway. You always do.”

He sighs. Then offers an uncharacteristic frown before saying, “I swear to you, CeeCee. On my honor, I swear Lilac Diarz has been kidnapped, and it’s Mack the Knife who’s taken her.”

I realize I’ve probably not yet convinced you to adore Grayson, but that’s okay! When I finish this quirky fantasy detective mystery, you will get to experience and see for yourself.

Now, off I go to do a quick edit of S&D before sending it off to helpful readers!

Thanks for being amazing, friends. 😘

💚 - Sooz

I realize this is coming out of nowhere—especially since I’ve been so quiet this year. But the reason for the quiet was twofold.

1. I was under orders not to share anything until we had something definitive to share. (WHICH NOW WE DO.)

2. I’ve been hard at work. (More on that below.)

Onward first to the cover reveal!

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Murder Quartet Release Swap-a-roo

Many of you likely noticed that the Two for Joy release date of May 5, 2026 came…and then went zooming right by without an actual book release.

Long story short, we needed more time to get the covers set. And I’m so, so grateful to my team at HarperCollins for putting in that extra work, time, and cost to really bring the books in my upcoming series to life.

It’s never fun to delay a book, but the cover is absolutely, hands-down the most important element of a book’s marketing and promo. Humans absolutely judge books by covers!1

Fortunately, since the Murder Quartet’s books (now called the Lakeside Murders) can be read in any order, we simply shifted the releases around so the wait isn’t too long for book 1…

So now Two For Joy will now be book 2, coming out next next July (2027).

And on January 19, 2027, Four & Twenty Blackbirds will hit stores!

4&20 Details and (gasp!) Cover!!

Here are US pre-order links for 4&20. Just a reminder that all Murder Quartet books release as paperbacks and hardcovers on the same day! And hardcovers are a limited print run, so once sold out…that’s it. No more printed. Only paperbacks after that.

And just to entice you to pre-order, here’s the full synopsis:

And now—AT LAST— the US cover (don’t worry: the UK cover is coming soon!! 😘).

I love how all the little items are plucked right out of the story. I love how it’s got both a cozy, winter vibe…

And a pretty strong murder vibe.

The Two For Joy cover—which is also almost complete as well—is a similar design, but with summer vibes and items from Magpie’s story instead. It’s just such a perfect setup for conveying the seasons and…

MURDER!

I’ll share some sneak peeks for 4&20 soon!!!

AND PLEASE PREORDER, FRIENDS!!! Here’s the link again.2 😘

Now About All That Writing I’ve Been Doing…

As mentioned above, I’ve been doing a lot of writing this year.

Like, a lot.

1. Sector Twenty-Six

First, I finished a book that I’m hoping you all will get to read sooner rather than later. It’s called Salt of My Enemy and is book 1 in the Sector 26 duology—an adult, WWII vibes dark fantasy/dystopian with monsters, a quarantine, and a heroine who is by far my most aggressive and abrasive yet. 😅

I’m working on the sequel already, with the hope of getting both books to you all as soon as possible.3

2. A Strange & Deadly Reboot

Then, in a huge surprise that I wrote about here, I wrote a completely new version of my debut novel Something Strange & Deadly. It’s literally not even the same book—so it’s not a rewrite or an edit.

It’s more like I took the same premise—Eleanor Fitt, is a high society lady on hard times in 1876 Philadelphia, who must turn to a ragtag group known as the Spirit-Hunters when her brother is taken by necromancer—and I just…

Well, I wrote it the way I write all books now. The true modern Sooz experience, since I’m now have 17 years of experience under my belt. I don’t write the same way as I did in 2009, as in my process of crafting a story is totally different…

And I also don’t write the same way in terms of my style, voice, prose, and scene construction.

You know a Sooz book when you see one, and this new book—which I’m calling simply Strange & Deadly—is absolutely a Sooz book. One I wasn’t planning to write, but that has proven to be an absolute joy.

I’m literally in the climax right now, and I only paused so I could pull together this newsletter…

So here’s to finishing before May is over! And here’s to (hopefully) handing that book off to readers soon too!4

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And that, my dearest readers, is what I’ve been up to and what you can expect from me in the coming year.

Again, please, please, please preorder Four & Twenty Blackbirds. I realize it’s still 7 months away from release, but having preorders truly makes or breaks a book behind the scenes. (There’s a reason we authors are always begging.)

Finally stay tuned for a UK reveal soon, for some 4&20 sneak peeks, and a Two For Joy cover as well…

Now as always: thank you for supporting me! YOU ARE THE ACTUAL BEST.

💚 - Sooz

It has been so long since the last update. Many apologies for that — but also, I haven’t had much to share. The intensity of the double release in the fall followed by holidays with the kiddo home, followed by nonstop sickness/snow days/winter break and…

Yeah, I just got a bit behind trying to stay on top of work and manage all that “kid is home and life is interrupted again” that winter always seems to bring. I’m not complaining! It hasn’t been hard, so much as simply busy.

Meanwhile, many of you have noticed there’s a delay in Two for Joy. And I’ll have more information soon(ish) about that — but don’t worry. The book is still coming. It’s all done and copyedited. But we are mixing around the release dates for the Murder Quartet to buy a little more time on the behind-the-scenes stuff. May was just a little too soon to pull off AND nail the full production package.

I am frankly relieved. I was so tired after the fall. 😅 The thought of ramping up self promo again, was overwhelming.

But phew! You can stay tuned for a full rundown on the Murder Quartet soon (yay!).

In the meantime, IT IS MY BIRTHDAY TODAY. I am 42, and it’s wild to think I’ve been doing this publishing thing since I was a fresh-faced 26 year old. Stunning, really, and also incredible.

I am so lucky to still be doing what I love. So thank you for making that possible, dearest of dearest readers. 😊

To celebrate my birthday, I wanted to share some SURPRISE art I commissioned for two of our most popular Witchlands characters: Leopold and Vaness!!

These are both by the wonderfully talented Dani Balangawa, and I just love how they turned out. So elegant, our Empress of Iron. So crafty, our Prince of Cartorra…

Aren’t they just beautiful? 🤩 And notice the design on Leopold’s cloak, my dear Sightwitch fans. 👀

So happy birthday to ME! I hope you all enjoy the official art. 😉

It’ll likely be another few weeks before I’m back again. I’ve got to get through an imminent deadline, then a second right after that. But hopefully when I return, I’ll have MURDER QUARTET UPDATES and maybe even a…cover? 😌

Thanks for being awesome, friends. Until then!

💚 - Sooz

Giveaway Reminder + Pre-order Sale!

First off, it’s the LAST DAY AND A HALF TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY! You can win a signed, personalized set of the entire Witchlands series, and the giveaway is open internationally!

Enter here.

Next up, the B&N 25% off pre-order sale is going, and there are two versions of Two for Joy that qualify! Use the code PREORDER25!

Here is the hardcover edition on B&N.

Here is the paperback on B&N.

(Remember: the hardcover will be a limited print run, so pre-order early if you want to get a copy.)

Also, stay tuned because a Two For Joy cover is not far off now!

Eight Things I Loved in 2025

This was a weird year for me. On the personal front, the second quarter of the year was entirely dominated by hardship and loss. That’s life; we move on.

But the impact of that rippled out in unexpected ways—namely: work became my fixation. It was a coping mechanism, of course. I worked so much that I had no space left for grief. I wrote and I promoted and I wrote and I traveled and I wrote and I edited and...yeah, I wrote.

It means I ended the year with two finished books under my belt and three halves (or more like 2/3rds) of completely new books.

But what I didn’t end the year with was much in the way of refilled creativity. And it has finally caught up to me this past week with the holiday. After months and months of creative spark and output...

I’ve got nothing left in the writing tank, y’all.

I don’t feel burned out. I just feel empty. A bit blah, too1. But I know that simply means I need to focus on recharging until the spark returns.

Also, there is a reason I’m explaining all of this. 😅 I can hear you thinking, Get to the point, Sooz.

But here’s the other unexpected way my second quarter rippled into other arenas of life: I struggled to enjoy much of what I consumed this year. That meant that when I sat down to try to write a “Ten Things I Loved” post, I couldn’t actually find ten. Even the eight I list below were a struggle.

I’m almost certain this is a reflection of ME and not what was I was reading, watching, or playing. My reaction to media this year was a mirror of Where I Was Emotionally.

I’d felt enough big things on my own; I didn’t want to feel big things elsewhere.

Yet, as I work to reclaim some creative inspiration and spark, I’m hoping you all might share what you’ve loved most this past year. I’ll build up a list to tackle over the next few weeks as I ease back into writing.

Now onto my list!

1. Atomfall

This was such a Sooz Game, with immersive gameplay that focuses heavily on environmental storytelling. Also, it relies on a lot of stealth and the slow accumulation of skills.

In other words, you have to be patient and pay attention.

Sure, there are some FPS elements, but this game is more like Prey than Fallout. If you want to rush through, guns blazing...fine. You can. But you’ll be missing the narrative thrust, not to mention all the tiny details that make the world feel lived-in.

I played this game twice this year—that’s how much I enjoyed it. And I loved it even more the second time I played because the DLCs were such a delight.

Atomfall was also really influential for me in terms of helping me finally solidify an idea I’ve been chewing on for almost two years (a WWII vibes, Dig for Victory, post-apocalyptic with monsters adult project). I had my world, I’d done my research, but I just couldn’t get my heroine’s voice locked in. No opening chapter felt right...

But something about the nameless, faceless, and yes, voiceless player character in Atomfall helped me realize why my attempts had all failed: I needed more immediac.

In other words, I needed first person present tense—a POV and tense I’ve never used before now. And lo and behold, a few months after I played Atomfall (for the first time, at least), there was Mabel’s voice, ready to go.

2. Clair Obscur: Expedition 33*

I have to add an asterisk here because I had serious narrative issues that pretty much ruined the game’s story for me. (I realize I’m in the minority on this. Please don’t at me in the comments.)

And yet...

Despite my anger, the first two acts were some of the most intense, gorgeous, gloriously satisfying gaming I’ve ever experienced. So if I just pretend Act 3 never happened...

Then yes. This game is amazing. And one day, I’ll replay it. But rather than continue on, I’ll just stop after that big epic battle at the end of Act 2 and write a fanfic ending. 😌

3. Blue Prince

I’m ashamed at how long it took me so long to realize “Blue Prince” sounds like “blueprints”—which are the core mechanic of this entire game. And what a game! It’s low intensity, low stakes, and so satisfying if you get a good run of blueprints going.

It’s also just atmospheric and mysterious. I truly loved this game, and it’s the sort that I can pick up at any time, without needing to start over at the beginning.

4. K-Pop Demon Hunters

This needs no explanation. The hype was absolutely and completely deserved. And while I’m sad that my kid has essentially ruined this soundtrack for me with endless replays of “Golden” and “This Is What It Sounds Like,” I still think this movie is the best of the year.

5. Age of Ash and Blade of Dream by Daniel Abraham

These are the first two books in a planned trilogy, and wow. I loved them. Daniel Abraham is one half of the famous coauthor team, James S.A. Corey (who wrote the Exapanse books), and I’m so glad I tried out his solo stuff.

This trilogy has such a unique structure, following different characters in each book as they navigate the same city-wide conflict. I’m truly awed at how Abraham kept the story so fresh while technically rehashing what we already saw in the previous book.

I can’t wait for the third installment.

6. Murderbot (the show)

I will admit I have never read these novellas. But I’m also glad I went into the show with absolutely no idea what to expect. Alexander Skarsgård is amazing. Just amazing. I laughed so hard, and I was deeply invested in the story.

Plus, just from a narrative angle, the writers did an incredible job of packing a ton of plot into a single episode.

7. The Studio

While yes, some episodes of The Studio gave me so much secondhand embarrassment I had to cover my eyes, this was also some of the funniest, cleverest TV shows I’ve seen in years. Plus, the way it all came together in the season finale? I laughed so hard I was crying. Literally crying.

8. Wheel of Time, season 3

I loved this show. I really did. It had so much heart and also so much hope. Plus, I just adored how multidimensional the characters were! Good guys had streaks of bad, and bad guys had streaks of good...

It reminded me a lot of the Witchlands, honestly.

Was the series perfect? No. But unlike with other shows/games/movies/books where one narrative quibble can ruin an experience for me...

I still adored WoT, quibbles and all. I’m heartbroken there won’t be more seasons.

And that’s it.

That’s all the media I have for you from 2025. There were plenty of other things I consumed, but nothing that I felt so strongly about I wanted to list them here. (Which, again, is more of a reflection on me than it is on the media.)

So now you tell me: What were your favorite books, games, shows, or movies of 2025?

💚 - Sooz

Leave a comment

Thank you to everyone who answered my survey in the last newsletter! I definitely wasn’t weekly in my schedule since that email went out…

But in my defense, I had two deadlines for two different books! And I hit them both. 🎉 The first Murder Quartet book, Two for Joy, is now copyedited. Meaning the next (and final) step for me will be the first pass pages.1 All of the hard stuff is past.

And you can expect to read Two for Joy in only FIVE MONTHS. Yes, you read that right.

Five months until my next book hits stores.2

Of course, you can also scroll down and get a teaser now, too…

The other deadline I hit was for the second Murder Quartet book, Four and Twenty Blackbirds! It’s due out a year from now (so December 2026), and it was a lot harder to finish than Two for Joy.

Which…it was still very easy compared to, say, the Witchlands. But all the touring and promo for The Executioners Three and Witchlight made my autumn a difficult time for sinking into flow.

But I got it done! Two books, one year. My stretch goal was three books—and maybe I’ll still get close. I did dive back into the third Murder Quartet book today, Three Mollys in the Well…😌

Signed, personalized Witchlands series giveaway!

To celebrate the completion of the Witchlands series—and the completion of all my travel, I’ve got an international giveaway for all of you.

Win all of the Witchlands books SIGNED and PERSONALIZED!

All of the books will be hardcover and have the new covers, with the exception of Sightwitch—you can choose between the old cover on a hardcover OR a paperback with a new cover. 🥰

Now click on the button to enter! And thank you for being a subscriber and reader!

Enter the giveaway!

Two for Joy Teaser!

If you haven’t read the first chapter in Two for Joy, do that here! I updated the chapter to match any changes I made during copyedits—but they were truly minimal. (No need to reread, in other words.)

Also, please pre-order! I would love it if you pre-order!

Especially since Two for Joy is being released straight to paperback in the US with only a LIMITED FIRST EDITION HARDCOVER RUN. In other words, on release day, both the paperback and hardcover will hit stores in the US….

But one will get reprinted when supplies run out. The other (the hardcover) will not. 👀

Pre-order in the US

Pre-order in the UK

Now on to Chapter Two!

CHAPTER TWO

“Where’s Shannon?”

It is 5:25 in the evening, and Magpie stands before Buck at the photo stand-in, her pack snug against her back. The heat of the day coils off the pavement, unrelenting despite the river’s breeze.

The intense heat waves that scorched the region in recent weeks might have tapered off, but that doesn’t mean that summer is ready to release its grip. I still have a few weeks left, the humidity seems to taunt. Don’t put your fans away just yet.

A fan like the portable one Buck holds while he sits in a plastic chair and Liam sits on a bucket. The boys are playing cards—some kind of poker, judging by the dollar bills that seem to be accumulating in Buck’s camo cap.

Also, judging by the slump of Liam’s shoulders, he’s losing.

“Liam’s a fisherman,” Buck declares, as if he didn’t hear what Magpie just asked. He studies his cards while blowing the fan across his face. “Mostly fly fishing, but I’m going to take him out on the pond tomorrow.” The pond is actually a large bend in the river where the current slows and bass gather. “Here, Liam. Want a go at the fan?”

“Oh yes, please.” Liam snatches it to him. Then sighs as the tiny engineered breeze hits his face.

“That’s great.” Magpie frowns. “Have fun on the pond, you two. But why isn’t Shannon here? Aren’t you two going out tonight, Buck?”

“Nope.” Buck drawls this word. “It didn’t work out between us, so we parted ways.”

Magpie blinks. Then rocks back on her heels. “I’m sorry,” she tries to say, only to break off as soon as Buck’s stormy eyes find her.

He clearly doesn’t want her sympathy, and clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s one more girl in the long, snaking line of girls he has hooked up with over the last year and a half.

They don’t call him the Buckin’ Cowboy for nothing.

“Look, Liam. I’ll cut you some slack.” Buck tosses his cards down by the cap. “Keep your tips, and we’ll play again tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank god.” Liam practically melts into his bucket. He switches off the fan. “I’ve lost so much money, I was worried we’d have to sell the condo we just moved into.” While he reclaims his lost dollars from the cap (so many—Magpie guessed right about him losing), Buck pushes to standing.

Which brings him right next to Magpie, where she can’t help but notice a new algae stain on his Chain Ferry T-shirt. “Liam says you’re going to the museum now. Want me to pilot you?”

Magpie’s eyebrows rise. “Would you?” This wouldn’t be the first time Buck has given her an exclusive trip across the river to meet his sister, but it’s certainly been a while since he offered.

“Of course, Mags. Anything for you. But—” He dips closer so only she can hear him. He smells like sweat and river. “You have to stop doing that bird-face thing you do around new people.”

Magpie stiffens. Then swallows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She really thought she was getting better about that.

“You don’t need to be afraid of Liam, all right?” Buck pins her with one of his more serious stares. This near, it makes his blue eyes inescapable. “He doesn’t care about Hunter O’Neal—doesn’t even know who the guy is. And frankly, I don’t think he would fall for Hunter’s bullshit anyway, even if he did know.”

Magpie wishes she could believe Buck. Like, she desperately wishes. But everyone else in Two Pines fell for Hunter’s bullshit, so why would a new guy be any different?

A goose squawks nearby. The wind off the river coasts against her. And a flash of color in the nearby park catches her eye. Here, at the center of the maple and red pine trees, is a blue-painted pavilion. As Adelaide says daily on her tour, Here is where Alfonso first confessed his feelings to Jill in the iconic dance scene you see painted on the side of the bus.

Beside the pavilion are two picnic tables that only got installed five months ago because Mayor Taylor decided it was time they reclaimed the space from the geese. (The geese have yet to agree.)

Magpie twists that way, expecting to find a family of waterfowl waddling by. Instead, she finds a person.

They’re tucked by a maple tree near the pavilion, which in and of itself isn’t odd. What does make it odd is that the person is very clearly hiding and also very clearly looking this way.

But when Magpie tries to squint at them—to bring their green shorts and white T-shirt into sharper focus—a gust of wind kicks across her. It carries sand and boat fumes. She coughs. Her eyes tear up.

And by the time she can see clearly again, the figure in the park is gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ferry is a generous term for the actual boat that carries tourists across the local river. At a mere fifteen feet by twelve, it has only two benches—which are as cushionless as Magpie herself.

You should start lifting weights, says a voice like Hunter O’Neal’s. It’ll help you fill out those jeans better, Maggie.

Magpie sighs. It’s been a year; she really wishes she could scrub his backhanded criticisms out of her brain.

After claiming her usual seat, she digs Held by a Duke from the backpack she is almost never without. Then she flips to the last dog-eared page.

She doesn’t mind that Liam is studying the cover and probably judging her genre choice. Or that Buck is whistling his clear whistle (sounds like Nirvana). Or that she has only nine minutes before they reach the river’s other side and the brick museum beyond. Magpie falls right back in to where she left off shortly before closing up shop inside the trailer. The Duke of Rother and Elena are now past their first kiss and moving toward a more intimate embrace.

The Duke is pulling Elena to him, a flicker of tongue just visible behind his perfect teeth. The earlier kiss was Elena’s first ever, and she is now simultaneously terrified and elated to receive more. Her lips touch Rother’s . . . then he plunges in.

It’s not a gentle kiss, but an immediately passionate one. And despite Elena’s inexperience, Rother finds her enthusiasm appealing.

Because of course he does. Elena is everything he desires in a woman, and he doesn’t need a summer tourist to make him happy. Elena fills out her jeans (or Regency ball gown, rather) and she doesn’t look like a beaver when she smiles. She doesn’t annoy Rother with her fumbling inexperience in the boudoir, and Rother doesn’t have to point out that Elena’s bangs look uneven or that her legs look a bit stork-like in those shorts.

Er, in that gown.

And Magpie knows none of this is real life. She knows the Duke of Rother and his endless, unconditional adoration are a fantasy—just as each of the one hundred and sixteen other romance heroes she read about this year are fantasies. Along with the hundred and seventy-four she read last year.

But that’s the point. That’s why Magpie reads these novels: real life can never measure up, so why shouldn’t she—and every other reader out there—be allowed to enjoy some mass-market paperback dreaming?

For a glorious stretch of nine minutes, it’s just the waves lapping and the ferry crank-cranking. The cicadas have started quieting. No motorized boats putter nearby. The sun is sinking behind the forested dune ahead, turning the edges of the sky to pink.

Ahead, the plain, split-level museum stretches down to a retaining wall at the riverbank’s edge. Only a simple red emergency exit disrupts the brick exterior—no windows, no vines, no signs to declare this is the famed spot to get all your Two for Joy fan experiences.

To the right of the museum is a set of wide stairs surrounded by fiddlehead ferns already turning brown with summer’s denouement, and at the base of those stairs is the Chain Ferry’s western landing—less ornate than its eastern sister, with only a wooden bench to disrupt the faded planks.

The ferry thunks! against that dock. It’s not the usual smooth landing Magpie is used to, and she topples forward. Drops her book.

Liam blurts, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m still not used to this.”

Buck hops away from the seat he’d taken when Magpie wasn’t looking. “You’ll get better,” he assures as he strides toward the chain crank to lock it up. On his way, he scoops up the fallen book and hands it back to Magpie.

Liam, meanwhile, is hurrying toward Magpie with a look of pure devastation on his face. “I’m really sorry, Magpie. Is your book wet?”

“It’s fine, Liam.” She shakes it at him. Droplets slide off the Duke of Rother’s exposed abs. “I buy these in bulk. Twenty paperbacks for five bucks at the All Booked Up used bookstore. So even if this had gotten damaged—which it didn’t—I have plenty more to read at home.” She smiles, lips closed, and pats Liam.

Then she rises so she can do what she always does when it’s just her and Buck: moor the ferry to its western dock. Buck takes one rope, Liam a third, and together, they knot fat, fibrous ropes in silence.

Magpie has just finished tying off her rope—and is about to inspect Liam’s work—when a scream rips out.

Adelaide. Magpie shoots to her full height, so fast she nearly loses her balance. She almost topples into the river. Only Buck’s sudden grip against her keeps her on the dock.

Another scream splits the evening. And Buck—now certain Magpie won’t plummet into the murky depths—leaps away like the baseball player he is after hitting a double. He reaches the steps up to the museum and claims three at a time. Ferns grasp and claw for him.

In moments, he has reached the parking lot and vanished.

Magpie looks at Liam, whose mouth hangs open. “Come on,” she commands before launching into a sprint of her own.

A third scream sounds.

Somehow two weeks (and a day) have passed since Witchlight hit stores. Many of you are reading1! I also saw so many of you on the road—or I’m going to see you tonight in Louisville. And of course, I’ve gotten tagged on social left and right by people receiving their copies or reading their copies or just posting fan art. 😭😭😭

THANK YOU! I can’t say it enough. As my life slips back into my usual routine of writing, raising Cricket, and managing a healing Junebug, it’s all too easy to forget the incredible ACCOMPLISHMENT that was (and is) Witchlight. And it wouldn’t exist if not for all of you.

💚

Side note: if you have already read the book (or any of my novels!!), PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW. On retailers and Goodreads, especially. Reviews help boost a title in the algorithm, and more importantly, they help convince new buyers to read. 😌

Witch Heart, the pre-order short story

As most of you have already seen, we hit TIER 3 on the Witchlight pre-order campaign! And I sent out a 3,100-word short story and cover art by C.J. Merrill last week to all the people who voted.

You can see the final voting results here. (To my Polly voters: thank you for your loyalty to the tricksy redacted for spoilers. I might have a little extra for you fans coming soon…)

If you didn’t get that pre-order email with the links to download + Iseult/Aeduan art and you DID submit your receipt before Nov. 4, then please email me! You can hit reply to this email, or you can just reach to susan at susandennard . com.

Thank you again to everyone who pre-ordered and boosted. I was truly thrilled with how many of you showed up, spread the word, and voted.

We are one EPIC community!!

TE3 hits Walmart!

The Executioners Three hits Walmart today! Guys, this is my FIRST EVER book to get picked up by Walmart!

I realize you likely don’t need another copy…but you know, the holidays are coming up! And what better gift is there than the gift of cozy horror romance mystery with lots of 90s jokes and laughs?

Get a copy!

Murder Quartet officially announced!

Speaking of cozy horror romance mysteries, the four-book Murder Quartet deal was officially announced two weeks ago!

Did you see?

And did you know you can already pre-order?! The first book, Two For Joy, literally hits stores in only 5.5 months. 😱

Read chapter one here. (Although, keep in mind this is a first draft. I get copy edits next week, so I’ll update the chapter once those are done to match the final, polished version.)

Pre-order the US editions

Pre-order the UK editions

What do you want from the Worlds of Susan Dennard?

I have been sending weekly (or almost weekly emails) for years now, and I can’t tell if that’s good? Or annoying? Or [insert another adjective here]?

So please help me figure out how to best serve all of YOU who have kindly signed up to receive my emails in your inbox, and I’ll see how I can best meet what you wonderful readers desire. 🥰

Also, BE HONEST. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings—I want data so I can tailor this to you. I’d rather have the truth so I can course correct than keep sending out emails no one wants or reads. 😉🫶

Thank you all for answering my questions! I’ll be keeping an eye on the results and let you all know if there are going to be changes in the future.

And also—as always—thank you for being here and supporting me. I LOVE YOU!

💚 - Sooz

Well, Witchlight is here.

It has been almost one decade after Truthwitch hit stores, and it has been 12.5 years since I started drafting the series that would change my life. Now finale lands on shelves everywhere.

I am more proud of this book than anything I have ever written or perhaps will ever write.

That isn’t to say I’m not proud of all my books or that they didn’t each have their challenges and joys, but nothing—nothing—can possibly compare to the 12.5 years I have spent working on the Witchlands.

What I thought would be a “fun fantasy” that I started drafting in 2013 very quickly ballooned into a four-book series bought by Tor Teen1. Then along came some “series order trouble” (read below for details) that seriously complicated my creative process during Windwitch.

(I’m not kidding: I wrote an entire book, turned it in…and then emailed my editor a week later and said, Never mind! Just kidding! I’m starting over!)

The ripple effects of the series order were just…incredible.

And they continued to plague me with each book I wrote after. Again, more on that below.

Life also got really hard on the personal front. I won’t rehash it all, but 2018 - 2025 (yes, this year too) were brutal for me, and the Witchlands series had to be set aside for books with a lighter mental load.

But, here we are. >800,000 words after I open Truthwitch with the line,

Everything had gone horribly wrong.

we have reached the epic, EPIC conclusion . With seven main points of view (and a few tiny extras sprinkled in), a bajillion plot threads and planted seeds, heaps of earned payoffs, some of which took me six entire books to carefully weave…

Now it all comes to a head. Now is when devoted readers will finally see their theorizing and tabbed books, their rereads and discussions paying off.

I worked my ass off to make sure every core promise I made in this series was answered, and that I gave all of you the high intensity, maximum stakes, maximum emotion you’ve been waiting for.

So thank you to each of you who pre-ordered and submitted your receipts.2 Thank you to everyone who has gotten a ticket or RSVPed to a coming tour stop.

And above all: thank you to every single readers who has continued to support me over the many years it took me to do this series justice.

Witchlight would not exist if not for ALL OF YOU. I would have abandoned the series long ago in despair at how hard it was to connect all the plot points as I’d envisioned, to make all the character arcs collide in the most satisfying way, to fulfill all the little promises I’d made in Truthwitch (many of which only the most careful readers will have caught)…

But I did it. Thanks to all of you.

So I hope you enjoy Witchlight. Or if you’re just only starting Truthwitch now, then welcome to the Witchlands. You’re in for quite a ride.

💚 - Sooz

Buy the book, US!

Buy the book, UK!

Come see me on tour!

What would I have done differently?

Almost an entire year ago (eep), Asteria asked on my AMA:

How have you seen your style and/or approach evolve, especially in regards to the first Witchlands book compared to the last? I recall there a few world aspects you mentioned you would’ve have written differently (something with the distance and time to travel). Say if you began Truthwitch today, what do you think that would look like? (Or we can take it back further and talk about SS&D to avoid any Witchlands spoilers.)

I’ve put off answering this question because I am not someone who naturally looks backward.3 The past is the past; sure, I have regrets, but I’d rather look ahead and keep working.

But to answer this question—and in honor of the Witchlight release that was so many years in the making)—I want to at least try to excavate the creative and publishing past of the Witchlands.

Lesson 1: I Cannot Compartmentalize

Turns out, like the title says, I cannot compartmentalize.

In all truth, I’m not convinced most people can truly compartmentalize. Yes, first responders or ER doctors or soldiers can absolutely zoom in on the moment and get the work done…

But I think it would be a lie to say that external problems don’t creep in somewhere. Or that the intensity of their job doesn’t bleed outward.

However, there’s a real stigma against acknowledging this truth. How dare you let your divorce impact your output! How dare you let the death of your mother interfere with your schedule! How dare you let your chemotherapy get in the way of these deadlines! How dare you let your job stress impact your family!

We’re supposed to be robots that can task switch with zero residue from what came before. It’s laughable, honestly.4

But, like many, I certainly expected that I’d be able to simply “write through the hard personal times.” (See this post for truly horrifying details of only one instance in which I have done this.)

So yeah: I wish I had been better during Windwitch and then Witchshadow (the two worst times for me in terms of personal challenges) at accepting that compartmentalization was impossible—and that I wasn’t a failure because of that fact.

Life was hell; it impacted my writing; and beating myself up over the decreased productivity only made all of that much worse.

It’s just a book, Sooz. Lower the stakes, yeah?

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Lesson 2: I Wish I’d Made Different Choices Behind the Scenes

This “behind the scenes” stuff is harder to get into—if only because it’s an area where hindsight is 20/20. I could never have anticipated the impact of a few sliding-door business decisions while they were happening.

I can only look back and say, Well, crap.

And those moments are:

1. I wish, wish, wish I had never agreed to change the order of the series and move Bloodwitch to #3, while Iseult’s book after.

   1. The ripple effects of this decision (which was handed to me as a directive on high due to a sales situation) continued to haunt me into Witchlight.

   2. For one, I didn’t plan the series reveals that way! And I had already written and published Truthwitch when this news came to me, so I couldn’t go back and undo all my foreshadowing…

   3. For two, because of these locked-in story elements, Aeduan’s personal reveals and arcs had to be completely re-reckoned. They just weren’t meant to happen before Iseult’s…so now I had to almost split his story…while also splitting hers…

   4. It was a mess.

2. I wish I had pushed harder on making Witchshadow two books.

   1. In actuality, this would not have been an issue in the first place if I’d had my original series arrangement (Truthwitch, Windwitch, Threadwitch, Bloodwitch).

   2. But because of the switched arrangement, I had to add plot to keep things moving. Which meant by the time we got to Iseult’s book, she had…well, too much to deal with.

   3. The story had ballooned thanks to, again, ripple effects. I won’t rehash why making this one book was so tough…but I really wish I’d pushed harder on this. (Read the link above if you want more insights.)

3. I also wish I had not written Sightwitch as such an integral part of the main series—or that I had made clear to my publisher that Sightwitch was book 3 and not just a separate prequel.

   1. The marketing around that book really hurt its performance out of the gate, and it never did sell to the UK—a fact UK readers bemoan to me constantly.

   2. Because I couldn’t assume readers had read Sightwitch, I had to sneak lots of reveals and information into the other characters’ stories. Reveals that I didn’t actually want my characters to know yet, but that I needed readers to be aware of…

      1. I’m looking at you, Aeduan’s mom.

   3. Side note, poor Sightwitch also was just cursed in general.The printing got delayed last minute due to a production issue, so the release date had to be bumped a month. Then the books didn’t reach B&N stores while I was on tour because it simply never left B&N warehouses!5

      1. This isn’t something in my control, so I have no regrets here. I just look back and think, Awwww, poor Sightwitch. She never had a chance!

4. I also wish….kind of, sort of (but also not) that I hadn’t published 4 books between Witchshadow and Witchlight.

   1. I mean, on the one hand, TRAUMA! (See the above link for details.) I needed to write something “easier,” and I’m glad The Luminaries had a chance to release before the YA market completely vanished.

   2. On the other hand, lost momentum! The market for epic fantasy has dramatically changed since 2016. Many of my readers have moved on. And while I’ve done everything humanly possible to re-engage the fandom…

      1. It hurts to get on Tumblr and see just how active and devoted that fandom used to be.

      2. It also hurts to feel like I let everyone down by taking so long. 😞

      3. Not to mention, it has tangibly hurt the long-term success of the series by losing momentum and shedding readers.

Lesson 3: Story Logistics and Scale

I tend to always imagine new story ideas on the scale of a series (instead of, say, a standalone). I can’t help it. The satisfaction of a payoff that takes multiple books to earn—nothing delights me more, both as a reader and as a writer.

But wow. The Witchlands is big.

It has a big map with so many places all so far apart. (So far. 🥲 Even with magic, travel times became a real issue when I was trying to keep intensity high.)

It has a big cast with so many key characters whose arcs all contribute to the overall story in dramatic ways.

And it has a big, big plot with a million moving parts that all had to be planted and then developed and then culminated over many books and POVs.

People frequently tell me that reading the Witchlands feels like playing an RPG. And hey—as a gamer, that is the best compliment EVER. Truly, ever. But…

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Games have entire teams to develop and write for them. All I had was this one little brain, and wow.6

You all might have noticed I’ve just sold a bunch of standalones. And yeah: there’s a reason for that.

1. I want to train my brain to skew “smaller.”

2. I want a break from all the weight that a series carries, in terms of story that fills my brain and in terms of the pressure of contracted books.

3. I need a breather before I tackle anything as massive again—if I ever do.

But all that said, do I actually regret making the Witchlands so big?

Hell no. Hell no. I bit off more than I could chew as a still-young writer back in 2013. But that also forced me to learn “on the job” because each book demanded more from me, creatively and craft-wise.

And now, here I am: really, really damned proud of what I have pulled off in the Witchlands.

I just don’t have any plans to do the same again any time soon. 😉7

In conclusion…

There’s not actually anything I’d do differently. Sure, I can point to moments or choices and say, Ouch. Should have gone a different way…

But like I said before: I don’t tend to look back and stew in any kind of regret. The choices were made. The consequences were dealt with (or are still being dealt with). And here I am.

All I can do is keep working, keep engaging with readers, and keep trying to publish the best goddamned books I can produce.

Oh, and I can feel grateful. That’s an important thing to do too. And on this day of Witchlight’s release—finally—I’m definitely feeling a heckuva a lot of gratitude.

For my readers. For my editor(s) and publishing team. For my agent and her team. For my friends and support network…

All of it. Thank you for sticking with me for so long.

Enjoy.

Which means only ONE WEEK to make sure you’ve pre-ordered (get signed, personalized copies here!), make sure you’ve voted on the short story, and catch up on any re-reads or recaps!

Of course, some of you have already gotten your copies in the mail or on shelves early (😱). Which means, WOW. It really is finally time for the Witchlands conclusion.1

Now, there are a lot of updates in this newsletter, so here’s a guide to help you if you want to skip ahead. 😉

1. Pre-Order Updates

2. Tour Dates & Tickets

3. Join the Discord!

4. EARLY ACCESS REUNION!

5. Instagram Giveaway

1. Pre-Order Updates

In case you haven’t seen on the Discord (link below) or on Instagram, we were up to 1298 pre-orders as of last Thursday!

We only need 202 more to hit the 1500 tier 3 marker, which includes custom art by longtime Witchlands reader (and creator) C.J. Merwild!

So get your last pre-orders in and vote, vote, vote in the short story polls!

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2. Witchlight Tour & Events

Don’t forget the Witchlight Tour! Make sure you’ve gotten your tickets for that as well. 🥳

I WILL SEE YOU ALL SOON!

• Schuler Books

  • Grand Rapids, MI

  • Tuesday, November 4, 2025 6:30 PM

• Roselynn Hill Winery (with A Novel Neighbor)

  • Louisville, KY

  • Wednesday, November 5, 2025 6:30 PM

• Neshaminy Mall Barnes & Noble

  • Bensalem, PA

  • Thursday, November 6, 2025 6:00 PM

• Books of Wonder

  • New York, NY

  • Friday, November 7, 2025 6:00 PM

  • In conversation with Lyssia Mia Smith and moderated by Emily Taylor!

• Texas Book Festival

  • Sunday, November 9, 2025 1:00 PM

  • Featured Author at the Texas Book Festival

3. DenNerds Discord

If you haven’t already joined, then here’s just a reminder that you’re welcome in our DenNerds community on Discord. We’re a pretty active community, and it’s certainly the fastest and easiest way to communicate with yours truly. 😉

So hop on over, engage as much or as little as you want, and feel the EXCITEMENT sparkling everywhere over Witchlight on its way…

4. Early Access Wraps Up!

We’re on the last installment in our Early Access!!!! (It was too long to fit into this email, so I again made a separate page for it.)

Given that there’s only one week left, you don’t have to wait long for the remaining two thirds of the book…although, I’m warning you now: I end on a REAL “gotcha” moment with Early Access.

One that I have been building toward for books—and one many of you readers have been waiting for. A CERTAIN REUNION, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Ahem.

So I hope you enjoy, and I hope even more that you enjoy the full book once it’s in your hands next Tuesday. 🎉

Read the final chapters!

Read all of Early Access

5. Giveaway on Instagram

To get ready for the release in a week, I’m hosting a giveaway on Instagram for YOU AND A FRIEND!

Just go leave a comment, tagging a friend, and you could win a signed, personalized copy of Witchlight while they win Truthwitch!

Enter the giveaway!

Alright, that’s all I’ve got for today. STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK! I truly could not be more hyped for this release. It’s just so rewarding to see all the fans coming together again—or to see new people discovering the Witchlands just in time for the finale…

SEE YOU AGAIN IN YOUR INBOXES SOON!

😭 - Sooz

All Early Access Chapters

Chapter 26

The next day, Safi wasn’t doing well.

On the bright side, she hadn’t suffered a single headache since leaving the hunting lodge. Her brain felt keen, her body a thousand pounds lighter. And only in the absence of that pressure and that pain could she fully grasp how much agony she’d been living under.

On the shitty, not-so-bright side, Safi’s arm felt like a volcano bleeding lava, and it was basically the only thing she could think about. The sharpest heat radiated from the hole in her arm, where the iron shot had pierced skin. But the pain wasn’t contained there; she hurt all the way from her left ear down to her left fingernails. And while she was pretty sure she’d stopped bleeding now, she was also pretty sure she might die.

Because what she hadn’t told Iseult—or Aeduan either—was that it wasn’t a normal iron shot that had pierced her. It had been a Firewitched pistol, and the shot itself had been Firewitched too. As in, bewitched with a magic that would create flames inside her body, slowly burning her from the inside out.

She’d learned of such weapons as a child. Habim, after all, was a Firewitch and such weapons were a favored tool of the Marstoki Empire. Safi had also seen plenty of these Firewitched weapons up close during her time in the Marstoki Empire as Empress Vaness’s personal Truthwitch.

In other words: she knew when she was screwed.

Each jolt of Dandelion on uneven terrain made Safi’s brain melt. Each gust of wind across the plains made her skin burn. She was boiling inside her furs, but she knew the fever was a lie. If she took off her clothes to relieve the heat, she would freeze . . . and she wouldn’t even feel it happening.

She did lower her scarf out of desperation, savoring each icy gust of Arithuanian winds. Pretending that those winds were cooling her, healing her, helping her.

At lunch, she was half tempted to take the Painstone Iseult offered again . . . but if things were this bad now, then she had to assume they were only going to get worse. So Safi gritted her teeth, forced out a smile—false, false, false—and refused the magical relief that was offered to her.

By midafternoon, she was starting to worry that losing consciousness might actually be the greater risk. In fact, she was quite certain the only reason she hadn’t yet collapsed was because the Cahr Awen souls inside her wouldn’t allow it. They were so close to the Air Well; they would not let her turn back. It literally felt like they solidified her muscles, her spine and limbs. You will stay upright and you will keep riding. That pain is unimportant. All that matters is the Well.

Yes, Safi agreed—although only because she had to agree with them. And to keep herself distracted and awake, she made herself turn all of her attention onto Aeduan. The monk rode diagonally behind her, his posture unrelenting on Surefoot’s back. His white cloak a billowing, intimidating thing around him and his face hidden inside his hood.

Really, Safi had no idea what Iseult saw in him. He was bad at cards, worse at smiling, and worst of all at conversation. Admittedly, he’d stayed true to his word last night and said not a thrice-damned thing about Safi’s fever or her weakness or all the agony he must be smelling on her blood. But still, he was so boring. The only way to get any glimmer of character out of him was to pester him until he cracked.

“You tried to kill us,” Safi said, nudging Dandelion up to Surefoot’s side. “Several times, in fact.” Each word that came out was stronger than the last. “I think you owe us an apology. Me and Iseult, I mean. I’m sure the horses are fine.”

“No.” This was all Aeduan said.

“Come on now, Knifey—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—it isn’t hard to admit wrongdoing. They even say it’s good for you. Healing for the soul, apparently.” Safi pressed her uninjured hand to her chest. Her clothes were slick with sweat, but at least she was having fun. “I don’t know how true that is since I myself have never done anything wrong, but I do trust advice shared by the general they.”

“No.” This time, Aeduan rolled his wrists—and Safi couldn’t help but smile.

“You tried to kill us.”

“I tried to capture you.”

“Which almost resulted in our deaths, making it the same in the end.”

Aeduan’s fingers tightened on Surefoot’s reins. “It is not my fault you were inept.”

“Inept?” Safi gasped. “You do recall that Iseult and I are the Cahr Awen, so by default, we are the opposite of inept. We are . . . ept.”

“I don’t include Iseult in my assessment.”

Safi scoffed. It came out weaker than she wanted, and her vision smeared with the effort. Not good. “If you won’t apologize,” she made herself continue, “then how about a thank-you? I am, after all, the one who introduced you to Iseult, and you two seem to like each other very much.”

Now Aeduan’s eyes flashed red. An excellent development. “No.”

“Knifey, you have to work with me on this. We’re going to be together a long time, I think. Assuming you and Iseult really are—”

“Leave him alone,” Iseult barked from Cloud’s back. She yanked her scarf down to give Safi the full severity of her death glare.

And Safi hoisted her eyebrows innocently. “Well, why don’t you thank me then, Iz? Someone here owes me some gratitude. At the very least, these are all my horses from my imperial stables.”

“I take it you’re feeling better?”

“Much.” Lie, Safi’s magic scraped—and as if in agreement, the flames in her arm fanned hotter. She had to fight to keep her face from changing. She prayed her Threads wouldn’t give her away.

A frown tightened on Iseult’s forehead.

“I am ravenous, though,” Safi continued. Lie, lie, lie. “When do you think we’ll stop to make camp?” She batted her lashes. Innocent. Pure. She was not dying by degrees, but rather a hungry Truthwitch who liked the beating wind against her face.

Iseult glanced at Aeduan, and he—to his credit—stared straight back with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish slowly rotting on the Veñaza City harbor. Well done, Knifey, Safi thought at him. Iseult might not trust Safi’s reactions, but she definitely trusted Aeduan’s.

And while part of Safi felt dishonest, manipulative, and generally terrible for lying to her Threadsister, most of her was simply glad that Aeduan was willing to ally with her in this. They had to reach the Well.

“We should travel as far as we can before nightfall,” Iseult answered eventually, gesturing to the horizon. “That storm is getting closer, and I’d like to reach the forests east of Poznin before it breaks. Can you ride any faster, Safi? The hills ahead are less overgrown. We could pick up the pace.”

No! Safi wanted to scream. My gods, no! But she couldn’t scream that, couldn’t scream anything at all. They had to keep moving forward; she couldn’t—wouldn’t—be the reason they slowed enough for more raiders to ambush them.

“Yes,” she gritted out. “Let’s ride.” She waited until Iseult had turned her attention to Cloud before looking again at Aeduan. He drew back his hood, just enough that Safi could more easily see his face in the grayness of the day.

“Well?” she said with more edge than he deserved. “Are you going to help?”

He blinked—a movement Safi was starting to recognize as an acknowledgment. But rather than do as Safi expected, with his eyes glowing and his magic taking hold of her, he simply leaned toward her, hand extended.

A small chunk of rose quartz glittered on his palm. A Painstone. He must have snuck it from the healer kit when Iseult wasn’t looking. “Use it,” he commanded softly. “And I will save the other measures for later.”

Safi swallowed. Somehow Aeduan’s arm was completely still beside her, even though Surefoot ambled beneath him.

The Painstone flashed and shone.

Safi yanked it to her and shoved it down the front of her shirt. The quartz touched her damp skin. Relief soared through her. Up her chest, into her shoulder, and then down, down into the flames. The magic wouldn’t heal the injury, but it would deplete the fires of air so they couldn’t blaze quite so brightly.

“Go,” Aeduan now ordered. “Before Iseult notices us.”

Safi nodded. She didn’t say thank you, she didn’t say anything. Her voice was caught somewhere in her abdomen, the relief from pain so great she thought she might start crying. She dug her heels into Dandelion and let her gelding shoot her forward. Jolt, jolt, jolt.

Behind her, the Bloodwitch followed, Iseult trailing last.

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Iseult knew Safi was lying. She wasn’t a fool; she could see Safi’s Threads, for one, and for two, she knew Safi’s false bravado as intimately as she knew her own. Where Iseult would become more stoic, more centered to push through pain . . .

Safi just got louder.

Iseult had seen Aeduan give Safi the Painstone, just as she’d seen when he took it from the healer kit. Why Safi would accept it from him and not Iseult, Iseult decided not to ask. For now, she was simply grateful that Aeduan apparently had greater powers of persuasion than she, since there were two potential paths Iseult saw before them: they could continue going slower, stopping often to accommodate Safi’s pain. Then the storm would almost certainly crack down right overtop their heads. Or else the raiders that must be hunting would catch up.

Or their trio could push through Safi’s pain and try to reach the safety of a distant forest before the storm unloaded and raiders arrived.

Option two was clearly better, and now that Safi’s Threads had changed—gone were the skittering, frantic lightning bolts of pain, replaced by something muted and calm—Iseult felt as if they could finally push hard.

So she rode them all as fast as the terrain would allow. Each league their horses carried them, the closer they got to the storm clouds. The winds bared their fangs. The temperature plummeted. When Iseult finally spotted a darkening line on the horizon—a shadow to disrupt the endless grass and snow—she cried out with a sound of uncharacteristic exuberance. Because there. There. They would make it, and they could finally pause their relentless, ruthless ride. Safi could rest properly. The terrain would protect them from storm and raiders alike.

Cloud’s hooves churned over the grassy earth. A thunderous beat. Faster, faster. The horse saw what was ahead; she understood that in the forest she too would find relief and rest and safety.

But the wind fought against Iseult and Cloud. It brought tears to Iseult’s eyes. It threatened to rip her scarf from her face. She glanced back to check that Aeduan and Safi were coming. That they too rejoiced in the forest ahead—

A funnel of wind tackled her, so hard it almost knocked her from Cloud’s back. The horse veered like a drunkard.

And that was when Iseult finally sensed it: Threads hurtling toward her, not from the Windswept Plains, but from the sky. She looked up, time sagging. Her vision smearing. Again? They would be ambushed again?

“Windwitches!” Aeduan roared, and yes. He was right. Two shadows streaked this way.

Iseult had been so focused on avoiding raiders in the grass like yesterday, she had failed to keep vigil on the sky.

For half a moment, Iseult gazed at the forest—so near, yet still impossibly far. If she pushed their horses to the brink, could they reach those trees ahead?

Logic quickly thrust in: You cannot outrun a Windwitch.

“Control their bloods if you can,” she commanded Aeduan, yanking Cloud to an unkind stop. Then Iseult was on the ground, frozen grass snapping beneath her.

Aeduan dismounted too. Safi did not. Her Threads were past suffusion by pain and verged on unconsciousness. It was a wonder she was still on Dandelion’s back.

Iseult reached with her magic, latching her focus on to the Windwitches. Four sets of Threads, each vibrantly yellow from their magic. She spread her fingers, teeth grinding against the heat she knew would come when she grabbed their lives, their emotions, their powers . . .

It had been a month since she’d last done this; she had sworn never to do it again. But sometimes Threads made decisions the mind could not. Sever, sever.

Her fingers twined into Threads. One Windwitch, two. Both were fully visible now, and their arms high. Their Threads bright with an imminent attack.

Iseult hauled the Threads to her mouth and chomped down.

There was the heat. There was the skittering from the wild electricity of their power. And oh Moon Mother, there were the Severed Threads of the slow cleaving. These people too were dying. Fire cut into Iseult’s teeth, into her gums. Through her eyeballs and down to her toes. These Windwitches were so close to cleaving on their own, she barely had to bite to finish the job.

Except now, as Iseult tried to hold on to them—as she tried to claim some of their witcheries as her own so she could fight any other forces that might be coming this way—she found she couldn’t. The Threads wouldn’t obey her. They wouldn’t stay woven around her fingers. Instead they were shriveling, burning like fuses downward.

And these two fully cleaving Windwitches were about to crash into Iseult, Aeduan, and Safi. “RIDE!” Iseult roared at Safi as she slapped Dandelion’s hindquarters.

The horse bolted—and Cloud too, just behind. Only Surefoot stayed back, seemingly unafraid of the hot, unnatural winds tornadoing this way.

Aeduan stood beside Iseult, his eyes aflame as if he searched for their blood scents. The winds had ripped back his hood, and now shadows slid across his face from the snow and debris carried on unnatural winds.

But he had no more success than Iseult did. The Windwitches arrived: two women dressed in furs not so different from Iseult’s own.

Nomatsis, she realized as she watched them crash to the earth . . . then writhe back to their feet. Somehow, this was the worst thing to have happened so far. To be faced with two women of her heritage. Two women who prayed to the same Moon Mother.

Iseult couldn’t look at them. She lowered her head, pressed herself into their winds, and unsheathed her mismatched moon scythes. She charged the two Cleaved as they rushed her. Pustules erupted on their faces, spewing tar into their winds. Their lips curled back like they were feral animals, desperate to feed. And that was what they were, weren’t they? They were hungry for pure magic, good magic.

Just as their goddess was.

Iseult reached the taller of the two Nomatsis and swung at the woman’s throat. The furs split apart, then the throat split apart too. But Iseult didn’t get all the way through to the spine before the second Windwitch was upon her.

Iseult toppled to the earth. So fast, she didn’t have time to withdraw her claw scythe from the first Windwitch’s neck. Snarls filled Iseult’s ears. Oil and heat razed her skin. She grappled and fought, both with her body and with her magic. Maybe she could control the Threads. Maybe she could still run.

The woman went completely stiff atop Iseult. It took her several booming heartbeats to notice—to see that the woman was choking and her eyes were losing clarity.

The Windwitch died like that, on top of Iseult. Her winds sliced off, and for half a lung-crushed breath, there was no sound but the wavering grass to fill Iseult’s ears.

Then Aeduan was there and dragging away the woman his magic had ended. “We can’t stay,” he said. His eyes blazed red as a funeral pyre. “More witches are coming. Raiders too.”

Iseult flung out her magic, grasping across the earth and hills and sky. He was right: at least a hundred people marched this way, clearing paths through the grass and snow.

Panic clogged her throat. She felt as she had when the Marstoks had taken Safi away in Lejna. When Emperor Henrick had carved away Safi’s magic to make her a Hell-Bard. When Corlant had looked at Iseult beside the Solfatarra and crooned My daughter.

She was helpless. Completely helpless, no matter how wicked she let herself be. The Threads would not be twisted. She could cleave, but she could not control. She could kill, but she could not dominate.

“I c-cannot control them,” she said as Aeduan helped her stand.

“Then let’s ride.” He tried to pull Iseult toward Surefoot, but she resisted.

“Safi,” she told him. “Go after Safi and keep her safe. I will buy us time.”

His head reared back, eyes widening. The blood within them draining in a single heartbeat. “No.” He reached for Iseult with more urgency. “There is no reason for that. Come, and we can both get away.”

“No, listen to me.” She clutched his bicep and pressed her face close to his. His eyes were such pure, icy blue, she’d once thought them the color of Threads of understanding.

She needed him to be understanding right now.

“I can’t c-control their Threads, Aeduan. I can’t force them to fight for us. All I can do is cleave as many as possible, then h-hope they attack each other.”

“No.” He fumbled for her face. His fingers were so cold. “I won’t leave you, Iseult.”

“And I won’t give you a choice.” Winds thrashed harder; Iseult felt the charge of untamed magic on the way. She touched her forehead to his. “Go, Monk Aeduan. I command you: find the light-bringer and keep her safe until I can come after you.”

Aeduan didn’t move. The war brewing inside him was visible in the quaver of his pupils. In the hardening of his touch against her cheeks. He wanted to disobey Iseult. He wanted to fight with all he had inside him to keep her safe.

But in the end, he had taken his vow. He had named the dark-giver his master. He knew he had to let Iseult claim his Aether and guide his blade.

She laid her hands over his, feeling the frozen skin. The muscles below. His hands had held her in so many ways. As enemies, as allies, as friends.

“I love you,” she said. “Te varuje.” She kissed him. He stiffened for half a moment against her . . . then he leaned into her lips. One hand clutched the back of her head, fingers curling in her scarf. He held her tighter, tighter against him. A panicked kiss with clashing teeth and no time—no time.

Iseult broke away first. “I love you,” she told him again.

“I will find you” was all he replied.

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Chapter 27

When Safi had been young, she’d gone swimming in a lake near the Hasstrel estate. The night had been hot, and there’d been guests at the estate she hadn’t wanted to deal with. So after sneaking out of the family castle, she’d hurried through the nearby evergreens and embraced the shadows.

Once at the lake, its surface a perfect mimicry of the starry sky, she’d stripped off her clothes and dived in. Down she’d swum. Down, down, savoring the silence. Relishing the cool. The pressure increased against her skull. Her eyeballs were compressing and her lungs felt like bursting.

It was a good feeling. A living feeling after too much time indoors hiding her magic.

Until something brushed against Safi’s leg and terror lashed through her. Then she writhed and kicked. She’d still been young enough to believe in the tales of mountain bats, and everyone knew they sometimes liked to swimwhen there were children nearby.

But Safi was too deep for the stars’ light to reach her. She saw nothing.

So she tried to surface, tried to swing her arms and haul herself upward . . . but she only made it a few strokes before she realized she had no idea which way was up. She’d swum so deep and lost so much air from her lungs, she wasn’t floating. For all she knew, she might be swimming toward the night or she might be swimming deeper.

Panic really set in then. It was as if the Void itself had swallowed her, and now she was going to die. Who would find her body? Would it be eaten to bits by a mountain bat? Would anyone even notice she was gone?

Her toes hit something hard. She stretched longer, and yes. That was substrate. Rocky, glorious substrate.

Without another thought—there was no time—Safi kicked hard at the lakebed and swam. No mountain bats ate her, and soon, the shadows shifted as bright mountain stars cut through the water.

When she surfaced, her lungs were a conflagration. She gulped. Her vision spun. There was a very real danger she might pass out, so she made herself flip upward and lie on her back. Breathe. Breathe. Float. Float.

Eventually, Safi made it back to shore. Eventually, shivering and broken, she hauled herself onto the rocky edge and lay there until the stars stopped shaking and her lungs stopped aching. She hadn’t needed Habim or Uncle to inform her how stupid she’d just been. For some reason, Lady Fate had opted to spare her that night, and Safi never—not ever—swam alone or swam that deep again.

Yet now, here she was, trapped in the same shadowy unknown, and with no substrate to guide. True, true, true.She was in a forest with soft earth and barren winter beech trees. There was almost no snow here and even less undergrowth, and Dandelion listed and zagged so much in his panic, Safi had no idea which way would get them out of here.

Worse, her arm was on fire again. The Painstone’s numbing powers were finished, and the blaze was so much hotter than before—no longer confined to just her left side but sparking into her skull, into her chest and abdomen.

Safi squinted upward, trying to ignore how it made bile rise in her esophagus, but there was too much winter gray for the sun to pierce through. She couldn’t gauge which way was north. There could be no desperate final kicks to guide her home.

You can’t pass out, the Cahr Awen clamored. You’re so close to the Well. Just a little bit farther. But even those souls were not as powerful as the Firewitchery that had claimed Safi.

With a groan, she hauled herself off the saddle. Her left arm jostled. Pain stabbed, dazzling and fresh. She had to screw her eyes shut and wait for the wave to pass.

When she lifted her lids again, Dandelion was staring at her expectantly. His breaths whitened the air; he looked as lost as Safi felt. And Cloud—she was no better. She had moved closer to Dandelion, her ears swiveled forward as if she awaited her next command.

No, Safi thought as Dandelion’s ears also swiveled. They hear something. Iseult and Aeduan—it had to be Iseult and Aeduan. They had followed her tracks and were here to rescue her.

Except when no sounds actually reached Safi’s ears, she realized that whomever approached was moving with such quiet care, they could not possibly be an ally.

Cloud whinnied, and Dandelion’s tail flipped in a way that said, I don’t feel safe here.

“Me neither,” Safi croaked, and for several moments, she felt stronger. Clearer. She unsheathed her blade. It sang with such truth that for several seconds, it was the only sound she heard. An empowering echo that shivered inside her ear canals.

Another whinny, this time from Dandelion, and when Safi spun toward him, she spotted four figures rushing her way. They were dressed in gray, faces hidden behind scarves like her own, and they moved with the concerted strength of trained military. Gone was any attempt at quiet. Now they were coming for her.

Shit. She could not fight four soldiers. Even on a good day, those would not be odds for a betting woman like herself. And on a bad day? Hilarious to contemplate.

Safi dropped her blade and lifted her good hand. “I surrender!” she shouted. “I surrender. Take me to the Raider King.”

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Aeduan’s worst fears had come to pass. He’d failed again, and now the consequences were so much worse.

He should have sensed the witches approaching. He should have killed that Windwitch before it could attack Iseult. He should have moved faster, thought faster, reacted better. And he should not have been born the son of the Raider King. It was that, above all else, that haunted him. Where had his father gone so wrong? Why had he, Aeduan, served his father for as long as he had without seeing it?

One need not be evil to become it.

Aeduan thrust all his power into Surefoot, pushing the mountain horse to speeds she could never sustain without his help. It was not a magic he used often, if he could help it. For one, animals’ blood was a challenge to control. The freedom in their bloods ran wild; it took twice the effort to manipulate an animal as a human.

For two . . .

Well, that same freedom sparkling and alive only ever served to remind Aeduan that what he did was wrong. Demon. Monster.

He thought of Boots.

He thought of crocodiles.

Then he squeezed the reins more tightly on Surefoot’s blood and told her where to go. She trusted Aeduan; she didn’t resist his magic and she didn’t resist the speed he pulsed into her muscles.

In some ways, it was good that he was on her back. It meant he had to focus so completely on propelling Surefoot faster that he couldn’t look back or second-guess Iseult’s command.

No one followed him toward the forest.

He hadn’t thought they would. After all, Aeduan’s father wanted the Cahr Awen. His son was merely a disappointment who now stood in the way.

There was a part of him that wondered if he should try to return to his father again, claim he had been serving the cause this entire time. Then he could do the one thing Iseult so badly wanted to protect him from: he could kill his father.

Except going to Ragnor was not the command Iseult had given Aeduan, and Safi would die from her wound if Aeduan didn’t find her. His jaw ached. His knuckles too. He gripped Surefoot’s reins as if they were driftwood in a storm. Go after the light-bringer and keep her safe. That was all he had to do. He did not have to plan ahead. He didn’t have to debate whether he should be here or he should have followed Iseult instead.

I love you. Te varuje.

Why hadn’t he said the words in return? Why was he obeying her instead of chasing after? Coin and the cause, coin and the cause. She’d been right: he had no idea how to live without someone else to command him.

The forest ahead was a black haze across pale grass. Never had he seen trees look less welcoming. The storm that hung above siphoned all light. All life.

Distantly, he wondered why this storm never broke.

At last, he and Surefoot reached the trees. The ground softened and flattened into a forested floodplain. The winds stopped their constant howl, and Aeduan was able to ease his control over Surefoot’s blood.

She slowed. Then stopped entirely.

Aeduan slung off her back, worried she might collapse. That he’d pushed her too hard, and it would be one more creature he had failed to save. But when he studied Surefoot’s face, he found her unharmed. Her breaths were overloud in the sudden silence of this forest, her eyes were wide and terrified . . . but she was all right.

She was all right.

Aeduan lifted his nose, forcing his magic to rise again. He wanted to reach for Iseult’s silver taler first—then he would reach for Safi’s blood. But that was when the six old wounds decided to awaken. Spasms of torture across his chest. He cried out. He slumped over, eyesight crossing and ears ringing. And the fire—the flames. They started in the wounds but didn’t stay there. They lanced outward like wildfires spread by wind.

He imagined he saw arrows with fletching poking from his ribs. He tried to grab one. To yank it out. But of course, there was nothing there.

Surefoot’s face butted into Aeduan’s. She snuffed; her hot breaths steamed. Slowly, the ringing receded. The pain and cold too.

He rasped in air. Again, again, feeling how his heartbeat shuddered through him. Into his lungs pierced by arrows, down toward his abdomen. What was this weakness? This curse? Safi had said it wasn’t cleaving, but it waswrong. Was it some lingering effect from the old one, Nadje? Or some new ailment he would never escape?

You’re bound to the Void, a cursed beast with ’Matsi poison running in your veins.

Aeduan grappled once more for his magic.

This time it obeyed. Weakly, sullenly, but there for the commanding—and Aeduan’s command was to search for the silver taler. He reached until he felt the faintest stirrings of his own blood smeared on silver.

Iseult had moved. In fact, she was aimed for a different part of the forest at this precise moment. That was all Aeduan could sense—not if Iseult was alive, safe, running, or fighting. But it gave him energy and hope. She was near; he would find her after he found the Truthwitch. Then they would all leave this awful forest together.

For Aeduan understood now why this place might have been left unguarded by his father. There was something else at work here. A different danger. An uncanny force he didn’t want to reckon with.

Surefoot whinnied quietly, as if to say Hello? Human? What are you doing? He stroked her neck. Then forced himself to straighten and turn away from the silver taler, away from the dark-giver . . . and toward the light-bringer.

The Truthwitch could not have ridden far in her current state. She had a vibrant blood, made all the more unmissable by her wound and blooming fever. Yet when Aeduan sent his magic stretching out again, he sensed nothing. Yes, Safi had left traces of her blood. Remnants floating like moths. But the physicality of her was nowhere nearby.

Aeduan swallowed and let his hand fall from Surefoot’s warmth. He let his magic fall too. It shrank inward, tail between its legs. I am too tired for this. Give me rest and peace!

He couldn’t do that. He had sensed Safi’s scent to the east, so east he aimed, guiding Surefoot with him. Once at the spot where he’d sensed Safi’s blood, he hauled out his magic anew. Reach, stretch, find. There. He let his magic hide again; he resumed his tired trek with Surefoot.

Twice he wondered if it would help him to dig out the Truth-lens. Maybe it would sense its creator; maybe its magic was still somehow threaded to Safi.

But Aeduan resisted. He didn’t like the way that witchery felt. He didn’t want to have to stare directly in the face of truth.

So on and on he and Surefoot traveled, and bit by bit, they made progress. The undergrowth vanished in some places to reveal hoofprints that must have come from Dandelion or Cloud. Or he would snag a taste of the Truthwitch’s blood scent and know she’d gone this way.

He lost sense of daylight. The forest and its ever-present storm felt beyond the passage of time. Here, it was gray whether night had fallen or not. Here, the wind did not reach and the world did not change. Only the river, expanding and growing and sinking into the porous, hungry earth had any power.

It made Aeduan think of his time trapped and drowning inside his own body. When Nadje had ruled him and he’d felt no hope. Could that Exalted One be the source of this bloodied weeping from his chest?

A sound reached his ears: horses huffing, stamping. A clink like tack. Then a soft whinny to curve and slide around beech and pine trunks.

The Truthwitch.

Aeduan shoved ahead, leaving Surefoot behind as he kicked into a run. He grabbed hold of his magic, yanking it out with almost painful cruelty. There are the mountain ranges and cliffsides, there are the meadows filled with dandelions and the truth hidden beneath snow. The blood scent was weak, but then Aeduan was weak too.

He spotted shapes in the forest ahead. Two horses. One a splash of brown, the other a smear of gray. They both nickered, and one reared slightly as Aeduan stomped through the undergrowth toward them. He was close enough now to see their eyes widening and ears perking. He was close enough to know they were afraid of his rapid, wild approach . . .

And then he was close enough to see the clearing held only Cloud and Dandelion. There were markings and boot prints in the snow, but no Safiya.

Aeduan cast his magic wider. He grasped and felt . . . but Safi was gone.

The gelding reared as Aeduan came to halt before him. His eyes rolled, and Aeduan lifted his hands. “Whoa, Dandelion. Whoa.” His voice was much too loud. The horses were much too loud. This was not a place for hope or life. Here, everything drowned.

Surefoot trudged into the clearing. She needed rest. So did Cloud and Dandelion. Aeduan would have to continue alone. His worst fears might have come to pass—and Lady Fate’s knife might have turned against him—but he couldn’t abandon the cause yet. The light-bringer needed him. The dark-giver needed him.

Hope dies last, he thought, knowing instantly that it was not his own thought, but a ghostly memory from Nadje. Hope dies last.

Aeduan set off again.

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Chapter 28

After binding Safi’s hands, Safi’s captors hauled her onto a horse—one of their own, since they left Dandelion and Cloud behind.

For some reason, this made Safi want to weep. She’d thought she could feel nothing but magma right now, yet an oceanic hole split her chest. She had to fight the tears, had to pump false authority into her voice: “How far are we traveling?” She spoke in Marstoki, of course, for these raiders spoke Marstoki—and she had to assume that meant they were Baedyeds.

The woman riding with Safi blatantly ignored the question.

“I only ask,” Safi continued, “because I’m in a lot of pain. I got shot in the arm—by a Marstoki one-shot pistol, actually. And you know how much damage those can do. This one was even Firewitched, so not only have I lost a lot of blood, I seem to be cursed as well.” She paused here, having to suck in a breath. “It’s quite unpleasant.”

False, her magic laughed. It is so much more than unpleasant.

“There should be a healing kit in my gelding’s saddlebag,” Safi added. “As well as some Painstones. If we could just go back to get him—”

“Shut up,” barked the Baedyed riding at the fore. He glared, his eyes dark holes surrounded by pale scarves. First he looked at Safi. Then at the woman riding with her. “If she speaks again, gag her.”

Safi grimaced. A gag would not do right now. She was already on the verge of vomiting; a gag would make that worse. So she bit her tongue and tried very hard to focus on what little horizon she could see through the forest. The trees were beeches, the underbrush mostly moss over peat. But the ground, she couldn’t help but notice, was softening, eating up each hoof fall.

They must be moving west toward the river, toward Poznin.

And therefore toward the Raider King.

Gods below, everything had gone to goat tits, hadn’t it? Clearly the intel on the Raider King’s forces had been wrong. Or else, her brain prodded with surprising clarity, the Raider King was simply being smart.

An old lesson from Habim percolated to Safi’s mental surface: If the enemy is too small to target, then restrict their range of movement. Make them come to you. This was a battlefield tactic for dealing with stealth units that larger battalions struggled to fight—and it would seem it was precisely what Ragnor the Raider King had done to Safi, Iseult, and Aeduan. He had attacked them from one direction, which had sent them running into a trap.

Safi frowned, her gaze fastening on the Baedyed riding ahead. Then on the raider walking across the earth in front of him.

When Habim had taught her and Iseult about battlefield tactics, he’d used real-world examples from the battles he had led. Against Baedyed raiders in the Sand Sea. These raiders right here.

She compressed her lips. It was one thing to learn lessons about faceless, distant enemies. It was quite another to ride with those enemies and realize that not only did they, in fact, have faces . . . but the reason those faces were here, in Arithuania, was because of the strategies General Habim Fashayid had used against them.

Do not vomit. Do not vomit. She fell forward. Her arm burned, her stomach revolted.

“She is fading,” her companion barked. Then arms slid around Safi to hold her upright.

The man walking at the front called back, “Ride on. We will catch up to you.”

The horse beneath her kicked into a fluid gallop, and the entire forest bled into a hazy, dreamlike blur. The pain was so intense in Safi’s arm that it felt as if her consciousness had simply given up and said, Nope, this is too much for me. But rather than drag her into darkness, it clambered outside her body and watched the scene unfold from a distance.

Tree trunks muddled past, the barks shifting from shapeless beeches to shapeless alders. The ground sucked up all sound. The canopy overhead thickened, not with leaves but with branches that wove and braided until they were almost a ceiling.

And onward the horse galloped. Steady, true. A three-beat rhythm that rocked through Safi in a disconnected unreality. Even the flames in her arm seemed to fade, until she found herself cold. So, so cold.

This is what we call death, she thought, but she lacked the strength to escape its widening arms—even as the Cahr Awen souls were waking up again, were shouting and jostling and clamoring: NO. YOU NEED TO STAY ALIVE AND REACH THE WELL.

It was only when the Baedyed reined their horse to a stop that Safi realized she was no longer in a forest. That snow no longer covered the ground, but only mossy peat and mud. And that the shapes and shadows surrounding her were not trees but instead makeshift tents and hovels.

And people. So many people. They were dressed in all manner—some in Purist gray, some in Nomatsi-style furs, and others with no discernible faction to mark them. They watched Safi pass, aggression on a few faces, but most only wearing fear.

The Baedyed woman dismounted, and a different woman, her blond hair in thick braids, strode up. She hauled Safi down, not roughly but not gently either. Safi’s vision crossed. She doubled over as soon as her feet sank into the earth. She was so cold. She was going to collapse onto the welcoming moss of this strange settlement and then she would never wake up again.

NO. YOU NEED TO STAY ALIVE AND REACH THE WELL.

Safi’s left arm was limp and agonizing. She wished the thrice-damned Cahr Awen souls would shut up and let her sleep. She wished she could vomit or pass out. Anything to end this pain.

Then, as if the souls were actually listening for once, they did quiet. Abruptly. They scattered from her skull like flies from a corpse, and Safi felt their fight drain from her body. The world around her silenced. She swung her gaze upward, stars flashing, to find a path had cleared through the people so a single man could pass. He was cast in shadow, but Safi didn’t need to see his face to know who he was.

The Raider King, she thought. Finally we come face-to-face.

He was not a towering man—the Lusquan woman stood taller—and he was thin. Rangy, even. He wore no crown, no adornments to glitter in the dim light. He was just a man, and distantly Safi appreciated that.

Her eyes sank shut. She let her head loll down, let the mossy earth take her. She wanted to fight, but there was nothing left in her to fight with. The Raider King had won, and this was how her story would end.

She didn’t even have the energy to feel grief or regret anymore.

The Raider King’s boots reached her. Worn brown leather that blended into the dark peat. A chime like buckles clinking. A huff like someone who was tired and . . . of all things, amused.

Then the man crouched before Safi and warm skin brushed her chin. “Domna,” he said softly. “Stay awake. A healer is on the way.”

For several moments, Safi didn’t understand what she was hearing. Domna? The Raider King must have heard I am no longer a domna. She dragged her eyes open. Forced her pupils to find the king’s face. It was veiled by such deep shadows that it had become half shadow itself. His hair was dark and cropped close, his eyes . . .

Ah, his eyes.

“Prince,” she rasped, her voice a tragic, dying thing. “Is it really you?”

“Hye,” he murmured as her magic suddenly woke inside her and sang with a warm, blissful truth. “It’s me, Safi.”

That was the last thing she heard before Merik’s arms scooped beneath her and blessed unconsciousness swept in.

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Chapter 23

Their blood was the wrong color.

Iseult had noticed it as soon as she’d cut into the first raider with her moon scythes. But it wasn’t until now, with the battle won and twenty-seven raiders scattered across the snow, that she could finally see it was not merely blood that was corrupted. Their Threads were the wrong color too.

All of them were cleaving. Just like the blacksmith and his wife and all the countless others she hadn’t been able to save. Every one of these Red Sails possessed faint Severed Threads at the heart of their beings.

“Why have y-you attacked us?” Iseult asked the woman with the pistol. She was the only raider still conscious.

“Because you were in our way.” The woman smiled, revealing teeth coated in blood. Her Threads hummed with a disturbing satisfaction.

“And is that smoke in the distance from you?” Safi clutched her right arm to her side, the pale furs marred with her blood. Red, all of it red, and from a wound that would need tending. “Over there—did you attack others?”

“They had the plague,” the raider answered, as if this explained anything. “So we had to.”

Iseult frowned at the black smoke choking the sky. Then she frowned at Aeduan, who crouched over two raiders. One by one, he was freezing the blood in their veins. Any who were still conscious, he pushed into sleep.

He was tired though. Iseult could see that even from here.

“She’s telling the truth, Iz.” Safi bent closer to Iseult. “Or at least she thinks she is. She really believes whomever they just killed had the plague.”

Iseult’s frown whittled deeper. She supposed it made a tortured sort of sense: the plague had marked the end of the Republic of Arithuania, and burning bodies had stopped its spread. But the dark blood of these raiders, the Severed Threads mingling across this clearing . . .

“Why do you think it’s the plague?” Iseult asked.

“Because they have the same pustules. The Raider King told us what to look for, so we do.”

Safi’s expression—and her Threads—turned grim. Cleaving, of course, made pustules. “So the Raider King has sent you to kill anyone with the plague?”

The woman spat shadowed blood onto the snow. Her Threads settled into a stubborn forest green. There was a hesitancy to them, though. A fear, even, that made Iseult think perhaps Ragnor did not know how many they were slaughtering to eradicate this so-called plague.

Safi sighed. “You have two choices here. Either you can cooperate with us, and we’ll leave you and these other survivors with healing supplies.” She turned a meaningful glare at the nearly thirty bodies scattered about. “Or you can choose not to cooperate, and we’ll leave you here with nothing.”

The woman sneered.

“Storm’s coming.” Iseult pointed to the sky. “I d-don’t think you want to be stuck here.”

The woman looked neither worried nor impressed, so Safi gave a lopsided shrug. “Good enough. The gods can’t say we didn’t try.” She turned away, flickers of pain wincing in her Threads. “Come on, Knifey,” she hollered at Aeduan. “We’re leaving these bastards behind.”

Aeduan straightened. His eyes pierced Iseult’s. One heartbeat. Two. Blood. Witch. Blood. Witch. Then his attention skated to the sneering raider.

Her Threads flashed with blue comprehension. “Hells, you’re him, aren’t you? The Raider King’s son. Which makes you two . . . Oh, this is rich. He’s going to be so happy. He told us to be on the lookout, now here you are.”

Two things happened in that moment. First, Iseult saw the woman’s Threads blare with a new shade, one that spoke of Aether magic and connections spanning miles.

Second: the woman’s whole body locked up. So fast it made her muscles crunch inward like a dead spider. Then she did die. Iseult saw her Threads snuff out moments before she went limp against the black-striped snow. Iseult spun toward Aeduan. His arm was raised, his fingers flexed as his eyes—now pure red—once more pierced hers from across the bloodied grass and snow.

“What the rut, Knifey!” Safi exclaimed. “We needed her!”

“No,” Iseult said. “He did the right thing, Safi. Look.” She knelt beside the fallen woman and tore the glove from her right hand.

A Witchmark winked into the gray light. A hollow circle with a scripted letter inside. “Voicewitch,” Iseult said.

“Well, shit.” Safi wiped her bloodied blade on the snow. “Shit in a gutter, shit on my ancestors. Was she able to send a message before you stopped her?”

“We have to assume so.” Aeduan’s voice was inflectionless. He was the least exerted of their ranks, and also the most detached. But just as Iseult did not need to see a wound to know it was infected, she didn’t need to see Aeduan’s Threads to know he was agitated. Not from the fight, although that certainly contributed . . .

But by what the Voicewitch had said. The orders she’d described from the Raider King to kill anyone who might be sick. That was his father, after all. A man he’d once followed and trusted.

“We’ll have to stay off the road,” Safi said.

“Yes.” Aeduan blinked slowly. “The horses ran off, but I will find them and bring them back.”

“No.” Iseult reached for him before he could stride away. She didn’t touch him, though. “We should stay t-together, Aeduan.” Do not lock up your feelings and walk away.

His lips parted. One heartbeat stuttered past. Two. Then his spine slackened ever so slightly. “As you wish. We will stay together.”

The last thing Iseult saw before she followed Aeduan and Safi into the grass was a bloodied head fallen atop the snow. Empty eyes stared into frozen nothing. Sever, sever, twist and sever. For all that she had avoided using her magic and avoided taking control…

People had still died here. The wickedness had come anyway.

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It slowed them considerably to be off the road. Snow fell. Small, hard flakes that found their way into gaps in Iseult’s clothing. The high grass whipped against the horses. Night was fast approaching. It also slowed them that Safi was hurt. It wasn’t a life-threatening wound, but it was bad enough that it would need tending—and bad enough that nothing but curses had left Safi’s lips for almost an hour.

Until she abruptly groaned out: “What’s that?” Safi pointed with her left hand; Iseult squinted into the darkening sky. Something thrust up from the grass, almost like a tree except it was only the trunk.

Aeduan was the one to answer: “A shrine.” He had once more tucked himself inside his hood. His voice was muffled by snowfall and salamander fibers. “There are many of them across the Plains.”

Iseult nodded; she knew of these shrines, for Nomatsis often stopped at them to pay their respects to Middle Sister Swallow. “Is it safe to make camp there?” she asked him. “Or will N-Nomatsis stop there too?”

What she didn’t add was that most Nomatsis had taken up the cause of the Raider King, so she couldn’t even trust her own people.

“I think we can stop for the night.” Aeduan’s hood swiveled, as if he sniffed with his Bloodwitchery. But there was no one for his magic to find, just as there were no Threads to brush against Iseult’s magic. And this time, Iseult really reached—even as it drained her. Even as she felt her other senses get muddy and numbed.

She couldn’t let them be ambushed again. She didn’t think they could survive another fight like that.

Soon, they were near enough to the shrine that grass and snow could no longer hide it: a stone pillar poking from the soil, twice Iseult’s height. Winds had kicked all the snow to one side of the clearing, carrying with it offerings: food, trinkets, coins, and the uncut stones of a Threadwitch. The Nomatsis feared Swallow’s fickle temper on the Plains; these gifts were meant to appease her.

Safi was the first to dismount—stiffly and with no attempts to hide her pain. Not that her Threads could hide it anyway. “Sit,” Iseult ordered, pointing to a smooth, smaller stone rising up from the snow. “Aeduan and I will make camp.”

Safi scoffed. A sound that was loud enough to reach across the winds. “You’ve got tits for brains if you think I’ll let you do this alone. I’m injured, not useless.”

Two seconds later, a snowball hit Safi’s head—and Safi’s laugh split the falling night.

In the end, Safi did help Iseult and Aeduan by using her heels to drive Nomatsi tent stakes into the earth. Then they guided the horses into the tent, arranging them at the back and using the remaining space to lay out a single pallet for Safi. This would not be the first night they’d shared their tent with the horses, but it would be the first night someone was injured.

Safi was worse off than she claimed—a fact which became obvious as soon as she tried to remove her cloak and her arm wouldn’t lift higher than a few inches. It made her face and Threads crumple with pain. So Iseult helped her peel off layers, each one more soaked with blood than the last. It filled the tent with a coppery scent that overwhelmed even the smell of the horses.

“Well, that doesn’t look great.” Safi grimaced at her arm in the light of a Firewitched lantern. They hadn’t made a proper fire; the smoke would be too dangerous. For now, the warmth of so many bodies would have to be enough. “It didn’t hurt that much when it happened.”

“Could you not sense how bad this was getting?” Iseult aimed her question at Aeduan, her voice sharp. “Why didn’t your magic alert you?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was rubbing down the horses, and his ministrations to Cloud continued uninterrupted. Gentle, steady. Until at last he paused near Cloud’s hindquarters and said, “Yes, I sensed the blood, but it was not a life-threatening wound.”

“And it still isn’t,” Safi insisted. “I’ve had worse.” She grunted and shifted her weight. The lantern wobbled.

“Sit st-still, Safi.” Iseult studied the gash. It was an ugly shredding of skin and muscle that hadn’t sliced cleanly through. Bits of cloth and fur were stuck in the open flesh, and although Iseult had brought Evrane’s healing kit . . .

Well, maybe they should have simply brought Evrane.

“We’ve switched places.” Safi’s voice was light, joking—but her Threads gave her away. “Only a few months ago, you were the one with an injury, and I was the one taking care of you.”

Iseult was willing to play along. “You mean Evrane took care of me.”

“I helped her.”

“Sure. By pissing off a prince, attracting sea foxes, kidnapping a Firewitch healer—”

“Yes, yes, I did all of that too.” Safi laughed, but it rang false. And no matter how many times Iseult murmured Relax, Safi couldn’t seem to soften her muscles or deepen her breaths.

After tending the horses, Aeduan brought a second lantern to Iseult’s side. All of their camping gear was now from Alma, which meant all was easily stowed and carried.

At Aeduan’s whispered Ignite, flames flared, while outside, the winds briefly flared too. The tent wavered and flapped. Drafts of frosty air swirled through the gaps.

Iseult smeared a Waterwitch salve on Safi’s arm, meant to keep the blood in her wound pure. Then a Firewitch salve to heal Safi’s muscles, and finally an Earthwitch salve for the skin. Scents of lavender and calendula soon replaced the smell of blood. And soon, Safi did relax, just like the winds outside.

“Thank you,” she mumbled once Iseult had wrapped the wound. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me hundreds.” Iseult tried for a smile. “But I stopped counting years ago.”

Safi matched her smile.

“Do you want a Painstone?”

“No.” Safi bit her lip. “Let’s save those, in case I need them to, ah, you know . . .”

Iseult nodded. In case you need them to get through a fight. In case you need them at the Well.

They were so close to Poznin now.

After unrolling two sleeping pads, Iseult helped Safi lie down. Then they shared the cold remains of a rabbit caught the day before. Once Iseult was satisfied Safi had eaten enough, she layered a blanket over her. “Sleep.” She tried again for a smile.

This time, Safi didn’t match it. She simply closed her eyes, and in seconds, her Threads hazed into sleep.

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Chapter 24

Aeduan was furious with himself. Beyond furious. Irate. Seething. He had not sensed the raiders until too late. The Cahr Awen had nearly died. How could he forgive himself for that?

Worse than his rage, though, was his fear. It was not an emotion Aeduan felt often. After all, as he’d once told Lizl: I do not know what fear is, so I can never be brave.

Right now, he knew fear. For if his father had been warned the Cahr Awen were coming, then it was only a matter of time until Ragnor caught them. He had witches; he had weapons; and he had numbers. The only advantage Iseult and Safiya had possessed was the element of surprise, and now they’d lost that.

Because of Aeduan.

Because the old wounds were getting worse. Crueler. And he’d been trapped in a rout of scalding pain when the raiders had arrived.

At least once a day now, the six holes in his chest would detonate. Like firepots loosing. Like pistols shot at close range. Sometimes he could barely move from the intensity of it. When Aeduan was atop Surefoot, he could hide the onslaught. Mask the sudden collapse of his spine with a pat for Surefoot’s head or a casual checking of his saddle.

But if he was trying to sense ambushing raiders . . . Or if he was in the middle of a battle against such enemies . . .

He’d almost killed the Cahr Awen with his lapse.

And now he was so angry. So afraid.

It was too cold, here on the Windswept Plains, to peel off his clothes and examine the wounds. He knew what he’d find anyway: blackened scabs that hadn’t been there before—that he knew had healed in the Well, but now were opening up again.

Aeduan had thought perhaps he was cleaving. After all, so many now suffered from that slow spread of oily black lines. It could strike anyone; it could strike him. But he had no lines; he had no shadows or pustules burbling beneath his skin; and the stench he’d smelled on those raiders had been death come early, a song cut short. Aeduan’s blood had none of that.

It was just the old wounds, returned after a brief respite. A cruel pause he’d thought would last forever.

The world was quiet around Aeduan as he stalked in concentric circles around the camp. Around the shrine. The night sky hung low, a ceiling of gray. No stars, no Sleeping Giant. With the lanterns snuffed out in the tent, there was only the snow to brighten the world. Everything became black-and-white. Everything became a threat.

Aeduan would not lapse again. He would not let this awful, inexplicable pain consume him.

He scanned the tall, endless grass around them. This shrine was too vulnerable to raiders. And to Itosha too.

That name—Itosha—was not one Aeduan knew. It had clawed up from the depths of his memory, where the marks of Nadje would never be scrubbed free. And while Aeduan could conjure no face, he could hear a cackling, hateful laugh.

Itosha. The Exalted One.

Nadje had feared her, and illogical as it was, Aeduan now felt that ancient fear too.

He spurred his magic wider. Harder. And for hours, he only ever sensed Safiya and the horses. And of course, the silver taler Iseult always wore around her neck.

Which eventually stirred within the tent, and moments later, Iseult revealed herself. Her eyes were thick with sleep, her face creased from a bedroll. “The first watch ended an hour ago,” she scolded. For once, the winds had softened on the plains—as if perhaps one of the many offerings here had finally appeased Middle Sister Swallow. “You should have woken me.”

“You need the sleep, Dark-Giver.”

“As do you, Bloodwitch.” She stepped toward him, picking her way through cleared snow. “Let me take over.”

“No.”

“Please. Aeduan.” She’d rarely said his name since leaving the hunting lodge. They had both been careful to adhere to their roles. He was a Bloodwitch monk; she was the Cahr Awen he served. Or failed to serve. Formality was safest when so much was at stake.

And yet . . .

“Forgive me.” Aeduan felt his face crease inward while his feelings reached outward in a way he didn’t want to place upon Iseult. “For earlier. I failed you and the Empress.”

“How?”

“I should have sensed the raiders coming. But I did not, and I failed you.”

“You failed no more than I did. I d-didn’t sense them either.”

“Yes, but you have not sworn vows to protect me. This is my one duty. The reason I’m here.”

Iseult’s golden-green eyes thinned. For several seconds, she simply stared at Aeduan. Then she murmured: “Maybe I should, though.”

“Should what?”

She didn’t answer, but instead claimed another step toward him. “Have you ever not had a master?”

“I . . . don’t understand.” It was true: he didn’t understand. He also didn’t like how instantly his abdomen tightened.

“You became a monk so young. Have you ever existed w-without some outside force telling you what to do? First it was the monastery.” Iseult waved vaguely east. “Missions that sent you out for coin. Then it was Guildmaster Yotiluzzi. Then it was your f-father. Then . . . the Old One.” She shivered here. “And finally . . . me.”

Aeduan’s abdomen knotted tighter. “You forget the times I disobeyed.” Now he was the one to approach. To claim a single step. “I broke orders to help you find Safiya. To search for Owl and her tribe. To get you from the Aether Well to safety. And now . . .”

“And now,” Iseult replied. Her face pinched up. An inward frown that sent her gaze to the snow. Made her head wag with a self-loathing he recognized. “I don’t like it. I know I accepted your vow at the lodge, and I know I a-agreed to bring you—”

“Do not make me go back.”

“No.” Her gaze shot to him again. “But I want to know: if you could do anything, Aeduan, what would it be? If there was no Cahr Awen, no Well, no Raider King or slow cleaving or war across the Witchlands. W-what would you do?”

He sucked in sharply. Frozen air sliced his throat, his lungs. He felt the six old wounds throb as if they too awaited his answer. Run, my child, run.

“I do not know,” he said eventually. It was an honest answer, if a bleak one. “I . . . do not know.”

Iseult sighed. It was a sound of sadness, of grief, of pain. “Then I will make a vow to you.” She closed the space between them. Her fingers came to touch his jaw; they were cold, but then so was he.

Her eyes bored into his, a shade like the sun through forest leaves. “When this is done, you’ll serve no one but yourself, and we’ll find what you want. Together . . . i-if you will have me.”

Aeduan’s heart skittered. More frozen air cut deep. Then he scoffed and shook his head. “Stupid.”

Iseult blinked. “My vow is stupid?”

“No. Wondering if I will have you is stupid. Have I not made it clear?”

Her lips twitched with a nearly imperceptible smile. “Made . . . w-what clear?”

“In Lejna, when I told you to trust me as if my soul were yours—I had never said that before. Yet I was compelled to do so. I still am.”

The smile widened. “Then you accept my vow?”

“Stupid,” he replied before kissing her. Deep, full, with all the fury and the fear that still pulsed inside him. He had failed her hours ago by the road, but he would not fail her again.

He pulled away within moments. It was his only choice; otherwise, he would get distracted. He would lose sight of the plains and the bloods and the cold, gray night. “Go back to sleep,” he told her.

Her lips were parted. Her eyes wide. “No.”

“I will keep watch.”

“No.”

Now she was the one to kiss him. A brittle, urgent thing. Before she too pulled away. Then pointed at the tent. Her hand, Aeduan couldn’t help but notice, trembled slightly. “I will take second watch, Bloodwitch. I command you to sleep now, and please remember: I am your master, so you must obey.”

He sniffed. He could argue if he wanted, but truth be told, he was exhausted. Now that his wrath had quieted, there was only gaping fatigue left behind. And the wounds, of course. Always those six old wounds.

So Aeduan bowed his head, “As you wish, Dark-Giver.” Then he kissed her on the forehead and returned, pace agitated, to the tent.

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Chapter 25

“How bad is it?” The Truthwitch’s voice rasped through the tent, and when Aeduan turned from where he checked Surefoot, he found her gazing up at him. Her face, much too pale, glistened with sweat. Her freckles stood out like constellations.

Aeduan didn’t try to help her as she sat up.

“Earlier,” Safi continued with a grunt, “you said you sensed my injury wasn’t life-threatening, and that was a lie.”

Yes, it had been a lie.

“So how bad is it?”

“Better now.”

Safi rolled her eyes, a move that was barely visible in the shadows. She finished sitting up, her hurt arm hugged tightly to her chest. “You know you can’t lie to me, Knifey. So I’ll ask again: How bad is it?”

Surefoot snuffed. Dandelion stamped. But there were no sounds to suggest Iseult was near enough outside to overhear them.

“It’s more than a surface wound,” Aeduan said honestly. “And you should be resting.” He tried to turn away, to resume his careful checking of the horses. But Safi leaped to her feet, surprisingly agile for someone with an injury as bad as hers—and it was bad. She had lost enough blood that the mountain ranges and cliffsides were nearly swallowed up by the meadows filled with dandelions and the truth hidden beneath snow.

That didn’t mean her magic had suddenly become stronger, but rather that all those Cahr Awen souls inside her were crushing down on the pieces that made Safi who she was.

Her arm muscle was also ripped apart. Aeduan was no healer, but he would wager there was bone damage—and also that she had the start of a fever. It did not radiate off her yet, but there was a certain shallowness that hit blood when infection took hold.

Safi’s was beginning to throb that way.

“You can’t help me.” The way she said this was more statement than question. “You, who controls people’s bloods . . . you can’t do anything to help me.”

“No.”

She staggered toward him. Aeduan tried to withdraw, but there was nowhere to go. And in the shadows of the tent, her blue eyes had become storm gray.

“Because you will not or cannot?” She crooked toward him, her voice lowering until it was almost lost to the winds outside, until not even the horses could hear her. “Make me a promise: if I cannot walk to the Well, then you will walk me there. You will take control of my blood and move me like a puppet every step of the way.”

Bloodwitches cannot do this. They cannot control people like this.

Aeduan swallowed. “We have Painstones.”

“Not many.” Safi’s right hand whipped out and yanked him close. The feverish gleam in her veins was unmistakable. “Not enough to last us two days and carry us through armies. Which means, Knifey, that when the time comes, you will take control of my blood. Whatever consequences might come from that magic, we’ll reckon with them after the Well is healed.”

Aeduan did not answer. He took in the sweat on Safi’s forehead, the faint scar above her brow. He took in the intensity of her eyes and the strength of her grip upon his cloak.

He didn’t like this Truthwitch. Perhaps he never would. She was rash and loud, spoiled and obscene. But there was a steel in her he recognized, a determination to do what had to be done no matter the cost to herself.

And, at the end of the day—at the end of everything that was careening nearer and nearer—Aeduan had sworn his vow to the dark-giver and the light-bringer. “Yes,” he said at last. “I will take control if I have to.”

Demon. Monster.

Safi nodded. Her shoulders relaxed and her grip on him too. As she drew away, her muscles shook. But Aeduan didn’t let her get far before asking: “What did you mean by consequences?” It was a flat question, almost bored.

“Since we left the lodge, there is something off inside you.” She wiped sticky hair off her brow. “My magic senses it.”

“Like . . . cleaving?”

“No.” Her breaths sawed in. Out. “Something different. Something else . . . wrong.”

I can smell it on you: you’re bound to the Void, a cursed beast with ’Matsi poison running in your veins.

“Clearly you don’t want Iseult to know about it. And I don’t want her to know about me. So.” She gestured at her hurt arm. It made her whole body sway. “You will tell her I am healing quickly. Do you understand?”

It was a threat, and against his will, Aeduan found his estimation of the Truthwitch rising. Iseult was their Sleeping Giant, forever pointing north, and if they lost her, then both Aeduan and Safi would have nothing left to follow. No reason to keep traveling to Poznin. When Iseult had called herself a “master,” she hadn’t been far wrong. But it wasn’t because she forced people to follow. It was because everyone who met her felt compelled to.

So Iseult had to keep going because it was the only way Aeduan and Safi could keep going too. Yet Iseult would stop immediately if she thought either Aeduan or Safi were hurting.

Aeduan bowed his head at the Truthwitch. It was the closest to an agreement he would offer Safi, and she seemed to realize this, since she finally released him. But rather than hobble back to her bedroll, she reached to her neck and withdrew a length of silver chain from beneath her many layers. Bits of quartz and brass dangled off it.

Aeduan’s fingers flexed. “The Truth-lens.”

“Yes, Knifey. Good job at stating the obvious. I . . . want you to take it. The person I made it for is in Nubrevna, according to Uncle’s spies, and in case I don’t survive this . . . Well, it’s your job to deliver it to her.”

When Aeduan didn’t claim it from her, Safi sighed. Impatience set her muscles into motion. She shoved it against the skin of his neck and wrapped it around like a scarf. Against his will, he staggered back. “That is . . . overwhelming.”

True, sang the crystals and glass. True, so very true. It was a heady feeling that buzzed like a hundred Painstones in Aeduan’s skull. He ripped the necklace back off again and thrust it at Safi.

But she flipped out a weak hand of refusal. “You don’t have to wear it, Knifey. You just . . .” Pant, pant.“Have to deliver it if I can’t. I’d give it to Iseult, but then she’d know what’s wrong with me. So just . . . shove it in your pocket and deliver it to Vaness if I don’t make it out of the Well.”

“You will make it out of the Well. I already said I would control your blood.”

“To get me to the Well, yes.” Her eyes scrunched. She wiped clumsily at her brow. “But neither of us knows what will come after that.”

There is something off inside you.

Demon. Monster.

The necklace glinted and swung in Aeduan’s grasp. The wounds on his chest throbbed. He didn’t nod or agree, but he did slide the lens into his pocket where it couldn’t affect him.

“Good,” Safi said, though nothing in her voice sounded triumphant. “Now, I can sleep.” She slogged back to her bedroll—and snorted loudly when she got there. “I agree,” she declared as she folded herself back into the covers. “This tent is way too small for this many bodies. But I promise it’s not me that’s stinking up the place.”

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Aeduan had nightmares after speaking to Safi. He saw the Cahr Awen ghosts inside her skull, pushing at her like too many crabs inside a basket. He saw Iseult with her abdomen carved out and Threads crawling from it like worms. He saw the Truth-lens, but on each bit of quartz or glass was a shadowy face he couldn’t recognize.

He saw a mountain filled with stars where shadowy ice clawed for anything it could grab on to—except for him. It never dug into him.

He saw four Exalted Ones in quick succession. Ferisien on a mountainside. Itosha on the plains. Rakel beside the sea. And, most violent of them all, Lovats spreading flames. That Exalted One was the one they’d all feared, even Portia with her power over Void. And certainly Nadje, who had never quite known which side he ought to choose.

Then Aeduan smelled it, poignant and inexorable: A sky singing with snow. Meadows drenched in moonlight. Sun and sand and auburn leaves falling.

“Run, my child, run,” said the voice like his mother’s while heat roared, wood cracked, and embers flew. Blood dripped from her mouth. “Run.”

Aeduan did not run. He did not move. He waited, exactly as he had as a child, for the flames to overtake him and the world to burn alive.

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As mentioned, I’ll share the last three Early Access chapters next ready. So stay tuned for that, and thank you—as always—for reading and supporting.

💚 - Sooz

I’ve also posted the next two chapters in Early Access, but rather than bog down this newsletter (or those chapters), I’ve posted them separately here. Enjoy.

WE ARE SO CLOSE TO THE END OF EARLY ACCESS—and to the book’s FULL release. Only three weeks away. 😱

Pre-order, pre-order, pre-order! (And vote!)

Last week, we hit 1004 pre-orders and unlocked TIER 2 in the short story pre-order campaign—meaning your awesome pre-orders (from all around the globe!) have gained access to a longer short story.

Now, if you want to get amazing, exclusive CJ Merwild art, we need to hit 1500 pre-orders!

So get your pre-orders in, get your receipts in, and GET READY for Witchlight to hit stores!!

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Get your Witchlight tour tickets!

Since the book hits stores in only three weeks, that ALSO means I will be gong on tour!

So make sure you get your tickets!

• Schuler Books

  • Grand Rapids, MI

  • Tuesday, November 4, 2025 6:30 PM

• Roselynn Hill Winery (with A Novel Neighbor)

  • Louisville, KY

  • Wednesday, November 5, 2025 6:30 PM

• Neshaminy Mall Barnes & Noble

  • Bensalem, PA

  • Thursday, November 6, 2025 6:00 PM

• Books of Wonder

  • New York, NY

  • Friday, November 7, 2025 6:00 PM

  • In conversation with Lyssia Mia Smith and moderated by Emily Taylor!

• Texas Book Festival

  • Sunday, November 9, 2025 1:00 PM

  • Featured Author at the Texas Book Festival

Truthwitch GIF Recap on Instagram

For those of you from the OG Witchlanders crew back in 2017, you may recall the Truthwitch GIF recap I did on Twitter to prep you for the release of Windwitch.

Well, the awesome Emily Ritter kindly compiled that WHOLE thing for me, and I was able to share it on my stories on Instagram!

So now you can head to my highlight in my profile and enjoy as if it were 2017 all over again…

Check out the recap here!

Witchshadow Recap

In the spirit of recaps, I FINALLY wrote the official Witchshadow recap for my website.

I’m not going: this took me two entire work days to write. There is just so much plot in Witchshadow. (Which is to be expected, since I had to cram two books into one.)

Still, I had to really get picky in my summary about which details were worth including—and how to arrange them to be the most logical in a recap format.

So just be aware, this isn’t a beat-for-beat recap, and some flashbacks were skipped as well as smaller character moments.

Now onto the Witchshadow recap!

Read ALL the recaps here!

Part 1

In the opening prologue, we watch from the Rook’s point of view as Safi and Iseult heal the Earth Well. Leopold is there and delighted, and scene closes with the Rook heading off on a mission for someone unknown.

The book cuts ahead an entire month, and the reader is given no context about how we got here. All we know is that Iseult faces off to Hell-Bards who have hunted her from Praga into the Ohrin Mountains. And we see Iseult tap easily and brutally into her Weaverwitch magic, cleaving each Hell-Bard and taking their supplies.

In Praga, we discover Safi has been married to Emperor Henrick—and worse, bound to the Hell-Bard’s Loom. She no longer has her magic; the world has lost its spark; and the emperor controls her every move.

Here, a flashback cuts into the story, showing Iseult shortly after the Earth Well was healed. Someone calls to her outside, and she discovers a white weasel with pages from Eridysi’s diary in her mouth—and the weasel is none ther than Esme the Puppeteer. Somehow, rather than die by the Air Well, her soul was bound to an animal’s body. Now she is here to teach Iseult what she knows.

The story returns to the present day, show Iseult and Owl at an abandoned hut. Owl seems to hate Iseult even more now than she did before. Perhaps because she wears a heretic’s collar around her neck that Iseult cannot remove, meaning Owl in turn can’t access her Earthwitchery. Worse, as long as Owl wears the collar, the Hell-Bards can keep tracking them.

Esme—still a weasel—is guiding Iseult east toward Arithunia with the promise that Eridysi’s diary will be there. And, in turn, Iseult will be able to fully embrace her powers and save Safi from Emperor Henrick. However, when Iseult tries to enter the Dreaming by using a Hell-Bard’s noose, she is immediately pounced upon by Corlant, the Cursewitch from her childhood who has been hunting her since Truthwitch. He now knows where Iseult is now and he plans to find her.

Meanwhile, in Veñaza City, Vivia Nihar is with Empress Vaness trying to earn the alliance of the Dalmotti Doge so they can reclaim Vaness’s stolen empire. However, the meeting is a trap—and Dalmotti has allied with the Raider King. This leads Vivia and Vaness through a wild ship battle on the Jadansi Sea.

Things are no better for Stacia Sotar (Stix) who is in the Pirate Republic of Saldonica with Ryber the Sightwitch. Stix is beset from voices from her past as a Paladin, and those voices have sent her to the Slaughter Ring, where Stix convinces the pirate, Admiral Kahina, to let her fight in the ring.

That night, in Praga, we see Safi dance with Leopold—and he gives her the Truth-lens she crafted for Vaness in Bloodwitch. It would seem the prince is part of Uncle Eron’s twenty-year plan to bring peace to the Witchlands. And it would also seem the Truth-lens still contains a piece of her magic.

Another flashback shows Safi at the imperial palace in Praga, in the room where Hell-Bards are noosed as Henrick shows it off. The room is filled with thousands of gold chains, and Safi steals one. We also learn that Safi’s uncle was arrested for the crime of hiding his niece’s Truthwitchery, and that Henrick has promised Safi she can see Uncle Eron after she and Henrick are married.

Back in the Ohrins, where Iseult and Owl continue their travels east, Iseult encounters someone she believes is Aeduan. Except she quickly sees that he is not Aeduan, for somehow he has Threads—and those Threads say he is hunting her. Iseult tries to run, but False Aeduan captures her and takes her to a camp, where Evrane is also clearly possessed by someone who is not her. (Just as she was in Bloodwitch.) Owl is already tied up, but there’s no sign of the weasel Esme.

We finally slip into False Aeduan’s point of view, only to learn that although the remnants of Aeduan are still inside the body, this is the soul of an Old One. He given this body by someone he believed was a fellow Exalted One named Portia (the Exalted One of Void). False Aeduan’s mission (and the possessed Evrane’s) is to stop their enemy, the Rook King.

Another flashback reveals a conversation with Lev about the first Hell-Bard, Midne, who had her magic stolen from her to create the first Loom. And Iseult knows from stolen diary pages that Esme gave her, that Midne was a Paladin of Void, and Portia (her counterpart) was the one who bound her to make the Loom.

In the Slaughter Ring in Saldonica, Stix fights a flame hawk, and in turn, Admiral Kahina essentially admits to being a fellow Paladin like Stix—but of fire, instead of water.

Meanwhile in Praga, Safi meets Leopold, where he surprises her by leading her through a secret tunnel under the palace—and there, he proves he’s working for Uncle Eron. His tale prompts her to take a wild risk the following morning: she joins Hell-Bard training and intentionally loses a knife fight to Caden, which means she is sent to Hell-Bard Keep for special healing. Once at the Keep, she and Zander rush to the Hell-Bard Loom in secret—and while she is slowly dying because her noose was removed to do this trick—so she connects to her uncle over the Loom and learns he is near Arithunaia.

Iseult’s situation also grows more dire as she and Owl are delivered to the Purist Priest Corlant. False Aeduan and False Evrane serve him, and he has amassed many followers. Worse, as Iseult watches on, Corlant reveals himself to be a Cursewitch, able to steal magic from anyone he touches. He tells Iseult she is the same, but she resists this—surely it can’t be true.

Another flashback reveals Owl and Zander have grown close, since he is her personal guard in Praga. She wears her heretic’s collar to block her magic, which makes her seem younger than her six or seven years. She bets Iseult tell her a children’s tale about a witch whose hedgehog was brought back to life by praying to the Moon Mother. We also see that although Leopold continues to prod at Iseult with banter, his Threads reveal he might have actual feelings for her.

In the Nihar lands of Nubrevna, Vivia and Vaness go ashore only to find Cam, Vivia’s most important adviser, has been taken captive by Master Huntsman Yoris. Vivia and Vaness surrender themselves to keep the young man safe, and they learn that Vivia’s own father, King Serafin, has ordered this. She is now considered a traitor to Nihar, and Yoris will deliver her to the capital. They are taken to Noden’s Gift and locked away.

In Saldonica, Stix once more fights in the Slaughter Ring, this time against two sea foxes. But Kahina raises the stakes of the fight by throwing prisoners into the water that Stix must save. She fails, and in her rage, demands to know what Kahina wants from her: the answer is the Blade and Glass first seen in Sightwitchthat Stix now possesses. Stix says she will deliver them if Kahina will empty the Ring—since what Stix truly wants is to finally finish unlocking her Paladin memories. (And to free all the prisoners under the Ring.)

In the Ohrin mountains once more, Iseult awakens in the night to find the weasel has chewed her bindings. She and Owl are able to escape, but Iseult first steals the diary of Eridysi that Corlant has. This awakens him, but Iseult is able to gouge out one of his eyes.

She and Owl flee with False Aeduan in pursuit. However, Iseult is able to take him down as well—and while he’s incapacitated, the real Aeduan awakens and urges Iseult to run. She doesn’t want to leave him, but there’s something else pursuing her Owl in the woods. Something massive that wears ancient Threads of violence.

In Praga, Safi finally has her chance to remove the noose without slowly dying by the “Hell-Bard’s Doom”: she has transformed her Truth-lens into a necklace, which lets her keep part of her magic upon her. This also means she can finally leave the palace (and the noose), for Henrick will have no power over her. To test this, she meets Leopold and they foray into Praga through his secret tunnels. While in Praga, Leopold tells Safi he knows where Iseult is, and he can take her there.

Once more in the past, we see the wedding of Safi and Henrick through Iseult’s eyes. This is part of their plan—it will save Uncle Eron and allow Safi to claim control of Cartorra. While watching dancers in a balcony high above, Leopold arrives and asks Iseult to dance. She sees Threads beneath his cultured mask and once more senses he has feelings for her. Not only that, but that he is a deeply lonely and a deeply conflicted young man.

In Noden’s Gift, as Vivia and Vaness linger in a cell, Dalmotti assassins arrive and try to kill them. Vivia uses the moment to escape, but the assassins pursue all the way to the Water Well. Vivia’s magic overwhelms her, nearly killing her, and Vaness drags her into the spring’s healing waters to save her life. However, as soon as Vivia awakens, she finds an entire armada of Dalmotti ships awaits beyond. It would seem her own father has offered to trade Vivia (and Vaness) in exchange for independence from the Raider King. But rather than give themselves up, Vivia and Vaness flee.

As Iseult and Owl, meanwhile, evade the magic creature hunting them and the again-possessed False Aeduan, they reach the acid lake known as the Solfatarra. A Nomatsi trail cuts through, and Iseult barely gets herself and Owl to a Nomatsi tribe hiding within all that fog. To her shock, the tribe she finds is one led by her own mother Gretchya and Gretchya’s apprentice Alma.

In Saldonica, Stix meets with Kahina, only to intentinally misdirect the pirate Admiral to a secret place in the mountain where the Blade and Glass used to be. Then Stix and Ryber hurry into the empty Ring to free all the prisoners below. Unfortunately, before they can finish their plan, Kahina returns and ignites the Ring on fire. She takes the actual Blade and Glass and leaves.

Gretchya attempts to interrogate False Aeduan, whom the tribe has captured and bound. Yet shortly after, False Aeduan realizes the full extent of the Bloodwitchery in this body, and he is able to escape. He hunts after Iseult (and Owl), who have already left. When he catches up to them, however, he discovers Iseult waiting for him. She threatens to destroy him if he doesn’t help her, but their bargaining is cut short when screams sound.

Iseult rushes back to the Nomatsi camp to find it under attack by Corlant and a monstrous, Void-bound shadow wyrm. As Iseult tries to fight and protect her fellow Nomatsis, she clamps onto Corlant’s Threads so she can cleave him. But she fails, and in that moment, she discovers he is actually her father.

In several flashbacks, we see as Safi and Iseult try to finish their plan against Henrick by noosing him. But it fails, and suddenly Henrick is the one noosing them. Iseult and Safi fight back, but they’re unable to get away before Safi’s Threads are bound to the Hell-Bard Loom. Iseult, with Leopold’s help, is able to escape the palace along with Owl. Before he separates from hem, he tells Iseult he loves her. And she tells him, “No, Rook King. You have simply forgotten what it feels like to be seen.”

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Part 2

Safi manages to flee Praga with Leopold, only to be met by her Hell-Bard Thread-family: Caden, Lev, and Zander. Leopold is furious Safi has brought them, but there’s nothing he can do. After finding a special laboratory of Leopold’s, hidden far away, they board a Windwitched flying machine named the Eridysi and take aim toward Arithuania.

In Nubrevna, Vivia and Vaness have escaped, but they are both on the verge of collapse from this new overwhelming surge of their magic and their own exhaustion. They finally find a ship that was part of Vivia’s “pirates” known as the Foxes.

Meanwhile, Stix and Ryber are trapped in the burning Slaughter Ring, and finally—finally—the voices give Stix what she needs. She finds a secret room that unlocks all of her Paladin memories and powers, which allows her to flood the Ring, stop the fires, and go after Kahina.

For Iseult, the revelation that Corlant is her father has sent her into a numb despair. She cannot forgive her mother for this awful secret, and she learns from False Aeduan that Corlant is in fact a Paladin of Void—and that for some unknown reason, Iseult is the only person who can kill him. With this knowledge, she “allows” Corlant to train her on how to access the Hell-Bard Loom via the Dreaming. While there, she finds a connection to Safi and learns Safi is headed this way.

Sure enough, Safi is almost to the Solfatarra—but Lev, Zander, and Caden are now suffering from the Hell-Bard’s Doom, sent to them over their nooses by Emperor Henrick. They are dying, and Leopold reminds that he did warn of this. Things get far worse, however, when the flying machine loses control and crashes into the acid world of the Solfatarra.

Corlant’s next lesson is to teach Iseult how to cleave her fellow Threadwitches, but Iseult refuses to harm Alma. So Corlant simply stabs her—yet Alma is quick and attacks him first. Which prompts a new battle between witches and Purists, Nomatsis and Corlant’s followers. The shadow wyrm returns to attack, and Gretchya lurches between it and Iseult—which saves Iseult’s life but condemns Alma to Corlant’s knife. Iseult realizes in that moment that there is a way to defeat Corlant—and, she hopes, bring Alma back. But she needs Safi with her to succeed.

Iseult flees and sure enough, she and Safi are reunited—and Safi possesses their Threadstones, which are exactly the tools Iseult requires to finally defeat Corlant. Because in those stones—which Corlant has been seeking since Gretchya first stole them in Truthwitch—possess all the souls of previous Cahr Awens. Iseult doesn’t know how or why, but those souls can now be used to power her own magic. But Corlant senses what she plans and begins to amass vast amounts of his own power to stop her.

Meanwhile, in Nubrevna, Vivia has returned with her Fox ship to the Dalmotti blockade. She and Vaness have a plan to bring these ships down, and a violent battle begins in which they must tap into all the magic that has been overwhelming them recently. Unknown to them, however, there are also Paladins on shore assisting this fight: Stix and Kahina.

Now that Stix has caught up to the old Admiral, she realizes the woman isn’t a reincarnation of the wicked Exalted One Lovats like she first assumed, but instead her old friend Rhian (from Sightwitch). They are both part of the Six, both on the same side against the Rook King who betrayed them a thousand years ago by warning the Exalted Ones what the Six had planned.

Together, Stix and Kahina will track down the Rook King to destroy him—but first, they must keep their Chosen Rulers alive.

In a crumbling, ancient tower beyond the Solfatarra, Iseult tries to break the Threadstones and claim the Cahr Awen souls within. However, Henrick arrives at this moment—forcing Safi to fight him while Iseult continues her work in the Dreaming.

False Aeduan, having chosen to fight against Corlant and on the side of the Dark-Giver Iseult, faces off to False Evrane so she cannot hunt down Iseult or Safi and cause more harm. Once their battle ends, the Rook King—Leopold—arrives and removes the Old Ones’ souls from their stolen bodies. But first, he makes False Aeduan (whose name is actually Nadje, and who was an Exalted One of Aether) promise to fight on the side of the Cahr Awen when next he returns.

In light, the Rook King tells Nadje, Twelve will meet on lands long contested. While in darkness, the shadow-ender will topple nightmares and the world-starter will build us all anew.

Nearby, after defeating Henrick, Safi finds Corlant has come for her now. Since she is still a Hell-Bard—and since he is actually the Exalted One Portia who created the Hell-Bard Loom—he can control and destroy her. Iseult tries to save Safi, but Corlant is so powerful, she is flung away by his storm.

Where she is saved, unexpectedly, by the shadow wyrm, who is an unwilling tool of Corlant’s and has been for a thousand years. Now, Iseult finally knows what she must do and she has the power of the Threadstones with which to do it. She enters the Hell-Bard Loom one last time and tracks down Corlant at the center. She fights him, and back in the real world, as she faces a defeated, broken man, she is on the cusp of killing his body too.

But Leopold arrives and does it for her, claiming no one should have to kill their own parent.

Meanwhile, back in Nubrevna, Vivia and Vaness have managed to defeat the Dalmotti blockade—although barely--and now they take control of the ships for their own. On the shore nearby, Stix doesn’t want to leave Vivia, but Kahina tells her they can only return once the Rook King has been destroyed and balance restored to the Witchlands. She, Ryber, and Stix all go into Sleeping Mountain (from Sightwitch) via a nearby magic door under the Water Well.

Meanwhile, deep inside that same mountain, Merik finally awakens from his sleeping ice to find two strange girls before him urging him to get up and find the Raider King. And also to protect this storm hound puppy floundering on the ice before him. He names the puppy Aurora, because the idea of a new dawn gives him hope.

Now that all the Hell-Bards are free, including Safi, she rushes to her uncle in his prison. He is barely alive, but she will save him—just as she will save all of Cartorra now that she is the empress in charge.

Aeduan—once himself —finds a quiet moment with Iseult. She is scarred and damaged from handling so many scorching Threads, but she seems more content than he can remember. She kisses his cheek, and he feels a renewed urgency to protect her. Both as the Cahr Awen and as something more.

In the final scenes, Iseult returns to Alma’s corpse and using the magic from the tale she once told Owl, she asks Sirmaya to help the girl and restore her spirit. We see Leopold arrive—as the Rook King—and use his special Paladin magic to do just that. But not before he speaks with Owl, who no longer wears her collar and is now a full Paladin herself too. She accuses Leopold of betraying the Six “good” Paladins, but he insists it was never him who betrayed.

Someone else is out there. And that someone else is still waiting to act.

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CONFIRMED PALADINS AT THE END:

• Kullen (Bastien)

• Stix (Lady Baile)

• Owl (Saria)

• Kahina (Rhian)

• Leopold (Elias, the Rook King)

CONFIRMED EXALTED ONES AT THE END:

• Corlant, who was pretending to be Midne but was in fact Portia, the Exalted One of Void.

• Nadje, whose soul possessed Aeduan but was released by the Rook King, was the Exalted One of Aether.

• We also know an unnamed Exalted One possessed Evrane until the Rook King also released her.

• We also know of the Exalted One Lovats through Stix’s flashbacks, but we have not met him in the present day.

Chapters 21 and 22

As mentioned above, to keep this email from running so long that your email provider clips it, I’ve already posted the chapters here for reading.

And you can expect THREE more chapters per week—because I really want to hit a Very Special Reunion in Chapter 28 before Witchlight hits stores.1

So read the new chapters, or start Early Access now, and don’t forget (of course) to pre-order and vote!

💚 - Sooz

P.S. ICYMI, More Instagram Posts & Reels

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Chapter 22

Caden fitz Grieg knew his own weaknesses. Intimately. And one in particular had always bothered him: he was not well educated. Wasn’t it bad enough to be a nobleman’s bastard? Why did he have to be an ignorant one too? He’d found ways to compensate, of course. He couldn’t recite every emperor that had come before Henrick III or what the architectural style around the palace courtyard was (he thought those curvy things might be called buttresses?), but he could read people. He knew what their emotions were as plainly as if they’d been written on their faces.

He’d asked Iseult det Midenzi—half in jest, half in seriousness—if this was what Thread magic was like. She’d said no, but then, in that thoughtful way of hers, she’d added: Though I suppose that makes you even more dangerous than we are. He hadn’t been sure what she meant by this, and now weeks later, he still didn’t know.

What he did know was that the Nomatsis didn’t like having him in their tribe.

And honestly, he couldn’t blame them.

Caden stood in the empty clearing where the tribe had disassembled their camp. Tents had been folded down to their component parts, then rolled tightly into packs for all the mules and horses. The cooking fires were long gone, no smoke to linger in the frostbitten air, and if the Nomatsis bustling about felt any disdain for the brown-haired, freckled Cartorran in their midst, they weren’t showing it. At least not in obvious ways.

Caden felt their secret glares. He felt their nervous confusion, and although he’d tried to ease it with a few smiles, he only ever got hostile stares in return.

Thank the hell-gates I’m not traveling with them anymore.

He’d been grateful for the idea, and he would have followed through. But then the Bloodwitch had shown up at midnight with Lev’s and Zander’s nooses. Monk Aeduan had found them right beside the Earth Well, so that was where Caden now planned to travel. And honestly, Iseult’s mother had seemed as relieved as Caden that he wouldn’t be staying with the tribe.

Gretchya had, however, insisted she at least give him the promised Threadstones before he go.

So here he stood, awkward, stiff, and cold while he waited for the apprentice to walk his way. She was beautiful. Unnaturally so. Like a sculpture carved from ice: he could look and appreciate the attention to detail, but ice didn’t make good company. “Come,” she said in accented Dalmotti. “We are ready.”

Caden nodded, and feeling the stares of literally everyone in the tribe on his back, he traced after Alma through the camp’s remains to the only two things still intact in these old ruins: a Threadwitching desk and low stool. Light and color flashed from tens of gemstones that lay before Iseult’s mother. She sat with her eyes closed until Caden was near. Then her hazel eyes snapped wide and fixed onto the space above his head.

One breath. Two. Her gaze lowered to meet his.

And Caden forced himself to stare. I know you see what I’m feeling, but I’m not afraid of you.

“We see what you feel,” Gretchya said as he came to a stop at the table, “but we do not see what you are thinking. Your mind, Hell-Bard, remains your own.”

These words didn’t comfort Caden, but rather than say, I’d prefer if my feelings were my own too, he simply bowed his head. “Tell me what I must do.”

It was Alma, again, who spoke: “In order to find your Thread-family, we will need to craft three Threadstones. One will be for you, then two will be for your friends.”

“Choose,” Gretchya commanded, “three stones. Let your hands guide your arm.”

Don’t hands always guide arms? Caden frowned at the jewels. The attention of the tribe watching him was like a frozen wind he couldn’t wriggle out of. If he thought he’d felt tall and discordant in the middle of the camp, now he felt like the gap in a coat of armor.

He knew of Threadstones, of course. His fellow soldiers had loved to acquire them—sneakily, since Nomatsis weren’t welcome in Cartorra. For safety, for love, for beauty. But Caden had never had one for himself. And he’d never wanted one.

“May I touch the stones?”

“Yes,” Gretchya answered. “In fact, it is better if you do.”

Nodding, Caden reached out with both hands. At first, he felt nothing beyond general foolishness. He was waving his hands over a bunch of precious stones in an absolutely freezing forest while people gawped at him and pretended they didn’t. To make it that much stranger, he would have gladly stolen every one of these jewels as a child. Even today, so many years later, there was a part of him that itched to take things that weren’t his—fine things that would buy his mother food and firewood . . . and buy himself a warm meal or twenty.

As Caden thought about that childhood—about how he’d actually met Zander on the same streets, well before either of them had been pressed into the Hell-Bards—Caden felt a stirring at his fingertips. It was a subtle warmth in all this cold, and it made him think of sunshine and green things. His left hand moved down, down, seemingly all on its own, before plucking up an emerald.

Meanwhile Caden’s other hand felt tingly. Scratchy. Like the fuzzing of wool before an electric crack! is set free. Then the spark came, and it was above an opal.

Both stones were rough, uncut, muted in color and wild in shape. And both felt instantly right as soon as he grasped them. Ah, his heart seemed to say. Here is your Thread-family.

“Well done,” Alma murmured, and for the first time since meeting her, Caden sensed a slight waver of emotion. She was excited he’d found the stones. She liked this part of her job.

“One for you still,” Gretchya reminded. No feelings roiled off of her, no indication of how she’d known thesestones belonged to Caden’s friends and not to him.

Caden drew in a long breath. “Good enough,” he replied. More to himself than to them. It was what his mother had always said: Good enough, Cay. Good enough. And he’d liked the solid, reliable way she’d said it. As if, although life might not be perfect, perfect was never what she’d wanted anyway.

His hands paused over a red rock that might have been a ruby.

He swallowed.

Clearly these gems—or perhaps these witches—were like fishing lines. They reeled memories to the surface. His past, his person, his promises, and he’d be lying if he said this process didn’t frighten him. It sounded so very much like being bound to the Loom. Woven into something completely outside himself.

Except it all happened so quietly, so seamlessly. While Gretchya grabbed the opal and the emerald, Alma retrieved the ruby. Then they both withdrew spools of colored thread from large pockets in their coats and with fingers that were deft despite the cold, they wove and they wound. They whispered and they worked.

Bind and bend, build and blossom, family fills the heart.

They spoke in Nomatsi, of course, but Caden wasn’t entirely new to that language. Owl had spoken so much of it to Zander in Praga, and that giant man with his kind heart forever projecting outward had spent hours practicing it whenever he could.

Alma finished her stone first, since she only made one Threadstone. The Threadstone that was meant to be Caden’s. With small, focused movements, she tied off a braid of dark and light green threads, attached them to a leather thong, and handed it to him.

Now all of the tribe was openly watching, and many people had clustered in like an audience. Caden couldn’t decide if it was better than the sneaky scrutiny or not.

Alma rolled onto her toes so she could drape the threaded necklace around Caden’s neck. He had to bend deeply so she could reach him. Her breath ruffled his hair. She smelled like campfire and laurel. Then the leather was around his neck . . . .

And he felt exactly the same as he had a few seconds before. If some great magic had just happened, he wasn’t sensing it.

“Rubies,” Alma explained, “stand for honor and love, which you must have in abundance. And Threads in these shades represent focus and determination—which you will need to find your family.”

Caden swallowed. “And . . . the emerald?” he asked. “The opal?” Gretchya had just finished tying pink threads around the stones, and now she handed them to Alma.

“Emeralds stand for certainty,” Alma explained. “The man this stone represents is like an anchor in a storm. Opals, meanwhile, are for loyalty, and the woman this connects to would die for those she loves. The threads around both stones are the shade of deep, unbreakable family.”

Alma moved in once more, and Caden leaned down again to meet her. “I don’t feel any different,” he told her quietly. “Should the stones do something?”

“They are.” Alma made a slight, barely there smile. So tiny, Caden was certain only he spied it before it smoothed away. “The stones are now bound to your Thread-family. That means you can find them.”

“Right.” Caden wasn’t entirely sure what else to say. If he felt nothing while he wore these, then that wasn’t going to do much for him as he trekked west into the Ohrins. If anything, three gems of such size were going to make him a prime target for the criminals he’d once aspired to be.

“Well, uh, thank you,” he started. “I appreciate the stones, and—” He shut up. The stones were suddenly winking in the morning light. At first he thought it was sunlight playing over them, reflecting color into his eyes. But there was no sunlight today; the clouds let none through.

And now Alma was pushing in close again.

“They’re in trouble,” he rasped, as she grabbed all three in a fist. “That’s what that means, isn’t it?” Caden remembered how Safi’s Threadstone had warned her whenever Iseult’s life was at risk. “What do I do?”

“We follow,” Alma answered, eyes still shut and her face taut with concentration. “And quickly, for we do not know how much time we have.”

“We?” Caden asked. But the question was lost in the sudden clatter at the desk as Gretchya shot to her feet.

“But what of Saldonica?” she demanded. “The tribe cannot wait for you, Alma.” Gretchya spoke Nomatsi, but there were enough words there for Caden to understand.

Just as he understood what Alma replied: “I know.” Her eyes opened, but rather than look at her tribe’s leader, she gazed only at Caden with eyes of pure silver and ice. “I do not expect you to wait for me, Gretchya, but I also cannot let this Hell-Bard go alone. I will take him where these Threadstones lead.”

Ah. It wasn’t at all what Caden had wanted, and yet it was also deeply and desperately what he needed. “I will make sure she gets to Saldonica,” he told Gretchya in Dalmotti. “Whatever it takes, I will get her there.”

Gretchya didn’t respond. Nor did the rest of the tribe. If Caden had been able to see Threads, he imagined they would all be stretched like bowstrings about to snap. Until Alma, again, offered him a secret, almost-nothing smile.

“Tell me what to do,” he said to her. The stones were still blinking, beams of color to flash through gaps in her fist. “I don’t want to waste a single moment.”

“Nor do I.” Alma turned from him to bow, hands at her sides, at Gretchya. “I will see you again soon. May Moon Mother light your path.”

“And may Trickster never find you,” Gretchya replied.

It was all they exchanged before Alma laid her cold hands on Caden’s wrist. “Hurry, Hell-Bard. There is no time to waste.” She pulled, Caden moved, and the sun rose, unseen, behind thick clouds above them.

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Dear Uncle,

Iseult and I are leaving to heal the Well. I know you’ll send troops after us, but please don’t. You won’t catch us—not before we reach Poznin, anyway. And the movement of your troops will only alert the Raider King that something comes his way.

You trained me for this moment. You, Mathew, and Habim. And you trained Iseult too, claiming it was because no one else could protect me like my Thread-family . . . But that wasn’t the whole story, was it? I see that now. My magic sees that now.

You knew all along what we were and what we were meant to do.

So please let us do it. Let us heal the final Well on our terms as the Cahr Awen. And if I don’t make it back, I hereby decree that you are my heir. A bit unorthodox, I know, but you’re the only family I have, and you’re a much better leader than I ever could be.

Just don’t screw it up.

—Safi

P.S. The crown is in my closet at the bottom of the trunk filled with those hideous gowns you insisted an empress needed.

P.P.S. Don’t kill Henrick. He’s actually pretty useful, if you give him enough books to read.

Kullen,

There are two new doorways in the mountain. The portal kind like Eridysi made a thousand years ago. On top of that, the old doorways have reopened again—the ones I destroyed two months ago.

It shouldn’t be possible. I broke the standing stones in the meadow beside the Sightwitch Sister Convent. I severed the Threads that bound Sirmaya’s magic to those megaliths. That power was gone. The doorways were shut. So who could have opened them again? And who could have built new ones, too?

Part of me wants to leave the mountain right now and check the Standing Stones. See if I can find a clue. To build a magic doorway, you need a stone from the destination—a big stone. And then you need to anchor Sirmaya’s Threads to that stone. Eridysi figured out how to do it a thousand years ago, and it’s not easy magic. In fact, no one but a Sightwitch should be able to do it, and since I am the last Sightwitch Sister . . .

I cannot leave my work in the Crypts to go searching for answers. Things are so unstable in the mountain. Quakes rattle through every few hours, and the sleeping ice covers everything. Any magic it can find, it tries to claim.

I only know of the new doors because the Rook has brought me a map—the map I drew for you. But someone has added these doorways. I sent the Rook to check, and he tells me in his bird way that they are real.

Goddess, I wish you’d wake up. I wish Sirmaya would release you. But now I’m really starting to fear that will never happen. Not while she needs every scrap of power she can claim. Otherwise, all the Witchlands will die. All the Witchlands will cleave.

But you are my focus. The taro cards tell me so, every day. Lady Fate, the Cleaved Man, and the Paladin of Hounds. That is all they will ever show me when I draw from the deck. So I will stay focused on you.

You’re important. I always knew that, and I only grow more certain of it each day.

I love you.

—Ryber

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Chapter 22

For three days, Iseult pushed everyone as hard as their horses would allow. After all, Eron must have sent people after them; they needed to be so far ahead, his riders could never catch up.

In some ways, it was good they had nothing more than three Nomatsi packs to sustain them. They were lighter, faster. And in some ways, it was very good they had Aeduan. Without their food supplies, now burned to ash, his magic let them find rabbits and fowl that would otherwise stay hidden in the snow.

Occasionally, the trio passed camps at the roadside. Sometimes, they spotted smoke on the horizon. Twice, they found traveling caravans of traders. Yet no one ever bothered them; no one ever asked, Why are you traveling east into war?

On the fourth day, the gusts that had howled off the Windswept Plains softened, and for the first time since leaving the imperial lodge, they let their horses slow to a walking pace. But clouds hung like frowns on the horizon, and it felt to Iseult like the brewing storm waited for a moment when she might look the other way. Then it would strike with all its might.

It reminded Iseult of the storm Corlant had conjured, when he had cleaved the very sky to chase her.

On the fifth day, they rode hard again. Poznin was close now, three days at most if this blizzard would hold. The lands rolled with uneven, unpredictable hills, as if some god had left their shallow footprints across the plains. It made seeing ahead difficult.

As did the grass that hugged the highway, high as their horses’ chests and spanning as far as their eyes could see.

Halfway through the fifth day, they spotted smoke. Black coils had blended into the storm clouds. Aeduan drew up his mount, letting Iseult and Safi trot to a stop beside him. Then they all waited, their horses’ breaths pluming into the cold as their masters gazed ahead and wind beat against them.

That same wind scattered the smoke, taking thick, black clots and shredding it to papery tendrils.

“That’s more than just a campfire,” Safi said. Her Threads were a muddied mixture of suspicion and worry.

“And the highway goes right through it.” Aeduan, whose face was hidden within his Carawen hood, pointed to the road’s dip and rise. It would indeed take them directly into the smoke and fires. “We will have to circle around.”

Neither Iseult nor Safi responded to this. Instead they met each other’s eyes. “Someone might be hurt,” Iseult said. Cold stung her cheeks and nose.

Safi lowered the scarf across her face. Her freckled cheeks shone red. “We can’t risk finding that out, Iz.”

Iseult’s nose twitched. She knew Safi was right, but that didn’t make it better. Either we lose thousands of lives now, Leopold had said in the Dreaming, or we lose the entirety of the Witchlands when Sirmaya dies. Tell me which sounds preferable to you.

“All right.” Iseult nodded to Aeduan. “Lead us off the road.”

He bobbed his head, eyes flaring red within the shadows of his hood. Then he steered Surefoot into the tall grass. Safi followed atop Dandelion, while Iseult took up the tail with Cloud. This was their usual arrangement, for Aeduan could reach ahead for blood scents while Iseult could reach behind for Threads. The grass was a new challenge, though, slowing them severely.

Which turned out to be the point.

Threads suddenly wavered at the edge of Iseult’s magic, closing in fast. “Raiders!” she shouted at the same moment Aeduan roared, “Attack!”

Then the raiders were there. Tens of Threads zooming in from all sides in an ambush that couldn’t be escaped. Some Threads bore magics. Some only a thrill of cruelty. Yet all wore a shade like violent iron, and there was no stopping the response of Iseult’s magic in kind. The bad side of it that liked to sing, Sever, sever, twist and sever.

She squashed it down. Hard. That magic was only for final measures. Only in situations of last resort. Iseult had blades; she would use them.

Aeduan was already off his mount. Safi too, their blades unsheathing as figures manifested in the grass, hulking shapes lit by brutality.

Threads that break, Threads that die.

“Aeduan!” Iseult shouted. “Can you freeze them before they arrive?”

Aeduan glanced back. His hood had fallen, his eyes glowed red. “Some, but not all.”

“Then do it,” Safi barked, her Threads blazing with imperial expectation.

“Yes.” Aeduan stretched out his arms. His eyes flamed so red it sent lines across his face. And Iseult watched as the nine nearest raiders became statues within the golden grass. Their Threads burst with panic and surprise.

But they didn’t pass out. Instead of Aeduan’s usual magic to dominate them, his hands began to quaver—and already, there were more raiders crashing this way.

Iseult rounded toward Cloud. The horse sensed the tide of violence barreling toward her, but she was trained for war. She made no movement as Iseult freed her weapons from the saddle. First a moon scythe of sharpened steel. Then a second scythe from a mountain bat’s claw. It was the only remnant of Owl that Iseult had, and every time she held the hilt—every time she felt the claw radiate with ancient Threads of earth and stone—she thought of the little girl who wasn’t a little girl at all.

Long ago, when the gods walked among us.

Iseult turned to Safi, and without another word, the Threadsisters launched themselves at the first raiders finally toppling through the frozen grass.

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All Safi saw were Red Sails. Because of course it was Red Sails. When the slaughter was at its ugliest, they were always near.

And this slaughter was ugly. Eight raiders stormed from the grass toward Safi and Iseult, and there was no missing the blood and soot across their vicious faces. Whatever that smoke was from, people had died there—and here were their murderers.

Two men at the front split apart to try to flank Safi and Iseult. Fools. She and Iseult had been trained for this. The reactions lived inside them, written onto their bones by a Firewitch general who accepted no failure. It was a dance, a rhythm, a gliding arrangement of steps that required two partners. And although it might have been months since Safi had fought with Iseult, they were still Threadsisters. Still sun and moon, light and shadow, two halves forever orbiting each other.

The raiders reached the girls.

Initiate. Safi ducked for one man’s knees with her shoulder. He went down while her blade went up. Complete. Iseult bounded over Safi, both moon scythes extended toward the second raider.

Neither man had time to react before steel sliced through and blood sprayed. Hot blood that seemed to sizzle the instant it was exposed to air—as did the organs oozing out with it.

Their bodies hit the snow, but two more raiders were already leaping up from the grass. Safi and Iseult twirled toward each other. Iseult swiped with her mountain bat claw at the first. Safi attacked with steel at the second.

And somehow, as the incoming raider growled at Safi with savagery, as his blood-smeared cutlass swung at Safi’s head, she felt her own sword become the truest steel that had ever sung. It was as if her magic responded in that moment, reaching down her arm, her fingers, sliding into the hilt and blade.

She’d bound her witchery before. First, when she’d made the Truth-lens in Marstok. It had required careful study, using the book Understanding Threads to make the correct knots and braids, loops and weavings.

Second, when she’d turned the lens into a necklace. She’d only had intuition and memory then. It had been slow work, but satisfying.

And now, here she was a third time, and it required almost no effort at all. Here were the Threads of her power; here was the Arlenni Loop, exactly as she’d once seen it on the page. Then the Vergedi knot—harder to make, but stronger in the end.

All of this happened in the space between seconds. The stutter between heartbeats. Then leather and fur split apart, followed by muscle and bone. With a single, frictionless movement, Safi carved off the man’s head.

He went down, his head following a split second later—and with the same expression of shock scored onto it that Safi must be wearing as well. How had she done that? And without any thought at all, only instinct?

No time to wonder or contemplate. Another raider struck, lashing out with a long, pointed blade. But when his steel connected with Safi’s parry, the blade snapped in two.

This was as unexpected as the decapitation—although it shouldn’t have been. She’d imprinted her magic onto the steel. Now it was a blade so true, nothing could stand in its way.

Safi kicked the man in the groin. Flung a flat fist to his chin. Then she levered her leg behind his, and a heartbeat later, the man hit the ground beside his fellows.

The snow in the clearing had turned red. “Incoming,” Iseult yelled, darting away from their miniature battlefield as another clump of raiders tumbled from the grass.

Three froze mid-stride, then collapsed. Safi didn’t need to look back to know Aeduan had joined them. His magic, strangely weak before, seemed to have returned in full force. Which was why, rather than careen directly for the remaining five raiders as Iseult was doing, Safi cut left toward an exposed flank where raiders coalesced in the grass.

Two toppled toward her. They were easily dispatched with her sword that could apparently slice through spine and steel now. True, true, true.

But that was when a third raider whom Safi hadn’t noticed—a man who must have come at her from behind—sprang. The force of his tackle crumpled them both to the earth. Knocked her sword from her grasp. She rolled and wiggled, but her winter furs slowed her.

The man’s face was the only part of him Safi could see. It was thick with stubble. His breath—hot, foul—panted over her. He was trying to pin her to the ground, both his hands pushing her arms into cold tundra.

So Safi let him. For one breath, she relaxed fully and let him get into the position he thought would give him power. False, her magic seemed to laugh. False, false, lies. Then the breath had ended and the man was leering down. Spit fell from his lips. He wasn’t much older than she.

Safi grinned at him before bracing her feet against the man’s, then hefting up her hips and flipping him sideways. He fell, and Safi used the moment to roll the other way. He grabbed for her legs. His fingers clamped onto her calf, and he tried to drag her back. But she had her sword now.

Pivot. Swing. It cut through the arm that held her. At the elbow, clean as a butcher’s knife through fresh meat.

He screamed. His blood sprayed.

And it was then, in the frantic moments while Safi scrabbled to her feet and another raider sprinted toward her, that she saw something she hadn’t noticed on the other raiders: this man’s blood wasn’t truly red. It was too dark. It should have been scarlet upon the snow, but instead it was almost black.

He was cleaving.

No time to assess what that might mean for this fight. The next raiders had arrived, and Iseult was facing a woman who was just as nimble and fast as she was. Worse, she was drawing a Firewitched pistol from her belt. She aimed. Safi dove. The single shot cracked out.

Pain lanced across Safi’s left shoulder. Down to her fingers, up into her skull. Had she been holding her sword in this hand, she would have dropped it. As it was, though, nothing vital was damaged—so despite pain bright and burning, the fight still pumped through her like a sunrise.

Safi ran for the woman with the pistol as the woman tried to reload. The cold made her slow. Or maybe the intensity of it all made Safi fast. Either way, she reached the woman before the pistol winched high again.

“Big mistake,” Safi snarled, and in two arcs of her blade, she carved the pistol from the raider’s grasp—and carved away half her hand too. Then she aimed the sword at the woman’s neck.

Iseult, her cheeks flushed and blood-splattered, now staggered to Safi’s side. “Get on the ground,” she ordered the raider. “Now. Or we will put you there.”

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Today’s Early Access chapter is a big one.

A really, really big one. So if you don’t want some serious spoiler-ing before the release in a month—if you want to savor all of Witchlight in one go, then don’t read on.

But if you just can’t wait—if you’re so tired of waiting, Sooz!!!, then read on. Because your moment has finally come.

(And if you’re just not yet caught up to appreciate the next two chapters, then make sure to start reading the entirety of the Early Access chapters at the button below.)

Witchlight Early Access

Also, we’re less than ONE MONTH until Witchlight hits stores! So be sure you’ve not only pre-ordered, but have also submitted your receipt and VOTED in the short story polls…

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Now onto the moment so many of you have been waiting nine years for… 😌

Chapter 19

Aeduan didn’t need to be told twice. He had smelled the prince near—both of the man’s blood scents—and if Leopold was the one who had set off the explosion . . .

Then Aeduan would destroy him.

With nothing more than a nod of obedience for Iseult, Aeduan abandoned the stream. His muscles flamed with strength, pumped there by his magic. Faster, faster through the trees. He sprinted and veered. Any direction his witchery sensed the prince, Aeduan followed. Two bloods to track.

Leopold fon Cartorra: New leather and smoky hearths.

And the Rook King’s: Clear lake water and frozen winters.

There it was, the Paladin scent. Paces away, but to the left. Aeduan halted so hard, his cloak cracked like a whip. Then he turned and followed Leopold anew.

He knew that he was once more that broken bear from Saldonica, and Leopold was forcing him to stomp and spin wherever he desired. Yet what else could Aeduan do? He couldn’t rest if the prince was here. He couldn’t rest when he knew Leopold might try to hurt Iseult again.

Wind slammed against Aeduan, dismantling snow drifts. Singeing his eyes. He almost missed when the forest changed. The trees went from spaced and natural to a tunnel of nearly locked branches. Footsteps tracked inside.

Aeduan swerved after them.

Faster, harder. Not his mind. Not his body. A collection of seamlessly interacting parts—although . . . He was also inexplicably flagging. Worse, his old were pricking awake.

But the prince was so close. Aeduan could feel the imminence of capture. The lure of prey that could not get away. Any rising pain was a mere distraction. Not his mind, not his body.

Exept halfway into this uncanny tunnel—with the clear lake waters and frozen winters right there—the highest two wounds on Aeduan’s chest erupted with such fire, he gasped. He stumbled.

Run, my child, run, came his dead mother’s voice.

Aeduan’s vision wavered. His rib cage felt as if it were collapsing, and he could do nothing but gulp for air while Leopold’s scent sidled away. Aeduan had had these wounds since childhood, yet never had they tortured him with such brutality. It was as if his dead mother had fallen atop him all over again. As if the six arrows that had punctured her were now puncturing into him again too.

Run, my child, run.

The pain eased. Reluctant, sluggish. Then urgent and freeing. Aeduan regained his footing. Resumed his forward hunt.

Not that it mattered; his prey had flown, and soon the stink of the Solfatarra snaked into Aeduan’s nose. Flickers of rotten eggs and acid before the fog, thick and deadly, rolled into the branch-woven tunnel.

Leopold’s boot prints strode right into the fog.

So Aeduan strode in after him. His chest wounds still ached, but with a throb he could once again ignore. Especially since the acid mist that trawled over him ate at his face wherever his fire-flap didn’t cover. It ate his hands too, and any other part of him not protected by salamander fibers—although even the cloak couldn’t resist this acid forever. And as fast as Aeduan’s magic healed the blistering parts of him, it would never be fast enough to outrun the Solfatarra forever.

Water splashed beneath Aeduan’s boots, a sign he’d reached the poison lake at the heart of the mist. He had no choice now but to stop and abandon his pursuit.

Yet again, the prince had won.

Yet again, the Rook King would fly free.

Run, my child, run.

For several seconds, Aeduan stood there, listening to the silence of the Solfatarra. Feeling the acid burn, scrape, carve into his lungs . . . Then it came: a laugh. Soft, ghostly, unreachable. A mocking sound from a Paladin who lived for mischief and games.

Aeduan’s fingers moved to the sword at his hip. Come, he dared the prince. Come so I may end you. His lips ached where a hole was forming in the flap. His eyeballs were on fire.

But the prince never came, because in the end, he was a coward. Forever working from the shadows. Never stepping into the light. He might make the bear dance, but he would never dare face it head-on.

No man could avoid Lady Fate’s knife forever, though. It would come for Leopold eventually. It would exact all payments owed.

And Aeduan only hoped it would be his hand holding the knife when the prince finally paid up.

None of the supplies survived the blast. All of the carefully accumulated food, kindling, blankets, weapons—all of Iseult’s and Safi’s things, right down to the crates, had been destroyed. Only embers and splinters remained, and scraps from a salamander blanket that would not burn.

Somehow, Iseult preserved her calm as she limped through the tower, searching for anything that might be salvaged. In the end, only the Nomatsi pack from Alma was still intact, thanks to the Nomatsi shield attached to it. But even that was now pocked with holes along the top, where the shield had not protected it.

Perhaps the worst blow of all, though, was Eridysi’s diary. It was gone. Not because the flames had claimed it, but because Leopold had. And in its place was a new book, hidden by rubble. A History of Arithuania’s Rise, Iseult read as she wiped off melted snow and ash. It was an old book, written from before the plague had wiped out the entire Republic—and now it was filled with handwritten notes and drawings.

Leopold clearly wanted Iseult to have this. And given how he’d left it where it could have been easily destroyed, he also clearly hadn’t expected to almost kill Iseult in the blast. He might have known about her and Safi’s supplies, but he hadn’t known about the firepots.

Grim as it was, Iseult was almost satisfied by his miscalculation. What would he have done if he had killed her? How would he have proceeded then? And how much more would he have hated himself for such a vast mistake?

Iseult held the new book toward what few flames still burned. She’d seen Leopold’s neat scrawl before, and now it was crammed so small she had to squint to read it.

One page in particular was thick with annotations: a fold-out map of Poznin, except it was the city as it used to be fifty years ago, before the roads and buildings had been flooded, then eaten away by despair. Leopold had marked all the locations that the Raider King might utilize in his favor. Streets where Ragnor would probably move troops, where he would probably reinforce walls, where he would probably guard most heavily against an attack.

And it was clear the Raider King could defend Poznin and the Air Well for weeks, if not months. The only thing that could possibly defeat such strength and such magic (for Ragnor had many, many witches at his disposal) were numbers. Exactly as Leopold had told Iseult in the Dreaming.

And Leopold had also laid out exactly where to direct such numbers. While the bulk of the Cartorran and Carawen monk forces could attack head-on in a dizzying, aggressive onslaught of bodies against a siege, in the hidden background, the Cahr Awen could infiltrate the city using ancient tunnels that the Raider King had not yet discovered.

In other words: with one hand the armies would distract while the other hand cut the purse.

It was a good plan; Iseult couldn’t deny that. From the arrangement of Cartorran forces upon the field to the use of long-forgotten passages beneath Poznin. But as Iseult had told Leopold less than an hour ago: the cost was too high. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t do it. And destroying all of her and Safi’s supplies was not going to force the Cahr Awen to change course.

Iseult clenched her eyes shut. Her fingers moved to a Threadstone that was no longer there, and for half a moment—on a pause between smoky breaths—she felt the Threads that bind. She felt Safi miles away inside the hunting lodge.

Or at least, that’s what Iseult imagined she was feeling.

And she imagined too that she wasn’t here. That instead, the heat sweeping against her was from sun-baked cobblestones in Veñaza City. That it was just her and Safi, two Threadsisters facing off against the world. The only thing they’d wanted in those days was to get enough money to forge out on their own. For years, they’d had adventures and made mischief and cared for nothing but what the next day might bring.

Now here they were, hundreds of leagues and countless lifetimes away. So much had changed in the last few months. And yet nothing has changed at all.

At that thought, a plan assembled in Iseult’s mind, slicing through her brain as clearly as Leopold’s drawings upon the page—except these were her thoughts and her visions of a terrain that waited ahead. Planning had always been her greatest strength. Logic, organization, careful strategy. These were the skills she used to complete all the wild, impulsive schemes that Safi initiated them into.

And while Safi might not have started this particular scheme, that didn’t mean Iseult couldn’t find a way to finish it.

Her hand fell from her collarbone. She closed the book on Poznin history. It was thinner than Eridysi’s diary, but only by half an inch. Otherwise, its dimensions were nearly the same—meaning it slipped easily into the case at Iseult’s hip. She fastened the buckle with a click, then crouched over to grab the now-pocked Nomatsi pack. The weight settled across her shoulders with creaking ease. The shield, however, was no use anymore, so she left it behind. One more artifact for this tower to claim.

Threads raveled at the corners of Iseult’s magic. Hell-Bards and soldiers, she assumed, wondering why an inferno had erupted into the night. She didn’t want to explain, and she certainly didn’t want to be caught with this pack upon her shoulders or crates of supplies aflame.

So she left behind the tower where she had almost died—more than once now—and she felt no regrets over the wreckage. Instead, she felt only cold fury and hard, indomitable determination.

Safi awoke thinking that war had come. Cannons, she thought. I hear cannons.

But there was no follow-up boom, and she was not on a battlefield or trapped on a warship. She was simply in her room, the shadows complete because someone had banked her fire and blown out her lamps.

She felt drunk as she tried to rise. Why did I hear cannons? The bed spun. She was still dressed.

A knock at her door. “Come,” she growled, her throat fighting her as much as her mind and body did.

A Hell-Bard shoved in. “There’s been an explosion in the forest, Your Imperial Majesty. About half a mile from here. We don’t know if it’s an attack or something else.”

Something else? Safi wanted to demand. What the tits else causes an explosion? But she only waved at the man and barked, “Update me as soon as you know.”

He bowed. He turned to leave.

“Wait. What is the hour?”

“The twenty-third chimes just sounded.”

So late? Safi waved at him again. The word, Dismissed, was beyond her current capacity—and he seemed to understand, for he said, “Should I send for Monk Evrane?”

She shook her head. Then regretted that movement. Then waved even more emphatically for the Hell-Bard to go. This time he obeyed.

Once her door clicked shut, Safi gulped in air and probed at her head with her fingers. The Cahr Awen were still in there, but so was Evrane’s magic. It wanted to suck her back into sleep. It wanted to roll her out to sea on the tide.

But if it was almost midnight, then it was almost time for Safi and Iseult to leave. So Safi dragged herself from her bed. Surely whatever had just happened in the forest would not affect Iseult. Surely at any moment her Threadsister would shove in wondering why Safi wasn’t ready for the road.

Except . . . Cannons. War. Explosion in the forest. Safi’s stomach plummeted. Her breath punched from her lungs. Suddenly she knew exactly what could set the night on fire.

As did the Cahr Awen souls. Already, she could feel them reawakening. The barrel of bees stirring, wanting to sting and buzz and shove back into the cracks of her brain. You must leave. Do not let this stop you! Do not stay here!

“Yes,” she snarled, staggering toward her closet—and toward the clothes she had already chosen to keep her warm on the road.

Her fingers moved for her Threadstone. But it wasn’t there, because it hadn’t been for weeks. Safi still felt incomplete without it.

Gods below, she hoped Iseult was all right. And gods below, she wasn’t about to wait here to find out. She let her hand fall. She had a secret way out of the castle—one she and Iseult had used whenever they needed to evade Caden and his Hell-Bards.

Thinking of Caden made Safi’s ribs hurt.

Thinking of Iseult made them hurt far more. But the girls did have a backup plan in case the worst happened. A spot to meet, where they could regroup, recalibrate, and reevaluate without the controlling eyes of Eron or Evrane.

In minutes, Safi was dressed. All beige, all wool or fur or leather meant to withstand the Windswept Plains and their ire. A scarf cloaked her face, gloves warmed her hands. She was boiling in her bedroom, but she’d be glad for the extra heat as soon as she slid through the hidden doorway tucked in the closet’s back corner. It was a spot Henrick had told her about because why not? It was no use to him anymore.

Once she’d strapped a sword and a parrying knife at her hip, Safi tugged the final piece of preparation she needed for the night. It was not intended for the road; it was nothing more than a letter folded over and sealed with Hasstrel blue wax—and the Hasstrel mountain bat stamp. Love and dread, she thought for the second time that day as she placed the letter on her desk.

Cold air coiled off her window. Snow billowed and spun outside. And in the hall, a three-beat rhythm that heralded Uncle Eron and his cane stomped out. “Let me in to see Her Majesty.”

Sorry, Safi thought. You’re just a few seconds too late. She spun from her desk, reaching her closet just in time to hear the bang-bang-bang of a furious fist against the door. She slunk into her closet, wedged behind a shelf, and found the hidden bump that marked a hole in the stones.

Knock, knock, she thought as she tapped out the secret rhythm. The stones vanished. Frost billowed against her. Her bedroom door cracked open and Eron called her name, an edge to his voice that meant he suspected what she was up to.

But he was too late to stop her. His empress had escaped. The night and freedom had claimed her.

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Chapter 20

Iseult went to a new spot in the forest. It was beside the same stream where Aeduan had left her, but a different clearing. A mere patch of shore where trees hadn’t grown. This was the secret backup spot to meet Safi, in case things went wrong.

And things had gone very wrong.

Here, there was no hole in the ice to reveal dark waters. Here, the snows had not banked quite so high.

Iseult dropped the Nomatsi pack, reaching for the taler at her neck. This was her chance to slip away. She should have removed it at the tower . . . but she hadn’t. She should have removed it at the tribe, but she hadn’t. She should have removed it at any time in the past week, but she hadn’t.

For all that she had criticized Safi, Iseult was absolutely no better. And even now, she didn’t remove the taler.

The night was too quiet around her. Too real after the sensory overwhelm at the tower. Iseult’s senses were so keyed up, she felt raw. Overly receptive to the wind’s bite, the stream’s burble, the snow’s talons. She heard Aeduan long before she saw him. And she felt how incensed he was, as if Threads really did weave above him, revealing all he felt while he stalked from the trees.

She just hoped it was not with her that he was incensed. He would have every right to be.

“I lost Leopold,” he told her once he was near enough to be heard. “I am sorry.” He came to a stop beside Iseult on the shore, his cloak swishing around him. His cheeks were red with exertion, his eyes red with magic. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

His gaze flicked to the pack. Held there for three breaths. Then flicked to Iseult’s face again. “Why did Leopold try to kill you?”

“I don’t think he meant to. He was . . .” Iseult wet her lips.

“Trying to keep you here.”

“Yes.”

“You were going to leave for Poznin.”

“Yes.”

An expansion of time. A stilling of Aeduan’s chest as he studied Iseult. His witchery drained from his irises; the usual pale blue returned. “And now? Will you still go?”

“Yes.”

His nostrils flared, but he said nothing more. He didn’t ask if he could come, he didn’t insist that Iseult should stay. In the distance, a crow cawed into the night. Ice popped and groaned on the stream, while the overwhelm of Iseult’s senses ratcheted up another notch.

The snowflakes were too cold on her cheeks. Her breath was too big in her lungs. Her clothes were too constrictive across her body.

And Aeduan . . .

Aeduan felt too dangerous. There would be no escaping him now, and she couldn’t believe she’d ever wanted to. That she had ever convinced herself that leaving him would be the right course. There is no we, there is no us. He had said that to her in Tirla, and it had broken her heart.

Now she had planned to do the same—and standing here, facing him in a clearing made of winter, she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t known it would cut him. That even though his face wore no expression , inwardly, he was bleeding.

“I . . . did not want . . .” Iseult bit out each word. Carefully. Clearly, so there could be no confusion. “To leave you. But . . . I saw no o-other way.”

Aeduan didn’t reply. The exerted flush from his cheeks was fading, blending the pallor of his skin into the pallor of his eyes into the whiteness of his cloak—and into the snow tangling around them.

“You should not have to face your father,” Iseult continued. “I d-don’t want you to have to choose.”

“I have already chosen.”

“Yes, but . . .” Iseult gritted her molars. “No one should have to kill their parent. And wh-what if it comes to that in Poznin?”

Aeduan’s jaw clenched. His eyes glinted red. “Then I will choose exactly what I chose before.”

Yes, and that is the problem. For Iseult could not deny one powerful thing: she was glad she had not killed Corlant. She was glad Leopold had shoved that blade through her father’s spine so that she wouldn’t have to. Wretched as it was, it had been a gift.

And Iseult wanted to give the same to Aeduan.

“I will stay here,” he said flatly, “if that is what you want from me.”

Iseult’s eyes screwed shut. She could feel Aeduan retreating into himself. Closing off emotion as adeptly as a Threadwitch. She understood that instinct because it was a match for her own: reject that which might reject you, for it hurt less if you were the one to act.

You can lie to yourself, she’d told him in Tirla. But you cannot lie to me.

She opened her eyes. “I don’t w-want this. Of course I don’t want this, Aeduan.”

A pause. A gnarl of fogged breath. Then: “So do not do it.” Fabric rustled, snow crunched, and in a sweep of speed, Aeduan closed the space between them. He knelt before her on the snow. “Please, Dark-Giver. Please . . . Iseult. My blood I offer freely.”

Iseult reached for his face.

“My Threads I offer wholly.”

Yes, she wanted to say.

“Claim my Aether.”

Yes. She ran a knuckle down his jaw.

“Guide my blade.”

Yes. She gripped Aeduan’s chin and forced his head to rise. Forced his icy gaze to meet hers as he uttered the final words: “From now until the end.”

Yes. Iseult sighed. Blood. Witch. Blood. Witch. The words pulsed through her in time to her heart. In time to her blood. How had she ever thought she could leave him behind?

“Come with me,” she finally offered in Nomatsi. Quiet as the fireflies that had once floated with them beside a different stream in a different forest far away. “Come with me, Monk Aeduan, to Poznin.”

Now his eyes were the ones to shutter, and he was the one to sigh. He sank into her hand. “Yes. I will come.” He slid his fingers around Iseult’s wrist, and pressed his thumb into the place where her pulse did not flutter so much as boom. Blood. Witch. Blood. Witch.

She softened her grip on his chin. His breath was warm against her fingertips, so at odds with the winter night around them. Iseult’s muscles moved without conscious thought. Her thumb stretched long. She touched Aeduan’s bottom lip. Stroked down.

His eyes snapped wide. His breathing ceased, as did hers.

Then he tugged at her wrist. More request than command, but it made Iseult’s legs collapse all the same.

Her knees hit the snow. Her eyes came almost level to his, and there was a look on his face she’d never seen before. As if he were afraid to hurt her. As if he feared he might break her if he made any further move.

But didn’t he know Iseult better than that? Didn’t he know she had gone through seafire to save him and broken a Well to heal him? This frozen moment could do her no harm.

Then it struck her: Aeduan didn’t fear she would break at his touch. He feared that he would. So she leaned in. An inch. Then two. Closer, closer, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to, needed to.

He didn’t pull away. Their lips grazed. Their breaths mingled. And at last, the Threads of the moment gave way. The red strands that bound them snapped taut.

At the touch of Iseult’s lips, Aeduan broke in two. A stiletto in his heart. A breaking of his spine beside a lighthouse. He felt his magic surge. Inexplicably, because he’d never been able to sense Iseult. Never felt his witchery respond to her nearness. Yet it swelled and burned all the same. No pain in his old wounds, nor even an awareness of the wounds in the first place.

There was only Iseult, pulsing and here.

A moan unraveled from her. The vibration of it curled into Aeduan’s mouth, into his chest. His fingers dug into her wrist; her fingers turned to claws against his chin.

She swiveled her hand in Aeduan’s grasp—a move he had taught her months ago, in one of their many sparring sessions across the Sirmayans. It broke his grip and forced his entire arm to follow wherever she led it.

Which was above him. Then behind him, so that he abruptly toppled backward onto the snow. Iseult toppled with him, bracing her legs on either side of his body with such ease Aeduan would have been vexed by her win—if he weren’t so transfixed by her above him. Had she always looked so powerful? Had she always felt so strong, with her face of shadows and moonlight? Her lips shuddered with each breath. Her hair flew on the breeze, and her thighs trembled against his waist.

“I will stop,” she murmured, “if you want me to.”

“Te varuje,” he replied.

And there was that smile of hers. Subtle and disarming. It sent a thrill into Aeduan’s gut. Made his witchery and his desire respond in turn. He flipped her.

She saw it coming, of course, but he was much too fast for her to stop. His hips bucked; his right leg swung out; she fell. Yet before her back could hit the snow, Aeduan caught her and eased her down. She grabbed his baldric in two white-knuckled fists. Then he settled her onto the cleared patch of snow his body had left behind.

“You shouldn’t waste energy,” she told him, “on showing off.”

“And you should not challenge someone more skilled than you.”

“Then teach me,” she replied, and she yanked Aeduan to her. Their lips touched a second time. Their teeth and tongues too, while Aeduan’s mind, Aeduan’s body, and Aeduan’s magic shattered all over again.

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I hope you enjoyed that.

I spent actual days trying to make it perfect, going back again and again to their most pivotal interactions throughout the series so I could echo that language and help build the scale of resonance I felt their first kiss deserved.

More chapters to come soon—and more ships to sail too. 😘

💚 - Sooz

Before I share tour dates AND get to the awesome TE3 giveaway below (open internationally!), I want to remind you guys to submit pre-order receipts and vote in the short story poll!

We’re up to 944 pre-orders and SO close to unlocking Tier 2 for a longer short story.

So get your pre-orders in, get your receipts in, and GET READY for Witchlight to hit stores—as well as an awesome short story to hit your inboxes.

Pre-Order & Submit Your Receipt Here!

Witchlight Tour Dates!

As teased these stops on the Discord, but for the rest of you: I’ll be heading out on another tour in November! So mark your calendars, grab your tickets, and gather up any other books you might want to bring along for me to sign1

I WILL SEE YOU ALL SOON!

• Schuler Books

  • Grand Rapids, MI

  • Tuesday, November 4, 2025 6:30 PM

• Roselynn Hill Winery (with A Novel Neighbor)

  • Louisville, KY

  • Wednesday, November 5, 2025 6:30 PM

• Neshaminy Mall Barnes & Noble

  • Bensalem, PA

  • Thursday, November 6, 2025 6:00 PM

• Books of Wonder

  • New York, NY

  • Friday, November 7, 2025 6:00 PM

  • In conversation with Lyssia Mia Smith and moderated by Emily Taylor!

• Texas Book Festival

  • Sunday, November 9, 2025 1:00 PM

  • Featured Author at the Texas Book Festival

Giveaway of The Executioners Three!

To celebrate the arrival of OCTOBER and Halloween season, I thought a giveaway of The Executioners Three might be in order. 🎃👻🍂

One grand-prize winner will receive a signed hardcover copy of The Executioner’s Three. This giveaway is open to readers internationally, and it will end on October 31, 2025!

To enter, just click the button below. AND THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT, DENNERDS!

Enter the Giveaway

Alrighty, I’ll be back next week with more Witchlight Early Access. It’s a DOOZY OF A CHAPTER COMING.

That’s all I’ll say for now.

In other news, I turned in edits on Two For Joy last week, and I’ve been hard at work ever since on finishing up the second Murder Quartet book (it’s due next month). Oh, and I wrapped up a quick editorial round on my short story for the OwlCrate scf-fi anthology.2

And okay, okay, I might have also been editing something for someone that I can’t talk about and dabbling in a different project too because I am always jumping around. But shhh, can’t talk about those yet. 😉

See you soon, DenNerds!

💚 - Sooz

P.S. ICYMI, Witchlands Reels Edition

I wrote this years ago with the thought that maybe I’d explore it in a novella…But clearly the novella hasn’t happened (yet). That doesn’t change their love story, though!

Pre-Order Campaign Alert!

Before I get to the fun extra content, don’t forget to pre-order Witchlight and submit your receipt! And of course, then VOTE on what story you want to read!

Pre-order & Submit Your Receipt

We have a pretty clear winner so far in terms of our short story set-up…

But it’s still early days. That trajectory could change with enough votes!

Now on to the main event…

The Tale of Mathew and Habim

Devastatingly handsome (and devastatingly serious) Habim Fashayid is a young Firewitch general in the Marstoki Army. He has risen through the ranks not merely by the strength of his witchery, but also by his head for strategy.

When he gets stationed at a prison camp in a lake-side city in the Sirmayan mountains known as Tirla, he is less than thrilled. Sure: it is a key stronghold, right on the ever-shifting border with Cartorra and Dalmotti. And sure, the city is a bustling hub of soldiers and merchants and supply chains, so his knack for logistics is often called upon. But this definitely wasn’t the wild battlefields he expected to brave.

Meanwhile, in the same city, lives a devastatingly handsome -- and devastatingly charming -- young Wordwitch: Mathew fitz Leaux. He runs a grand smuggling operation, selling things to prisoners, to guards, and to soldiers from all three armies nearby, and no matter how hard the Marstoki army (or Cartorran or Dalmotti armies) try to catch the wily con artist...no luck.

Which is why Habim makes it his goal to bring the man down. Of course, every trap Habim sets, Mathew escapes. Over and over, Habim tries to get to Mathew -- but in every single instance, Mathew escapes at the last minute with a winning smile and clever compliment.

Over the course of his mission, Habim unwillingly gets to know Mathew. He has to research the man to follow him, and he suspects Mathew has been researching him in turn. How else can the man so deftly evade each of his traps?

And what is Habim supposed to make of the gifts suddenly arriving in his quarters and on his desk? His favorite Marstoki wine, his favorite dessert, a unique painting that would look nice in his quarters. But most important of all -- the one gift Habim can’t resist: coffee. Real, rich Marstoki coffee.

Meanwhile, throughout this game of cat and mouse, Habim has been attempting to finally crack a Hell-Bard prisoner of war named Eron fon Hasstrel. The young man is a close confidant of the new emperor, Henrick, so he knows things. However, much like Habim’s failed attempts to catch Mathew, every interrogation attempt unravels. Eron won’t share a damned thing that might endanger his countrymen, but he’ll gladly preach and philosophize about peace in the Witchlands.

Outlandish ideas, of course. This war has gone on in some form or other for centuries. However, the more Habim talks to Eron, the less outlandish his ideas sound.

When word reaches Habim’s desk that the Twenty Year Truce is about to happen, Habim realizes he has a choice: he can either go back to Marstok and continue to serve by training troops. Or he can try to actually make a difference and stop this war altogether.

He can join Eron fon Hasstrel.

But in order to do that, Habim will need to make himself disappear -- while also not disappearing at all. Fortunately, there is a certain smuggler who might be able to help him with that...

Honestly, reading this summary made me want to write this so badly. I can’t deny it. The chemistry between Mathew and Habim—THE CHEMISTRY. Not to mention the importance of all this backstory for what comes in the core Witchlands series…

But alas, for now, it will just have to remain a summary. One day, when I don’t have so many books due, perhaps I can turn my attention to it. 🔥

TELL ME: what’s your favorite ship in the Witchlands? Do you have one?

Leave a comment

I obviously don’t have one, although I do really, really, really, REALLY love a certain ship and how it develops in Witchlight. There is a twist that will be shared in the Early Access that I can’t wait for you all to get to…

More chapters next week!

💚 - Sooz

In today’s age, pre-order campaigns are rare. The return on investment for publishers just isn’t what it used to be.

But I felt it was important for the final Witchlands book to have a pre-order gift, just as the previous installments in the series have had!

So behold: I am running my own campaign to say thank you to my longtime readers for supporting me, Safi, Iseult, and the entire gang. I know it’s been a long wait for this final book, but I promise your patience will have been worth it!

I am so proud of Witchlight.

And I am SO excited to share the pre-order goodies I’ve got coming for you. Which—gasp!—includes international readers!

In fact, not only do international pre-orders of Witchlight qualify for these Witchlander Winnings, but so does any edition of the book so long as it’s in English1. E-book, audio, hardcover, international paperback—I don’t care! A pre-order is a pre-order, and it will qualify you for the items below.

A Fan-Driven Short Story

So first off, what do you get for pre-ordering any edition in English? A short story set in the Witchlands!

BUT, lest you think that’s not interesting enough, to make this campaign different and fun—and to get back to my #ChooseWithSooz roots of letting READER decide how a story will go2—you, the readers, will get to vote on what exactly I write!

What characters will be in it? When and where will it take place? What kind of story will it be?

Maybe you want more romantic moments between your favorite ship. Maybe you want a silly scene where everyone is just sitting in Mathew’s coffee shop playing cards. YOU decide!

When you submit your receipt, you’ll get to vote on exactly those things. Mix and match to create the story YOU want! Then keep track of what other people are voting on the main pre-order page.

And if you pre-order more than one copy or edition in English? Well, guess what: you get more votes. Every receipt qualifies you for another vote. So if you’re someone who likes to get an ebook and an audiobook, then great! Go vote two times, my friend!

More Pre-Orders = More Witchlander Winnings

To make this even more immersive—and to harken back to our old street team heist days3—the more pre-orders we get, the more GOODIES we unlock!

I’ll be updating the website each week as I get new pre-order numbers from my publisher. That way we can all track just how far we’ve come and how far we still have to go.

But wait, what are these tiers, Sooz?!

• Tier 1: 500 Pre-Orders (already unlocked!)

  • Sooz will write a 1,500 word short storybased on YOUR chosen characters and setup!

    • PDF printable version

    • .epub version for e-readers

• Tier 2: 1000 Pre-Orders (we’re so close with 825 pre-orders!)

  • Sooz will write an even longer short story—2,250 words!—based on YOUR chosen characters and setup!

    • PDF printable version

    • .epub version for e-readers

• Tier 3: 1500

  • Sooz will write an even longer short story of 3000 words based on YOUR chosen characters and setup!

    • PDF printable version

    • .epub version for e-readers

  • The story will come with custom cover art by the incomparable and much-beloved C.J. Merwild! 🎉🎉🎉

• Tier 4: 2500

  • Sooz will write TWO short stories, each 2000 words based on YOUR chosen characters and setup!

    • PDF printable version

    • .epub version for e-readers

  • One story will come with custom cover art by the incomparable and much-beloved C.J. Merwild! 🎉🎉🎉

  • The second story will have custom cover art by the talented, up-and-coming Danielle Balanga! 🎉🎉🎉

A Few Extra Notes

The campaign will run until the 11:59:59 PM ET on November 3rd. So you’ve got between now and then to pre-order, submit your receipts, and help spread the word so more people vote4.

You must submit a receipt showing proof of purchase of an English-language Witchlight to qualify to vote and receive the Witchlander Winnings! I will be verifying receipts.

International pre-orders of theEnglish-language Witchlight qualify! 🎉

All English-language editions (audio, e-book, paperback, hardcover) of Witchlight qualify! 🎉

I will update the pre-order site as often as possible, but note: I only get pre-order numbers sent to me weekly. So tiers won’t be updated more than once/week.

Voting results, however, I will try to update daily! 😘

Questions? Comments?

Leave your thoughts in the comments section, and I’ll answer ASAP!

Leave a comment

Or just jump right into the submission form and get started voting!

Submit your receipt!

Thank you to everyone who has already pre-ordered (all 825 of you, last I got updates!), and thank you for supporting me and the Witchlands for an entire decade!

💚 - Sooz

Only 56 days until the book hits shelves and e-readers and headphones everywhere! So be sure you’ve finished your reread, pre-ordered the book (US links here, UK links here) and are emotionally ready for the EPIC CONCLUSION coming your way!

I’ve got a lot of Witchlands content coming at you in the next eight weeks, and that means a lot of Witchlight early access chapters!

So scroll down to get reading, and stay tuned for more goodness in your inboxes soon. 😌

Witchlight Early Access

Chapter 17

Safi knew she needed to finish packing. She’d gotten the map; she’d handled her Hell-Bard captain; all that was left was to gather her travel clothes for the night’s departure. And eat—she should probably eat.

However, all Safi was actually able to do was to stagger through the lodge toward her bedroom. Tears over Caden had accumulated in her skull. And worse, always worse, the Cahr Awen were being noisy.

Relentlessly noisy, but in an incoherent way that resulted from a hundred souls mashing together with no single language and no real grasp on reality. It was like having a beehive for a skull. They buzzed, they droned, they never wanted to sleep.

Tonight, they were especially rattled. Do something seemed to be their message—but that was as much clarity as Safi could glean from them.

And gods below, her head hurt. All she wanted to do was curl onto her bed with her velvet band across her eyes. Surely the souls would quiet eventually, and maybe, if she was lucky, she could get a few hours of sleep after that.

Unfortunately, Safi didn’t reach her door before Monk Evrane cornered her. So close, Safi thought, gazing at her nearby square of Hell-Bards.

“Excuse me,” Evrane said, holding a satchel the size of two fists. “I have a healer’s kit here that Iseult requested. But she is not in her quarters. Perhaps I can give it to you?”

“Of course,” Safi forced out. Be polite. Don’t cringe. “That’s very helpful of you, Monk Evrane. Thank you.” She tried to move past.

But the monk cut into her path. “I thought perhaps Iseult was injured, but now I suspect you are the one who is actually hurting.” Then she quickly added, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

Evrane was a woman accustomed to titles and royalty, and as such, she hadn’t once tried to cross the barriers of Safi’s crown since joining them. A wall had come up around Safi that only Uncle Eron and Caden seemed comfortable enough to cross. And Iseult, of course.

Although, to be fair, Safi did avoid Evrane as often as she could, giving the woman no opportunities to even pass within her imperial cage. Safi’s brain hurt all the time. She didn’t want Evrane nagging her precisely as she was doing now.

Liar, her magic nudged. You know that is not why you avoid her.

“No pain,” Safi lied, “I am fine.” Her voice didn’t sound convincing—and Evrane clearly didn’t believe her, because for once, the monk pushed against Safi’s cage.

“Are you injured?”

“No, I’m fine.” Her magic scratched at her spine. Lie, lie, lie.

And Monk Evrane nudged once more: “I can ease pain, you know. Or craft you Painstones that will help whatever it is that ails you.”

Painstones. Safi had tried one of those a week ago. It hadn’t helped at all.

“Or,” Evrane continued, advancing a single step closer and dropping her voice, “I can help you fall asleep.”

Ah. Now they had gotten to the crux of the matter. “It’s the Cahr Awen souls, Monk Evrane. All the souls that are trapped inside me from the broken Threadstones. They . . . push.” Safi dug her fingers into the left side of her forehead, as if this motion might somehow explain how it felt. “It hurts and makes sleep difficult.”

“Hmm,” Evrane agreed, as if all of this made sense to her. “I cannot relieve your burden, Your Imperial Majesty, but I can attempt to dull the pain—and I can certainly give you enough relief for sleep. That is . . . if you will allow me into your quarters?”

Safi swallowed. She didn’t want Evrane in her quarters. She didn’t want Evrane talking to her in this voice accented by Nubrevnan. Most of all, she didn’t want to open her eyes and meet the dark Nihar irises she knew were standing right there. Inescapable.

Safi swallowed a second time. Then, after several seconds of only taut silence to fill the hall, she twisted away from Evrane. “All right,” she said, finally letting her eyes open. “You may come inside.”

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Safi didn’t bother to remove her day’s clothes, filthy though her shirt was and even filthier the gray breeches. Even her boots she kept on. The flames in her hearth rolled heat through the room and flickered orange light over a tall, many-paned window with a desk beneath it and a wide canopied bed several paces away—a bed onto which Safi now flung herself.

“Do what you will,” she said with a flip of her hand toward the monk who’d followed her. Then Safi closed her eyes and waited. She couldn’t look at Evrane closely. She couldn’t.

Evrane didn’t move for several seconds, and Safi could easily imagine the indecision the monk must feel. She adhered so strongly to formality. To ritual and station, to bows and titles and of course, the holy adulation she afforded both Safi and Iseult. All her life Evrane had dreamed of finding and supporting the Cahr Awen, now here was the chosen pair. Now, here were all the Wells being healed one by one.

But in the end, Safi was still just a girl with a headache who hadn’t slept in so very, very long. And in the end, Evrane was a healer witch.

Safi heard when Evrane moved: a slight clinking of belt buckles and blades, a soft swish of her white Carawen cloak as if she pulled it back from her shoulders. Safi felt the weight of the monk easing onto the mattress beside her.

“It is your head that hurts? Anywhere else?”

“No. Just the head. And . . . well, the neck in turn.” Safi was careful to keep her eyes clenched shut. Evrane was very near. Nearer than she had been in the hall. Nearer than she had been since returning to Safi’s company a month ago.

Almost as near as her nephew had been during their brief encounter inside a mountain.

“I cannot draw out the souls that cause the pressure,” Evrane explained, lowering her voice to a gentle intimacy. “I will do what I can to dampen the pain by reducing the swelling in your brain—only by a small amount, of course. But it should help relieve the pressure. And then I will send a sleeping wave through your body. Will that be all right, Your Imperial Majesty?”

Again, Safi nodded. It was all she wanted; it would make her days so much more bearable. It would make the pain and the pressure more bearable too, since they were not a burden that anything could relieve other than healing the final Well.

Which I am about to do, she reminded herself—and reminded the souls in turn. In a few hours, I am going to do what you want.

But that didn’t appease them. It never appeased them. They were bees trapped in a barrel, and now they simply buzzed worse than before.

“I will touch your head,” Evrane said. “But my hands are cold. I am sorry.”

“Cold is good,” Safi murmured, and it was true. Sometimes, when the weight of her blindfold wasn’t enough, she would tuck cold stones beneath her velvet wrap so they pressed against her eyes.

Evrane’s hands laid upon her, and ah. There was the wave, like a sweet tide on the Jadansi. For several minutes, as pain dripped and dropped out of her skull, Safi felt as if she were back in Veñaza City. Back beside the sea forever lapping against the wharf where Mathew’s coffee shop lived.

It made her throat choke up. Made her entire rib cage ache. How long had she and Iseult been gone? Could she even measure how much their lives had changed? They would never get a place of their own now. They would never get to escape and simply be.

Despite Safi’s best efforts, she was less free now than she’d ever been. She had a crown upon her head—and it weighed almost as heavy as these souls trapped inside her. Meanwhile Iseult had a power so vast, she was stuck forever on a knife’s edge, afraid that if she moved, the knife would cut and kill all she loved.

At some point, Safi wasn’t sure when, tears started to slide down her cheeks. And although she knew where the tears would lead her . . . although she knew she would have to wipe her cheeks eventually . . .

Safi opened her eyes and looked at Evrane. The monk’s hands were on Safi’s brow—no longer cold—and the fire behind the monk lit her hair into a silvery halo.

“He’s not dead,” Safi said in Nubrevnan, and there it was. The words Safi was afraid to say. “He’s not dead, and I saw him.”

For several seconds, Evrane did not move. Her gaze was fastened on Safi, her pupils large and unfocused while her magic still floated through Safi. Then Evrane’s eyelids shuttered halfway. She breathed, “Oh.”

Her hands withdrew. The caress of her magic did not. “How do you know?”

“I saw him inside a mountain,” Safi said simply. “It was filled with ice and winds and shadow, and although he was scarred and . . . and . . .” She motioned to the right side of her face, to where burns had changed the prince into someone almost unrecognizable. “I knew him in an instant.” I knew his eyes, so very much like yours.

“He isn’t dead,” Safi repeated, more forcefully this time. “Merik still lives.” She pushed upright, a wobbly movement that sent Evrane grabbing for her and shoving pillows behind her back. But Safi didn’t need pillows. She felt better than she’d felt in days. Perhaps, she thought vaguely, because this was a pressure that needed releasing too.

“I don’t know where he is now, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I don’t really understand what I saw or how Merik came to be there. For a time, I thought maybe I’d dreamed the entire thing. Except, I know . . .” She pressed at her stomach. Then her chest. “I just know in the very core of my magic that it wasn’t a dream. Merik’s alive, somehow, and he’s out there.” She waved ineffectually toward the window, as if Merik were merely on the ramparts. As if he might turn up at any moment, scarred but still himself.

Evrane nodded slowly, a thoughtful triangle forming between her brows. It was clear she didn’t understand what Safi was saying—and how could she when Safi didn’t understand it herself? But it was also clear she was overjoyed to learn her nephew lived. Safi didn’t need to be a Threadwitch to spot this.

“Thank you for telling me, Your Imperial Majesty.” A pause. A swallow. “I will . . . will send word to all my contacts so they may search for him.”

Safi exhaled a soft Hye. Then she added: “And I have already asked all the spies in Henrick’s . . . or rather, in my vast network to search for him too. Hopefully we can find him. Hopefully you can see him again.”

Evrane didn’t answer. Her thoughts currently lived in another place, her fingers splayed across her lap like sea stars in a tidal pool. She looked older than she was. And tired. Neither monk nor healer witch, but simply a woman who’d lost too much.

Then, as if watching the tide rise up—as if watching the sea stars climb back into the waters they knew best—Evrane’s demeanor changed. “Sometimes I marvel at how selfish grief can be. Are we sad for those we lost? Or are we sad for what we did not remember to do?” She fastened her dark Nihar eyes onto Safi, and with the same gentleness from before, she eased Safi onto the pillows.

Then she laid her hands on Safi’s forehead, and the soothing, salty tides swept into Safi anew.

“I know you hate your uncle, Safiya, and I suspect that in many ways, Merik feels the same way toward me—and likely Aeduan feels it too, for I raised him with as much harsh care as I gave Merik. But in the end, nothing can change that we do the best we can with the tools we have. Sometimes we use our tools wisely. Sometimes . . .” Evrane shook her head. “Sometimes our best is not enough.”

The tides swept in more strongly, but they were not drowning waters. Nor rough and stormy. They were gentle currents meant to carry Safi’s floating body out to sea, where healing and sleep awaited.

“I hope that I see Merik again one day, if only so I may tell him that he has turned out far wiser and far fiercer than I could have ever dreamed he would be. Now sleep, Safiya, and dream of peace in your mind, peace in your body.”

Safi sighed. Her muscles softened. And there it was: the true sleep that had eluded her for days.

The last thing Safi heard before she sank under was: “Thank you, Light-Bringer, for this gift you have given me tonight. It was the reminder I needed that the path I am on is true.”

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Chapter Eighteen

The moon was fully risen by the time Iseult navigated the Nomatsi trail again. She did not return to the hunting lodge, but instead made her way to the ancient tower with its altar inside. The pack weighed heavy on her back, but it was steady. Comfortable, even.

She scanned the tower, full of shadows. A world of black and white. Snow still skated languidly down, and a barely perceptible wind whispered by every few seconds. But something was wrong. Something had changed since Iseult had come here with Safi that morning.

There were the supplies, tucked into the darkest corner with the blanket above. Snow had once more banked around the crates.

There was the altar, only ten feet away. Still, silent, timeless.

There were the crumbling walls and broken staircase and winter trees beyond.

Iseult shifted her weight, splaying her toes in her boots, trying to find warmth. The pack shifted with her. She should add its supplies to the organized crates in the corner. Open up the leather and catalog exactly what Alma had given her.

But Iseult didn’t move. Instead, she eased the pack off her back, letting it land directly behind her. A bulwark against cold—and against the strangeness still huddling around her.

There were no Threads here, so she did not fear humans. And she didn’t fear animals, since they, like men, avoided this place. Of course, there were ways to hide Threads. Ways to travel that even a Threadwitch could not see . . .

Wind pulled at her hair as she withdrew Eridysi’s diary from a leather pouch at her belt. She always kept it with her, for its words were too precious, too dangerous to ever leave untended.

Iseult lowered to the snow-covered earth, folding her legs beneath her before lay the diary on her lap. She closed her eyes. She slipped into the Dreaming.

It was so easy here, in this old tower where the walls between this world and the Old Ones’ were thinner. She only had to imagine the Dreaming, and suddenly she was there. The night hazed around her. The edges of her vision blurred into gray nothing.

“Leopold,” she called. “I know you’re here. Show yourself.”

She sensed his emergence before she saw him. A heaviness where her periphery smeared—a slowing of time that made the snow drift differently, as if gravity no longer operated by the same rules.

She turned toward him and found he was not Leopold at all, but the purest distillation of his Paladin form. He stood at the tower’s entrance, a ghostly figure. Almost insubstantial, yet also many people at once, many genders and many races before all the incarnations of his Paladin soul finally settled into the version Iseult knew best: Leopold fon Cartorra.

Except now he wore the Rook King’s silver crown, and his cloak was black and bulky, adding breadth to what she knew were lean shoulders.

“This is a welcome surprise.” His voice and Threads indicated it wasn’t welcome at all. “I did not think I would see you again, Dark-Giver.”

“Don’t c-call me that.” It was Iseult’s title as the Cahr Awen, but Leopold always made it sound insulting. She rose to her dream feet while her physical body remained behind. “Where are you? I know you must be near.” The last time she had seen Leopold in person had been here, after he’d stabbed Corlant in the back.

Leopold paused at that altar now, inspecting the precise spot where his blade had cut through Corlant’s spine, as if he were an artist looking upon his work. “Is it so strange to want to see how the Cahr Awen fares?”

“Yes.”

“I have spent a thousand years trying to heal the Wells. Give an old soul this . . . pleasure.”

“Except you were the one who betrayed the Six. Oh yes, I’ve read the diary in full now, Leopold. Eridysi writes that you betrayed the Six so that the Exalted Ones knew of your plans. The Six were going to kill the Exalted ones, but you warned them. And so the Six failed.”

“And Eridysi was wrong. I was not the betrayer, Iseult.” A pause. A contemplative twirl of Leopold’s Threads as he motioned toward the altar. “I was, in fact, the one who ensured the Exalted Ones were slain.”

“Portia was not slain.”

“Was not, but now is.” He smiled, and although he didn’t add it, Iseult could practically hear him saying: Because I slayed her. She was in Corlant’s body, and I killed Corlant so you would not have to.

“Why are you here, Leopold?” Iseult spoke more forcefully now. “Why are you in this tower, lurking so I’ll find you? I w-want an honest answer. None of your charm or lies.”

“Ah, but charm is a prince’s only weapon, remember?”

“And you are not a prince anymore.”

He laughed. A twinkling sound that clashed with the brutal frustration in his Threads. “I am here because it would seem that you and Safiya are leaving. Abandoning all the forces Dom fon Hasstrel and Monk Evrane have assembled for you.”

Iseult wanted to recoil. Wanted to gasp. How does he know? Who has he told? But she clung to her Threadwitch training. She was stasis through and through.

“It will be a march to your death,” Leopold continued. “If you travel east, just the two of you, you will not survive long enough to heal the Well. You will not even reach Poznin, for that matter. The Raider King is not a man to be trifled with. He is the greatest strategic mind of the last millennia.”

Iseult presented a thoughtful silence. One breath. Two. Then she said coolly: “I’m surprised you would say that about someone who isn’t you.”

A snort and a flash of Threads that, for once, actually matched the amusement on his face. “Why do you think I made him my general? I know what my strengths are, and they are not battlefield tactics. Meanwhile, Ragnor has both knowledge and experience that span generations.”

“So why not kill him?” Iseult flipped a dismissive hand. “Why not use a-all your sneaking and shadowy tricks to eliminate him, Leopold?”

Another snorting laugh, this time with Threads of violet disappointment. As if Iseult was a particularly slow pupil. Against her will, heat burned in her chest.

“Trust me, Dark-Giver: I have tried to kill him, but he has accounted for every strategic possibility—including assassination. So only brute force will get you through his armies.”

“Brute force,” Iseult repeated. “Meaning people will die. Countless people—on his side and ours. Don’t you care about that at all?”

“Not particularly.” Leopold opened his arms. The black of his clothes smeared like wings. “Either we lose thousands of lives now or we lose the entirety of the Witchlands when Sirmaya dies. Tell me which sounds preferable to you.”

“Funny how you never put your life at risk, though.”

A sneer carved down Leopold’s handsome face. His Threads however remained placid and unperturbed. “You have no idea what risks I’ve taken. I have done nothing but help you and Safiya. Please recall who found you in Tirla, all alone. Who reunited you with your Threadsister in Cartorra. Who gave you an army, that you foolishly set free—”

“Because Hell-Bards are people, not tools.”

“—and who killed your father so that you would not have to.” Leopold strode toward Iseult, closing the distance between them until all she could see was his face. All she could feel was the icy core of his Threads, crackling with static and cold. He had a Paladin’s Threads. Overwhelming in power and violent in their intensity.

“Everything that has gotten you and Safiya this far—it has been my doing.”

“No.” Iseult cocked up her chin. “It has been your manipulation. Because you work forever behind the scenes, never willing to take direct action. Why is that, I wonder?” She canted toward him. Closer, closer, until only inches separated them in this cold, hazy place of nothing. “I think you avoid direct action, Leopold, b-because then, if you fail, you can absolve yourself of any blame.”

The silvery core of his Threads dilated. The sneer carved deeper down his face. But Iseult wasn’t finished yet.

“Tell me, Leopold, how many Cahr Awens have you nudged along and given armies to over the last thousand years? How many of them failed and died because you refused to ever work with them directly?”

“I will not let you and Safiya go alone to Poznin. I will not let you leave this lodge without an army.”

“And what will you do to stop us?” Iseult motioned to her body, still seated in the real world with the diary upon her lap. “Stopping us would require you to act, and I don’t think you’re capable of it.”

“Do not underestimate me, Dark-Giver.”

“Do not underestimate me, Trickster.”

The sneer fell away. In its place, a smile curled across Leopold’s lips, like an asp coiling to strike. His Threads folded outward in a meteor shower. “Trickster,” he purred. “Yes, that is what you so love to call me. But what is it the Nomatsis say? May the Moon Mother light your path, and may Trickster never find you.

“Well, I’ve found you. And I have acted in a manner that is quite direct and not at all conducted behind the scenes.” Now Leopold was the one to motion, although not toward Iseult but rather to the dark corner where her supplies awaited.

They were not so dark now.

“Enjoy the flames, Iseult. They burn so brightly in this ancient place of memories.” Leopold backed away. The charge of him receded, his body fading like smoke into the sky.

Iseult lurched out of the Dreaming, her body crudely trying to remember how muscles connected to ligaments connected to bones. Heat billowed, orange and blue, fed by the fuel of Iseult’s and Safi’s supplies.

They were all on fire.

Somehow, while Iseult was distracted in the Dreaming, Leopold had ignited the crates, and now they all burned.

Iseult half crawled toward those flames, toward the smoke and heat billowing above it all. She didn’t think to cover her mouth or face, nor did she think to protect herself in any way. Not until she made it five steps over and suddenly remembered what was inside the crates.

Firepots.

Iseult flung herself around. She crossed five steps in only two bounding leaps. Then she jumped, headfirst behind the altar.

The first firepot exploded. A mere stutter, a mere crack! before the rest of the cataclysm joined in.

Fire, heat, noise, and stone. It convulsed over Iseult, rippling with power and rage. She was midair, reaching for the snowy banks behind the altar—when the force of the explosion slammed her down. Right into snow and stone. She lost all hearing; she lost all sight; she lost all sensation in her limbs, her lips, her skin. She could do nothing but lie there, facedown and limp, while heat and shockwaves boiled across her.

She thought of how Safi had described being trapped beneath a flame hawk. She thought of earthquakes and Sirmaya and all the power of a Firewitch contained inside a single clay pot. Inside fifty clay pots.

The tower burned.

Iseult burned with it.

Until suddenly she was being moved. Someone was rolling her over. Then tugging her to him. There was so much smoke, her eyes streamed. She coughed and gasped. She couldn’t see her savior, but she knew who he was anyway.

He had no Threads.

“I’m here,” he told her—or at least, she thought he told her that. Everything was echoey and vague. Fire and smoke swirled like Threads. Her body hurt where Aeduan held her. As he carried her step by steady step out of the tower.

Then it was not fire, but snow.

It was not smoke, but starlight.

Cold air beat across her. Aeduan solidified into sharp specificity: fire-flap across his face, eyes glittering like bloodied ice. He walked and walked until the tower became nothing more than a distant torchlight. Until they were beside a stream, frozen save for one patch where ice had not laid claim. There was no light to create reflections upon the black, burbling surface.

Here, Aeduan eased Iseult down. She had, by now, reclaimed her senses. Reclaimed her mind too, and a thousand questions crowded in: Why is Aeduan here? He should not be home yet. What will this do to our plans? What can we do if we have no supplies?

But there was only one question that really mattered in this immediate moment. She coughed and scrubbed ash from her eyes. “Where is he? Where is Leopold? F-find him, Aeduan, before he can get away.”

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Thank you for reading! As you can see, the stakes are rising and things are about to get VERY real and VERY urgent for our Cahr Awen.

See you again soon, DenNerds!

💚 - Sooz

It has been a WHIRLWIND of a release week for The Executioners Three. There were so many amazing high moments on tour because I always love meeting readers. Hands down the best part of this job.

And you all did not disappoint! Showing up and waiting in line while I took way too long chatting to each person (in my defense, a lot of you had some REAL STACKS O’ BOOKS TO SIGN).

I also learned—by accident while trying to find the title page to sign—that TE3 is already on its second printing! Which is VERY EXCITING INDEED! To exceed expectations before a book even releases?!

We are mighty, DenNerds.

Of course, I discovered the next morning that there was a pretty egregious printer error in a batch of that second printing. 🥴 Printer errors are common, though—so I wasn’t too alarmed.

Until I learned WHAT the error was. This error was 30 pages of a completely different that is VERY INAPPROPRIATE for my audience—and it’s shoved right into where the climax of TE3 ought to be.

And unfortunately, with the holiday weekend in the US, my agent and I couldn’t get anyone on the phone at the publisher until yesterday. Which hey—is not the pub’s fault! That’s just unlucky timing. Nor is it the pub’s fault that the printer messed up an as-of-yet-still-undetermined-number of books. But the publisher is the one who has to fix it on the business end of things…

More on that below, if you have a misprinted copy!

But the frustrations of the misprint (which was honestly just a fear that young readers would get this book in their hands and be capital-T Traumatized) was soon soothed by the AMAZING NEWS that TE3 hit multiple bestseller lists!!!

Multiple! You read that right!

Thanks to all of you, TE3 is a New York Times, USA Today, and a National Indie Bookstore bestseller!!!

Like I said in my IG caption—and as I said repeatedly on our Discord and at tour stops—I had such low expectations for this book!!! It’s a quirky cozy horror romance, not like the other stuff I write. Plus, it had been on Wattpad so man years ago! Would anyone still want it?

And to be clear: I was (and still am) perfectly content for this book to not make huge waves. It got me through such a difficult time in my life that I have NO regrets about creating it and sharing it.

BUT YAY! Look at that!! YOU ALL DID IT, GANG! Your support got this book on three bestseller lists!

I am just so flabbergastingly grateful all of you for that!!

But, lest I seem too joyful (😉), this morning I learned that due to a distribution mishap, the book never reached Walmart shelves. So if any of you were planning to buy your copy at Walmart, I apologize! It looks like it won’t reach the store until November.

But hey! On the bright side, that just means we get a fresh chance in November for Freddie and the gang to reach readers, am I right?

This release has, all in all, been such a WONDERFUL week. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, DenNerds, for being the reason I enjoyed so many moments.

Printer Error — How To Get A New Copy

If you were one of the “lucky” readers to discover on page 215 that the book was suddenly a DIFFERENT book by a DIFFERENT author, then you can get a new copy from Tor Teen!

Just take a photo of the copyright page (we need this to track down the misprinted batch) and a photo of page 215 (or any other misprinted page).

Then send those photos along with your shipping address to tpg_damaged_books@tor.com! They will handle things on their end. ☺️

Only Two Months Until Witchlight!

Now before I pop off to work on the Murder Quartet (mwuhahaha), I want to remind you all that we are only TWO MONTHS AWAY FROM WITCHLIGHT HITTING STORES.

This is not a drill!!!

Can you believe it? After all these years of waiting. 😭

In other words, you can expect to see a LOT of Witchlands content coming soon on here and on the ol’ Instagram. I’ll have more Early Access chapters next week, plus extra content…

Witchlight Early Access

Plus a FAN-GUIDED PRE-ORDER INTERNATIONAL CAMPAIGN. What does that mean? Oh, you’ll just have to wait and see. I’ll have more info coming very soon. 😘

So make sure you’ve pre-ordered so you’ll be eligible as soon as we announce the shenanigans in a few weeks.

Pre-order Witchlight (US)

Pre-order Witchlight (UK)

And don’t miss this silly banter-filled exchange between Safi and Iz I put on IG to promote the B&N Pre-order Sale (use the code PREORDER25 at checkout!).

Upcoming Events

• National Book Festival

  • THIS WEEKEND in D.C.!!!! Come see me on Saturday, 9/6!

  • I’m doing a panel with Tahereh Mafi at 12:30PM!

  • And I’ll be signing at 2PM

• Decatur Book Festival

  • Saturday, October 4 in Decatur, GA

  • I’ll be doing a panel with S. Jae-Jones, Megan Shepherd, and Adalyn Grace at 11:30AM

  • And I’ll be signing right after the panel!

Thanks for reading, my dear friends. YOU ARE TRULY THE BEST! I felt so much joy seeing your faces—some of them familiar, some of them brand new—on this tour. And I hope to see more of you over the next few months.1

All the love!

💚 - Sooz

Take Heed and Take Watch

It’s here! It’s here! Finally, The Executioners Three is officially in stores.

And finally, all you devoted Wattpad readers can see what happens to Freddie, Divya, Theo, and the gang.

Many of you read as I posted back in 2018—and I’m so grateful to you all, who cheered and commented and spread the word.

Even though I started the book in 2011, the story finally “clicked” for me in 2018. I was in the midst of starting IVF; my hormones were everywhere with egg retrieval; and I desperately wanted something fun to throw myself into.

But of course, as all of you know who were reading “live” back then, I had a miscarriage. It was devastating, as these things are, and I stepped away from The Executioners Three.

For a long time, too! I had to throw myself back into the Witchlands next, and because my publisher didn’t feel TE3 was a strong follow-up to the Witchlands (which I totally understand!), I threw myself into the The Luminaries as well.

But now! Finally, the time is right for Freddie’s story to hit shelves.

For Executioners Three

I have no big expectations for this book. It’s not splashy, it’s not a “hot” genre, and it’s so full of 90s vibes and jokes with such a Strong-Voiced Heroine Indeed…

I have no idea what people are going to think.

But I know what I hope for this book.

I hope the Halloween vibes and fall wind make you crave pumpkin spice lattes and a sweater.

I hope you laugh at Freddie’s Very Confident Personality Indeed—and all the 90s references too (doodle-doo-doo, doodle-doo-doo, doodle-doo-doo-doooo).

I hope you will grin (and maybe swoon) at her interactions with a certain boy from another school.

I hope you will shiver at the creepy things lurking in the forest near the Village Historique.

Above all, I hope you have fun.

This book has been my “fall book” for so long. I would always open the manuscript during fall and work a few weeks each year, when the leaves were turning and the wind was biting.

This will be my first fall without it, in fact!

But don’t worry: I’ve already “replaced” it with the Murder Quartet. The fourth book in that “series”1 is set in fall, so I’ve got plans to dive into that as soon as the leaves start turning again and the wind starts biting. 😉

The Oathmaster is Waiting

Here are links for purchase, just in case you still need to snag a copy. (And if you want other ways to support me, then find those suggestions here.)

• Signed, personalized edition from Schuler Books

  • Make sure to say TO WHOM you want the book personalized in the comments section at checkout.

  • And of course, you can order any other signed books you might want at the same time! I’ll sign them all at once.

• Standard Tor Teen US hardcover edition

  • Includes TAKE HEED printed on the edges!

  • Also includes the beautiful, full color endpapers!

• Tour stop edition

  • MEET ME!!

  • And also get one of the exclusive TE3 bookmarks.

  • And get as many of your books signed as your arms can carry.

• Standard Daphne Press UK edition

• Waterstones UK Edition

  • With sprayed edges!!

• Illumicrate edition!

  • Sprayed edges, end pages, custom cover, fancy hard casing…

  • THE WORKS!

• Audiobook, narrated by Caitlin Davis

  • From Macmillan in the US

  • From Bolinda worldwide

I’ll be a bit quieter on the DenNerds Discord this week, as I travel. But I will return soon, and I can’t wait to see more of you at my events.

Thank you for reading, for supporting, and for being here. I’m forever grateful to all of you, and I hope each and every one of you knows that!!

I owe any success I’ve been lucky enough to have so far to YOU. So thank you.

💚 - Sooz

If you haven’t yet, now is definitely the time to pre-order TE3—and I’ll share all the places to do that below.

However, I also realize not everyone can pre-order. Times are tough; books cost money; and maybe TE3—or any other book—just isn’t in your budget right now.

No worries: I’m going to dive in to other ways readers and fans can show their support.

Subscribe now

How to Support an Author Beyond Pre-orders

I got this questions (thanks Keksmonster!) on a previous newsletter. And it’s such a great one:

Is there any way to show support [beyond pre-orders] that the publishers notice?

Indeed, there absolutely is.

1. First: add the book to your Goodreads shelf.

Publishers definitely look at adds on GR to gauge reader enthusiasm for a book. More adds = more enthusiasm = more push (possibly) from the publisher to meet demand—or to simply build on the already-accumulating hype.

I cannot overstate how far GR adds can go to help increase a book’s awareness and in-house support!

Add TE3 to your Goodreads Shelf

2. Next, TAG TAG TAG the publisher!

If you post anywhere on social media, tag the author (assuming you’re saying something nice, of course) and then TAG THE PUBLISHER TOO!

This is another way to show the publisher that there’s organic hype building for a book.

For me, I’ve got two publishers: Tor Teen and Daphne Press. So if they have accounts on the social media platforms you’re using, please give them a tag!

3. Request at your local library!

It’s true that plenty of libraries might stock an author’s books simply because the they see demand or the librarians themselves are fans (😘), but it’s safe to assume most libraries aren’t going to get most books on their shelves.

But you can request!

All you have to do is either ask a librarian in person (they often have a short form you can fill out) or check if their online database has such a form available right there in your browser.

4. POST, TALK, SHARE, EVANGELIZE!

Although I posted this last, it’s by far the most important option on the list (and the most impactful).

If you love an author and their books, then:

• Post about those books online

• Recommend the books to your friends and family

• Sign up for author newsletters2

  Subscribe now

• Give them a follow on social media

• Post fan art or vibe reels or fic

• Go to events! I’ll be headed on US tour in thirteen days!3

BE THE HYPE MACHINE, in other words!

In today’s age of algorithms and online noise, it’s almost impossible to spread the word about a book. Authors are struggling. Publishers are struggling. Even the old means that once guaranteed sales—like radio/podcast interviews or book reviews in fancy newspapers or even TV appearances—are having limited to zero impact.

The only thing people trust anymore for book recommendations and curation is each other, so BE the “each other!” This will absolutely help the authors you love have long, sustainable careers so they can keep giving you the books you love to read!

Again: I know pre-ordering isn’t an option for everyone. And even being online can be a drain.

But we authors will take whatever you can provide to help us build hype! Even reading this newsletter and forwarding it to a friend is helpful! 🫶

Gotta Catch ‘Em All!

Now, on to the assorted editions of The Executioners Three that will soon be available—assuming you DO have the means to pre-order, of course.

• Standard Tor Teen US hardcover edition

  • Includes TAKE HEED printed on the edges!

  • Also includes beautiful, full color endpapers designed by Jessica Khoury! (See those here.)

• Signed, personalized edition from Schuler Books

  • Comes with a limited-edition TE3 bookmark!

  • Make sure to say TO WHOM you want the book personalized in the comments section at checkout.

  • And of course, you can order other signed books you might want from me at the same time! I’ll sign them all at once!

• Standard Daphne Press UK edition

  • Available in UK stores and international markets, like Australia.

• Waterstones UK Edition

  • With STUNNING sprayed edges!!

  • Quantities are limited, so pre-order before they sell out!

• Illumicrate edition!

  • Sprayed edges, end pages, custom cover, fancy hard casing…THE WORKS!

  • See more details at the link above.

  • Also, it will be signed!

• Audiobook, narrated by Caitlin Davis

  • From Macmillan in the US

  • From Bolinda worldwide (link to come!)

• Tour edition!

  • MEET SOOZ and get your US hardcover signed in person!

  • This edition will include a bookmark!

  • And it will also will include an author chat beforehand + audience Q&A!

  • There’s no limit to how many books I’ll sign, so bring all your Witchlands, Luminaries, and SS&D books—and beyond!4

And there you have it, friends. All the way so pre-order (or purchase during release week) The Executioners Three.

And of course, don’t underestimate the other ways you can support me or your favorite authors everywhere.

Subscribe now

Thanks for reading and subscribing! ONLY FIFTEEN DAYS UNTIL TE3 IS OUT THERE!!

💚 - Sooz