Two teens are pitted against each other in a magical duel for revenge, but they’ll have to fight their growing attraction first, in this YA fantasy thriller from the author of These Deadly Prophecies.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Andrea Tang’s To The Death, which releases on February 10th 2026.
Eighteen-year-old Samantha Chan wants only one thing: revenge for her brother’s death in an illegal magical duel. Ever since that terrible day, she’s been quietly working with legitimate dueling champion Lysander Rook and biding her time until she can take down her brother’s killer: Mateus Blackwood.
Tamsin Blackwood is trapped. She wants to make a name for herself in the magical dueling circuit, but she can’t get away from the legacy of her father—and coach—Mateus Blackwood. When she receives a challenge from the undefeated Lysander and his assistant Sam, she jumps at the chance to earn enough fame and glory to finally escape her father’s influence.
Tamsin has no idea about Sam’s scheming, and Sam plans to keep it that way. Despite herself, though, she can’t help liking Tamsin, and the two girls quickly grow closer to each other than anyone else in their lives. But Sam won’t let anything get in the way of her revenge—not even her heart.
I’M ABOUT TO MOP the floor with one of the best magicians in the state, and all I can think about is what Dad will say backstage.
Maybe he’ll be pleased—because the nasty little chain of curses I cast actually worked.
Or maybe—and this would suck, but it’s realistically more probable, knowing Dad—he’ll be pissed off because I didn’t use any of the spells he actually wanted me to cast. Which means I’ll need to come up with a plan to deal with a potential foul mood from Dad.
Fantastic.
A crackle of pure arcane energy whizzes right toward my nose. The audience gasps—they’re so collectively stunned that I can hear them even over the pulse of blood thrumming in my ears.
I barely dodge the curse in time. Sloppy.
Right. First things first: I need to win, here in this arena. The last thing I need right now is to preemptively tire myself out figuring out how to manage Dad before I actually beat the man in front of me.
With considerable effort, I return to studying my opponent. We circle each other like two dogs on the hunt—but by the end of this duel, only one of us will prove itself the prey, the other its predator.
My opponent, Dallas McCullough, is thoroughly stuck on his back foot. Less than eight minutes ago, he entered this arena brimming with confidence, the all-American golden boy with the pretty, pearly- toothed smile, famous for casting close-quarters curses that cut his last three opponents up something awful.
Curses of that nature skirt the bounds of legality—it’s part of what separates legitimate arcane duels from the underground magicians’ circuit, after all. We have rules in place to keep truly dangerous illegal spells out of our arenas. But that doesn’t mean our fights don’t get bloody or vicious.
Some members of the magical community frown on curses that cut opponents up as bad as McCullough’s do. I don’t have a problem with it, personally. His favored curses aren’t technically illegal—not yet, anyway—and he’s always honored an opponent’s decision to yield be- fore further blood is shed. I respect McCullough and his willingness to do what’s necessary to secure victory even when it gets nasty.
To that end, I can’t fault my opponent for his confidence. You don’t get to be one of the top five magicians in the state by accident. McCullough earned his place in this arena tonight with blood and sweat and a hunger to win.
Unfortunately for McCullough, he’s sharing that arena with me. Eight minutes have taken their toll on my opponent. Right now,
McCullough’s pretty, square-jawed face is beet red with exertion, his golden curls dark with sweat. A bruise blooms purple over one of McCullough’s sea-blue eyes, and his pearly whites have gone pink with his own blood.
My handiwork isn’t half bad. I should know; I planned every curse I cast, every counter I threw at McCullough’s increasingly desperate spell-casting attempts. We’ve got less than two minutes left of allotted time in this arena before the judges call a stop to our little war—and it’s clear which of us will emerge the victor, unless McCullough does something drastic.
But I refuse to get cocky. Not when McCullough’s still got fight left in him—and, knowing him, a couple fail-safe curses hidden up his sleeve.
As if he’s heard my thoughts, McCullough grins at me with those bloodstained teeth. Wordlessly, he beckons me forward with one hand. I’d almost buy the bravado, if not for the fear lurking in my opponent’s gaze.
Oh, he’s ready to do something drastic, all right.
Quietly, I shake my head at McCullough, as I offer him a close- mouthed smile. Magicians lose duels all the time because they assume they’ve already won before their opponent actually yields. Better magicians than me have eaten nasty curses that knocked them out cold in the last thirty seconds of allotted duel time. Undefeated phenoms suddenly rendered mortal. Beatable. Laughable, even.
That’s not going to be me. I refuse to be the duelist who loses be- cause she assumes she can’t.
I sprawl flat to the floor, as another desperate Hail Mary curse from McCullough whizzes over my head. Good. He’s already tired. If I can bait him into depleting his energy on do-nothing magic, I can wear him down for the final seconds of our duel.
I might not even have to cast anything else myself.
“Come on, Blackwood!” roars McCullough from the other end of the arena. “Quit stalling and fight me for real!”
I smile at him. “I appreciate the sentiment,” I call back, “but I’d rather just win.”
As I speak, I crook the fingers of both hands and plant my feet. It’s such a simple spell. It barely counts as casting. But as any decent magician could tell you, the complexity of a spell is nothing compared to how well we time the casting.
McCullough’s final Hail Mary roars toward me. He’s not stupid. This curse has wider range than the sparklers he threw at me earlier—way wider. I have nowhere to run. McCullough knows the clock’s ticking. He knows he’s almost out of time. So he’s chosen this moment to empty his last reserves of arcane energy into a spell that I can’t just dodge.
Which makes my timing perfect.
I close my eyes, right as the curse envelops me—and the spell I’ve prepared. I hear another crescendo of gasps and screams from the crowd, but I don’t open my eyes. I need to focus.
Even without the aid of eyesight, I know what’s happening. Magic at this level is more about what you sense than what you see. Everything happens precisely as I planned it: My little shield springs to life. A bubble of bright, arcane energy closes around me, creating a spherical mirror. And McCullough’s curse crashes right into it.
Mind you, mine isn’t an especially powerful spell. Most magicians learn to cast their first mirror shield within the first three or four months of study. No one thinks mirror shields are sexy. Practical, obviously, and an important fundamental skill. But a basic mirror shield is not going to make anyone’s highlight reel, not if they’re trying to show off how fancy and advanced their magical repertoire is.
A basic, well-timed mirror shield, though, is also exactly what I need to finish McCullough off.
His curse ricochets off the surface of my mirror. I open my eyes just in time to see McCullough pancake himself flat to the arena floor. He’s too late. The fragments of his failed curse roar right back toward their maker. Flattening himself out allows McCullough to avoid the worst of my counter—but not all of it.
The remnants of McCullough’s curse—glittering, sharp-edged pieces of arcane energy—bury themselves in his exposed back. He cries out, trying to rise to his feet, then falls.
Forty seconds remain on the clock.
Slowly, I walk toward him. “It’s over,” I tell him as kindly as I can.
He shakes his head, gritting those bloodstained teeth, as he tries to rise again. I wince as he yelps and falls again, shuddering.
“You can yield,” I tell him. I pitch my voice low so the audience won’t hear. These words are for my opponent, and my opponent alone. “You know I’ve already won the judges’ favor. Yield, and you won’t hurt yourself worse. There’s no shame in that.”
McCullough stares up at me with bright, bruise-blackened eyes. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Blackwood?”
I offer him another tiny, toothless smile. “I get that a lot.” I bow my head. “You’re a great magician. It means a lot, coming from you.”
McCullough’s answering laugh rattles inside his chest before it turns into a nasty cough that fades into a whimper.
Twenty-five seconds remain on the clock.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, just yield. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”
Twelve seconds.
McCullough finally slaps his palm against the arena floor. “Yield!” he screams. “I yield, I yield!”
I close my eyes against the delighted roar of the audience. Now it’s time to prepare for my real battle: facing Dad.
***
I don’t get to see Dad immediately, of course. First, the arena promoters need to run me through the usual pageantry that accompanies the aftermath of a magicians’ duel.
Which means that—while medics drag poor Dallas McCullough backstage—I get to stand beneath a blinding spotlight with this arena’s master of ceremonies and answer his questions about how, exactly, I beat their golden boy into a bloody pulp.
“Tamsin Blackwood, what a performance you just delivered!” booms the MC. He’s an enormous, barrel-chested man with a voice to match. I’m surprised he hasn’t exploded out of his suit jacket. “That was your senior debut, was it not?”
I bow my head, all respect and deference. “Yes, sir. I just turned eighteen last week.” Humility and good manners can go a long way in the magical world, especially coming from girls like me. “I’m honored that your arena allowed me the opportunity to show this audience what I can do.”
More roars of approval from the audience.
The MC chuckles. “We already had some idea though, didn’t we? Tell us, Tamsin, what was your record on the junior magicians’ circuit, and just how long did you duel there with your fellow teen magicians?” “I’ve been dueling in the juniors since I was fourteen,” I answer dutifully. “My father got me into it young.” I hesitate before offering,
“In the juniors, I had sixteen wins and zero losses.” The MC whistles. “Quite impressive.”
I shake my head. “It’s the juniors,” I say. “Plenty of teenagers go un- defeated while we’re competing against other youth magicians, but I know the senior circuit is on a different level. I never assume I’m un- beatable.”
“Well, you sure looked it tonight!” The MC chuckles, clapping me hard on the shoulder. “We’ll look forward to seeing more of you in this arena and beyond, if I do say so myself. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for your victor tonight, Tamsin Blackwood—making her senior de- but here at Raven Queen Arena, and still undefeated!”
I take my bow, trying to ignore the cold creeping into my veins. I’ll be ushered backstage now—which means my time is up.
Dad’s waiting.
***
My dressing room backstage is dark. Dad rarely bothers with more than a couple lights—he claims they hurt his eyes after he got knocked around a magicians’ arena one too many times in his youth. As I slip inside, I catch a glimpse of him silhouetted against a window, backlit by the moon’s glow, as shadows flood the space between us.
I bow my head without budging from the entrance. “Hi, Dad.”
Dad stirs, very slowly, without answering. I can tell even before he says a word that it’s going to be bad. Silence rarely ever means anything good coming from Dad, especially after one of my duels.
“Shut the door behind you, Tamsin,” he says at last. His voice is flat.
I obey. There’s not much else I can do, in moments like these, but obey.
“I beat Dallas McCullough,” I venture cautiously.
“I saw.” Slowly, Dad turns around. The edges of his glasses glint in the scant moonlight. “Maybe my vision is going. But I don’t believe I saw you use any of the spells we agreed you would cast.”
“With respect, we never agreed on any specific spells for me to cast.” Not that that’s going to make a difference, but I might as well point it out.
“Oh?” Dad’s voice goes low and amused. Dangerously amused. “Then I must be misremembering all the spells I trained you on specifically for this duel.”
“We practiced your spells in training, yeah. But what we agreed was that I’d cast whatever was necessary to win the duel.”
“I see.” Dad’s voice is silky soft. He hasn’t budged an inch from his spot by the window. “So you, my daughter, determined all by yourself, in the heat of the moment, that you didn’t need any of my spells to win your duel.”
I didn’t, but I’m also not stupid enough to take Dad’s bait. “I’m sorry, but that’s not what I said,” I tell him instead. I keep my tone measured so he can’t accuse me of raising my voice to him. “I didn’t know what spells I would need to cast to beat McCullough. I never know what I’ll need to cast to win. Every magician is different. Every duel is different. So I practiced your spells in training because, as you have taught me”—I’m careful to emphasize the credit there— “it’s better to know a spell and not need it than to need a spell and not know it.
“So, no, I didn’t use your spells to win this duel,” I continue. “Not directly, at least. But because I knew them, I had the confidence to win. I knew I could answer whatever McCullough threw at me.” I shrug, trying to look offhand and not like my heart’s racing a mile a minute. “He just . . . didn’t throw anything at me that called for the spells we practiced. Just my simple old tricks. We should be grateful for that, shouldn’t we?” I smile. “Just like I’m grateful that you took the time to teach them to me.”
Dad doesn’t answer me immediately. He’s quiet for a while, in fact, turning over my words in his head. Probably trying to figure out how he can twist what I’ve said into something awful.
“So you’re grateful then,” he says at last. “Yes.”
He laughs bitterly. “Then why didn’t you say so in your interview?” I wince. I didn’t anticipate him pivoting to a new topic of accusation. Clumsy of me. “I did,” I stammer in protest, but I’m unprepared, and Dad can tell. Clumsy, clumsy Tamsin. “I said—”
“You had every opportunity,” Dad continues, his voice growing slowly in volume. “You could have said to that interviewer that I was the reason you were victorious in your senior debut. You could have expressed your gratitude for everything I’ve done for you. But you didn’t say a word.”
“That’s not true!” The volume of my voice climbs as well, despite my best efforts. “I told him—I told him that you were the one who got me into practicing magic.” I rein myself in. It’s a weak effort, and I know it, but it’s all I’ve got. A flimsy defense, weaker by far than any beginner magician’s mirror shield. “I told him that you started me young.”
“Oh, you did, didn’t you?” My father’s voice is rich with mockery. “That’s right, I remember now. ‘My dad got me into it young.’” He imitates my voice, pitched high, as he bats his eyelashes at me from behind those glinting glasses. “That’s all I did, is that right? Just paid for your magic lessons and sat back like every other parent at their kid’s first class? You’ve been doing the rest of this on your own now, have you?”
I force myself to take a deep breath. “That’s not what I said at all.” “Could’ve fooled me!”
“Well, what do you want from me?” I demand at last. “All I can control is what I say. I can’t control what you hear. Or what you think you hear.”
I regret the last of those words as soon as they leave my mouth. Even before Dad’s eyes narrow at me, I know I’ve taken it a step too far. “What I think I hear, huh?” His voice has softened again, in that silky, dangerous way I hate. It’s worse than yelling. Slowly, he makes his way across the room as he speaks. “Right, then. Maybe I hear things wrong when my old promotion connections offer us duels for you, practically fawning over the Blackwood name. Maybe I hear them wrong when they tell me that you deserve opportunities to show off your craft, to prove yourself a magician worthy of my legacy.”
He stops in front of me. “Maybe I should stop paying your way through these silly little duels and call it a day.”
“No!” I can’t help but cry out. It’s stupid. I know Dad’s bluffing. The great magician of our era, Master Mateus Blackwood, has no other kids. He doesn’t even have other magic students, not serious ones. He’s invested everything into me since his retirement from the dueling circuit. He wouldn’t give me up, not when I’m his best shot at reliving his glory days in the magicians’ arena.
But this one threat from Dad—empty as it is right now—still scares me. Because one day, he might decide to stop caring. He might decide that punishing me, keeping me in my proper place—which for the record, is in his shadow—is more important than living vicariously through me.
It’s a hell of a choice.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, cowed, just the way he wants me. “I didn’t mean any of it. You’re right. You’re the reason I’ve won all my duels. I owe you everything. I should say so next time. I promise I’ll say so next time, all right? Just . . . I need you, Dad.”
I hate that it’s true. I do need him. His connections, his purse strings, and most of all, that damnable, door-opening Blackwood name. The name that convinces all the promoters I’m a wunderkind before I so much as step into the arena.
Never mind my own accomplishments, or painstaking magical study, or long, grueling hours practicing my curses and counter-spells. It’s my father’s name that makes me desirable. Talented teen magicians are a dime a dozen—but everyone wants the great Mateus Blackwood’s only daughter on their magic show.
“I need you,” I repeat. I’m pathetic. But I’d rather be pathetic than forgotten. And every magic promoter in town will forget me—if my father tells them to.
Dad sighs. “I know, Tam,” he says. He’s all fatherly kindness now. “I know you just need reminding sometimes.”
“I do. Thank you.”
He chuckles. “You’re quite welcome.” He checks his watch. “I need to run to a meeting. You good to wrap up here on your own?”
I close my eyes. “Sure. I’ll see you at home.”
“Good girl.” He kisses my forehead. “It’s good that you won tonight, Tam. But you played things too safe. No promoter will keep inviting you to duel on their magic shows if all you do is stall and counter your opponent’s curses. We’ll work on it in training tomorrow.”
I wait until the dressing room door shuts behind him—until I hear the retreat of his footsteps. Then I grab a cushion off the nearest chair, press it against my face, and sob.
I give myself a little over five minutes to cry before I force myself back into business mode. I’m already compiling a mental list of crap that needs to get done: I need a hot shower, I need to post on my social media channels, I need to answer the messages currently blowing up my phone, and at some point, I need to review tape from tonight so I can consider what to work on in training this week.
I start with the easiest task, which is opening my phone, while I wait for the dressing room shower to heat up. I pause on the first message.
Dear Tamsin Blackwood,
I’m writing to you to congratulate you on your victory over Dallas McCullough tonight and to invite you to consider taking a duel against my champion, Lysander Rook. As Rook’s second, I’m partly responsible for proposing appropriate opponents to magic show promoters, and as you’re probably aware, we haven’t been able to secure a suitable magician to share an arena with Rook in quite some time. We believe, however, that you would make an excellent match for him.
I know that your father and second, Master Mateus Blackwood, has yet to secure a duel for you with a cash prize on the line.
Given your impressive record as a magician, Rook and I, along with the rest of our team, agree that you are long overdue for a potential payday.
With that in mind, should you accept our proposal, I have convinced Rook’s promoter to offer a generous purse to the victor of this duel. I have attached the proposed amount below.
Please provide your answer by the end of the week.
Yours sincerely,
Samantha Chan
My hands shake as I open the attachment. I practically drop my phone over the side of the shower stall when I see the figure Samantha Chan’s people are offering. It’s what Dad would call “screw-you money.” It’s money that would set me up independently for years to come.
It’s money that could support me even if Dad cut me off.
I can’t decide if I want to laugh, or scream, or throw up. Everyone knows who Lysander Rook is. He’s almost as famous as Dad. Another teen magician—also undefeated, like me.
The difference between us is that, unlike me, Lysander Rook isn’t new to the senior circuit. He left the juniors at fifteen—and he’s been destroying full-grown adult magicians in their prime ever since. So far, five grown magicians have retired after dueling him, their spirits crushed by whatever they experienced in that arena.
People call me a chip off the old block. My father’s daughter. A credit to the Blackwood name.
People don’t call Lysander Rook any of those things. Instead, they call him a genius. A prodigy. They also call him l’enfant terrible, the bad boy of the magical world, the young terror of the dueling circuits. They call him a monster. They call him invincible.
If I can beat Rook, I’ll have enough money to buy my freedom from Dad and enough clout to attract promoters without Dad’s help.
On the other hand, if I can’t beat Rook, it might end my career. He’s broken five grown, established magicians in the arena. Five brilliant duelists at the height of their careers, so traumatized by whatever Rook did to them that they’ll never practice magic again.
No wonder Samantha Chan’s people are offering such insane money. Talk about high risk, high reward. This duel is a gambler’s dream and nightmare, all wrapped up in one.
And it’s my choice to make, for once. Mine, not Dad’s. Samantha Chan came to me, not him. Which means I get to call the shots on this one.
I close my eyes, and with trembling fingers, set my phone aside. I inhale and exhale as carefully as I can. Shower steam fogs the mirrors in my dressing room, filling the atmosphere, condensing on my skin. I breathe through the moisture clogging the air. I breathe and breathe, even though I feel like I’m swimming deep underwater.
When I open my eyes, I pick my phone back up and send my answer to Samantha Chan.
Then I take the longest shower of my life.
