In a world where magic, desire, and duty collide, it is beauty who is fated to kill the beast in a lush historical fantasy of secrets and star-crossed love by New York Times bestselling author Melissa Marr.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Treason of Magic by Melissa Marr, which releases on June 23rd 2026.
Two young women. Heirs to altogether different hereditary burdens. Yet bound by a monstrous threat to their village.
Gabrielle is the first woman in Alveus to carry the mantle of Hunter, which comes with an obligation to kill the faery beasts murdering travelers in Brimmond Wood. Wary of the power she wields as guardian of her people, Gabrielle is summoned by her first love, a seductress who shattered her heart into pieces a decade ago.
Isabeau is the rarest of nobility―a lady duke. She is also afflicted by a curse that leaves her in a deep sleep between the gloaming and daylight. How can she begin her tenure as protector when she can’t keep her village safe from whatever stalks its darkest hours? For that, she needs the help of the Hunter.
Against her will, Gabrielle is falling in love all over again. But what new threats will arise when Gabrielle and Isabeau’s star-crossed destinies collide with the beast of Brimmond Wood?
EXCERPT
Her raven-wing-dark hair is cut short enough that the unruly curls threaten to rebel; one seems to be wrapping around the curve of her ear, not unlike the feathers of the raven that comes to mind every time I see her.
Her beauty is the only excuse I have for sounding so cutting as I say, “No, Isabeau, most people find your future title and your proximity to the queen charming.” I pull off my sodden-wet hat. My two thick braids drop like serpents, heavy and twisting down my back. “I am not impressed by either title or lineage, unlike most of your paramours.”
At first, I fear she’s changed too much as she simply stares at me. Then the quick temper I remember fills her charcoal-dark eyes, and she drawls, “Most of my paramours?”
I swallow several replies. I was not intending to imply that I was still in their number, and according to court gossip, her sheets are never cold. Once, I thought she was mine. Now, I have been replaced by countless lovers.
Isabeau’s eyes are fixed on me as she lowers her voice and asks, “So you agree to be my paramour again, then? I would certainly be willing to resume kissing you.”
“That is your reply to me?” I force a scoffing noise to hide the laugh that threatens to escape. Verbally sparring with her does good things for my mood.
I bet exchanging sword strikes would be better, temptation whispers.
Isabeau steps closer than I am prepared to accept, and I stumble away hastily, awkwardly, embarrassingly all but falling until she grips my wrists to steady me.
In a low voice she demands, “Is that blood?”
“Probably.” I look down, hoping upon hope that it’s not faery blood. I could swear there was none. The dead man was mostly drained of his own blood. There was a little, though, in the pool on the ground.
I spot the wet mark; thankfully it’s human blood.
I hike up my skirt’s hem and pull out a dagger. Without a word, I sever the fabric above the blood. Trying to not seem as incredibly bizarre as I’m sure I must, I scour it with my eyes, trying to assure that no faery blood is there.
Contaminants!
I fumble around in a pocket for salt, fill my hand with it, and turn my back to her as if I’m embarrassed. Quickly, I toss salt on the marble floor, but not so quickly that she doesn’t notice.
“Did you salt my floor?”
“Never too careful,” I say, as if that answer is anywhere near truth.
She looks at me again, but this time her gaze rakes over me as if I’m vulnerable and precious to her. “Are you injured?”
“No,” I whisper. I forgot how much I liked her protective side, perhaps because it was coupled with a possessive streak that was sometimes less alluring.
“Not your blood?” she presses.
“Not mine.” Carefully, I fold the blood into the fabric and transfer it to the hand still coated with coarse salt. “Would you escort me to a fireplace?”
Isabeau offers her arm to me as if we are at a ball or something, as if I am not dressed in attire that will be sentenced to a fire when I return home, as if she did not shatter my heart into pieces a decade ago. A lump that might be my heart chokes me, and I sound like a weathered old woman as I manage to scratch out, “I’d rather not ruin your hem if there are other . . . fluids on my dress.”
Isabeau removes her houppelande, tosses the extravagant garment onto a table, and again offers her arm. I try not to stare at the shape of her revealed without the massive houppelande. I fail instantly. Debauched and drunk are the rumors I hear, but what I see is strength and beauty. If she were intoxicated as often as society swears, her face would not be so bright and beautiful. Alcohol poisons health, and Isabeau looks healthy.
The pause has stretched too long. Seeing no other option, I rest my hand on her elbow, tentatively, as if she might sear me.
From A TREASON OF MAGIC by Melissa Marr, Text copyright © 2026 by Melissa Marr, Published by 47 North
