Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Dreams of Ruin by Emma Noyes, which releases on November 17th 2026.

When Charlie Hudson awakens after her Trial, it’s to find that nothing will ever be the same. The king of the gods is plotting to destroy Asgard. Charlie and her brother are trapped a world away from the people they love most. And worst of all, she’s become the very thing she hates most: a night mare.

Charlie’s transition is anything but smooth. Stuck in Helheim Palace, she must train her new shadow magic alongside dozens of soulless mares who would gladly turn her over to the enemy if they discovered she’s Loki’s true heir.

Her only hope is Elias Everhart, her once-sworn enemy who has somehow become one of her closest allies. He’s promised to help train her mare abilities—an easy idea in theory, if her magic weren’t malfunctioning… and if being near Elias didn’t make the darkness within Charlie grow bigger and more all consuming by the day. Charlie is in a race against time to reconcile the powers warring within her. Because if the threat on Asgard isn’t enough to kill her… love certainly will be.

Dreams of Ruin by Emma Noyes is the thrilling conclusion to the Soul of Shadow trilogy, where the only thing worse than becoming a nightmare, is loving one.

EXCERPT

Charlie Hudson wasn’t ready to wake up.

Not if it meant leaving this sunlit haven filled with beauty and goodness and possibility and peace. She’d watched Odin take his place on the throne with the satisfaction of someone who had worked all her life for precisely that end. As he’d settled in, establishing his connection to Yggdrasil’s endless supply of power, she’d felt an unquestionable sense of rightness.

Something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

She sighed, rolling over under the covers. It had been so long since she’d had a good night’s sleep. One without nightmares or waking up in a cold sweat. One that actually left her rested. But this sleep . . . mmm, this sleep had been delicious. Far from a nightmare, her dream had been like a movie. She’d witnessed every step of the Allfather’s journey to the Throne of Ash—the wars, the bargain with the spirits of nature, the ascension thereafter. Nothing could top that final image: a flowering meadow teeming with wild magic.

Wild magic. Even the words were beautiful, though she didn’t fully understand what they meant.

Maybe, if she didn’t open her eyes, she wouldn’t have to return to the real world, with its tests and homework and dangerous creatures lurking in the forest. Maybe she would drift back to that delicious meadow.

“Come on,” she whispered, burrowing deeper into her pillow. “Why’d I have to wake up now?”

“Charlie?”

What the Hel?

What was her brother, Mason, doing in her room? His voice was more hesitant than normal, softer. He never came in to wake her up.

Reluctantly, she let her eyes flutter open.

Mason was sitting beside her bed, his light brown hair and small collection of freckles so familiar. For some reason, she felt disappointed, like she’d been expecting someone else. And why did Mason look so weirdly concerned?

“Morning,” she said, voice hoarse. Gosh, how long had she slept? “Did Mom send you in here?”

Mason’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

She scrunched her nose. “And what is that smell? Are you wearing a new cologne?”

His eyes darted back and forth, searching her face for something. What, though? An answer to whether she liked his new cologne? Well, it wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever sniffed—sort of metallic and coppery, as if he’d sprayed the essence of nickels and pennies on himself. An odd choice. Mason smelled . . . well, he smelled like confusion.

What the Hel am I even saying?

She shook her head, focusing back on her brother. After searching her face, he must have decided that he didn’t like what he found, because his forehead tightened as if he was in pain.

“What?” she asked, pushing up onto her elbows. “Look, the cologne is weird, but it’s not that bad. If you’re worried what Lou will think, we can get you a new—”

Her voice died in her throat.

She wasn’t in her bedroom.

She wasn’t even in their house.

The room in which she’d awoken was actually quite nice, with a queen-size bed covered in numerous quilts, a padded rocking chair with a stuffed penguin set onto it, a worn purple cabinet, and a wooden floor partially covered by a woven rug. But nothing about it was familiar.

“Where are we?” she asked, glancing out the window. All she could see was a cloudy October sky and a few tree branches waving in the breeze. “What happened?”

Mason’s forehead tightened further. “You . . . don’t remember?”

“Don’t remember what?”

He bit his lower lip, glancing around the room. As he did, his cologne seemed to alter somehow, taking on a heavy, halting sort of scent, like that of leather or velvet. Somehow, Charlie knew it was the smell of hesitancy. There was something Mason didn’t want to tell her.

What nonsense, she thought. I’m clearly still half asleep. Emotions don’t have smells. You can feel them, or you can see them on the face of another person, but you can’t smell them. Not unless you’re a . . .

A . . .

With alarm, her eyes dropped to her body.

Her legs were covered by a quilt, and she was dressed in a cotton tank top she’d never seen before. And her arms . . .

Their shape was just as she remembered: lean muscle from years of training in the circus and a few scattered freckles. But what frightened her were the long, round cords that now circled them.

Cords made of shadow.

The shadow cords were perhaps an inch in diameter and had the consistency of thick clouds. They didn’t touch her skin, instead floating a few millimeters away, though they were clearly bound to her body. They started at the base of her palm and wound all the way up to her shoulders, drifting slowly in a counterclockwise direction, like snakes winding up a tree. And when she jerked her arm to the side, the shadows followed.

They looked just like the cords that Elias often conjured.

Elias.

With that one word, everything came back to her: The camping trip. The party. The fight with Rattatosk. How they won, actually beating him. Except Elias had been hurt. Slashed by Rattatosk’s claws laced with deadly venom. He’d collapsed to the forest floor, and when Charlie realized that he was dying, the whole world had become a tunnel. Her surroundings blurred, and she could see nothing but that tunnel’s end, nothing but the goal of keeping Elias Everhart alive. It was as if she’d become possessed.

She and Mason had dragged Elias’s dying body all the way to Helheim. She’d used her magic—more magic than she’d known she was capable of—to teleport them from the state park in northern Michigan all the way back to Silver Shores. Then they’d used Elias’s dödssten to portal to the underworld. They’d run through a maze, faced down undead wolves, and ridden skeletal horses all the way to the Palace of Hel. Once there, she’d lifted the bodies of Mason, Elias, and the helhests using only magic, easy as anything, and stormed Loki’s great hall.

Dread seeped into Charlie’s stomach. “Mason,” she said slowly. “Where is he?”

The post Read an Excerpt From ‘Dreams of Ruin’ by Emma Noyes appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Monster Hunter’s Librarian by Lauren Connolly, which releases on November 17th 2026.

As the newest hire at the Endless Library, Bells Mortevue finally has access to magic again and a chance to prove that the daughter of criminal necromancers can be trusted with power—even if it’s solely used to seek and sort books upon infinite shelves.

Except a certain monster hunter refuses to let Bells do her job.

Rhett Waltham doesn’t want help. Not when revealing the truth of his research would be a death sentence for his ailing human father. Preparing to risk his own life in a dangerous competition to save his dad, Rhett does not have time for a curious, tantalizing librarian witch who asks too many questions.

It’s clear the Library disagrees, as the sentient space itself forces the two together. Bells warms to the grumpy hunter as she slowly earns his trust, though she starts to suspect a sickness is stirring within the walls of the mystical dimension. And when a deadly magic threatens to consume the entire Library—and the monster hunter’s librarian—Rhett won’t let either of them go without a fight.

EXCERPT

One
The Librarian

If the library approves of you, it will let you in.

I reread the cryptic line on the piece of parchment clutched in my sweaty fingers, the last sentence hand-scrawled on my job acceptance letter.

“Potential acceptance,” I correct myself as I tuck the letter into the pocket of my skirt, trying not to let my hopes creep too high. But they are vines determinedly reaching toward the sun after climbing up a solid brick wall for years.

One decision made by a mystical dimension could change the trajectory of my entire life. These next moments will determine if I continue to spend my days among humans or if I finally reconnect with my magical origins.

I stand in the fiction section of Poeville, Pennsylvania’s only public library and try not to fiddle with my bow tie more than I already have. I’ve always thought of the accessory as part of my signature look. My roommate, Vale, claims the ties are my nervous fidget spinners.

I forgave her description of my wardrobe because Vale also happens to be my best friend. She was the one to assure me that Poeville Public Library should have plenty of natural magic to fuel a portal to my destination. Though it was mandated twenty years ago that I be cut off from all things magic, Vale-a Guardian-touched of the Wanderer line-has no concern when it comes to doling out info when I ask. I try not to take advantage of her lawbreaking generosity, but I figured today was a valid reason to request guidance.

“One of the common ways to make a portal involves utilizing a place of power,” Vale had explained as she examined my acceptance letter. “A building full of knowledge, like a library, tends to attract magic.”

So here I am, at a human library, hoping that for the first time in my life I might be able to travel to a magical one.

After smoothing my fingers over the silk of my bow tie one last time, I drop my hand to the pocket without the letter. The one where I stowed a sharp little pocketknife, the blade gifted to me by the last witch in my family to have magic.

Would Aunt Wisteria approve of me taking this job?

She was a hard woman to read, so even now I can’t say.

I don’t pull out the blade just yet, not wanting to scare the normal humans who are here simply seeking their next favorite read.

This library is merely a stop. A doorway to my true destination.

Unless I’m found wanting.

And that self-doubt has me mentally reviewing the letter a crow had delivered Thursday morning. Although delivered seems too gentle of a term to describe how the loudly cawing bird had plummeted through my car’s moonroof while I was in a coffee shop drive-through trying to buy my first pumpkin spice latte of the season. Amid a flurry of frantically flapping wings, a cascade of loose black feathers, and a chorus of shrieks from the barista, the crow had deposited a fancy envelope on my dashboard and abruptly departed the same way it entered. Only after I’d caught my breath and sucked down half of my seasonal beverage did I manage to tear open the missive and read the contents.

Since then, I have memorized every word.

Dear Belladonna Mortevue,

I am pleased to potentially offer you a position at the Endless Library. Your résumé was impressive, and I believe you would be a good fit among our staff.

The last step in the hiring process is an in-person interview conducted by the library.

Next Monday at eight a.m., please arrive at your local public library. On the shelves, locate a well-used, well-loved book.

Offer the book your blood, and request to be admitted.

If the library approves of you, it will let you in.

Sincerely,

Senior Librarian Selina Brynwill

Assured that I haven’t forgotten anything, I duck into an empty aisle and wipe my damp hands on my favorite black A-line skirt. Black is always a good choice when I know I’m going to experience nervous sweat.

Black is always a good fashion choice, period.

Scanning the shelves, I recognize the name of a historical romance author whose stories I would retreat into in between the academic texts I had to read for my master’s in library science. The spine sports deep creases, the pages yellow and soft with time.

Well-used.

Still, doubt sneaks in.

What if I pick the wrong book?

“If there was a right one, they would have told me.” I attempt to comfort myself.

What if I ask with the incorrect words?

“Be honest. Be sincere. Be confident,” I repeat the simple advice.

That was the counsel of Vale. As a wanderer, my friend is an adept portal-maker like the Guardian whose bloodline she descends from. Vale is also my only connection to magical society since my aunt passed away. Vale was the one who had delivered my résumé to the librarians without me knowing, confident I would earn a spot on the staff.

But what if she was wrong?

What if I, a magic-less witch, am simply not good enough to work at the Endless Library?

“Stop being a wimp and bleed on the book already,” I mutter. Those words of advice sound more like something my sister would say. But sometimes a bitchy shove in the right direction is what I need.

“Please,” I whisper to all three of the Guardians, “let this be the job I can keep.”

Because hell knows I’ve lost every other one I’ve ever had.

I flip through the pages, watching as dust motes drift into a beam of sunlight spilling in through a high window. After a quick skim of the passage I randomly chose, my anxiety eases slightly as I snort.

The duke is on his knees, and his mouth is . . . busy.

They did say well-loved. And this heroine is being loved very well.

Alone in my aisle, I quickly slip the blade from my pocket, and with a mumbled apology for the unsanitary nature of my actions, I slice a small wound in the side of my thumb.

A crimson drop wells and drips, staining the page.

I bring the book close to my face until my lips almost brush the ink and the blood, and in a hushed voice, I let every ounce of my longing fill my words.

“Hello, Endless Library. This is Belladonna Mortevue. But my friends call me Bells. You can call me Bells, too, if you like. You know, if you call librarians things. Do you? Sorry, never mind. Don’t answer that. Or do, if you’d like. I’m not here to tell you what to do.” Damn it, I’m messing this up. Pausing to suck in a calming breath, I straighten my thoughts and keep going in a less nonsensical manner. “I’m here for my interview. If you have any questions for me, please ask. I have a ton for you. I adore questions-too much some might say. But I think a librarian should love questions. And I want to help your patrons with theirs.” A life of seeking out answers to magical queries would be utter bliss. “If you give me a chance, I promise to work hard. I will appreciate this opportunity every single day. There is nothing more in the world I want than to be a librarian for you. Please”-my voice catches on that one word-“can I come in?”

The quiet weighs heavy after my desperate babbling. The cut on my thumb throbs. My breath sticks tight in my throat until my lungs ache. An ominous pressure builds behind my eyes as I wait to see if I am approved.

If I am enough.

Nothing changes about the book or the shelf in front of me.

Vale wasn’t able to say how I would enter the library. She’s only ever passed through the doorway from the Hidden Academy where she teaches portal-making to young wanderers. The cryptic letter gave no further directions. I assume if I’m approved, the access point is supposed to be self-explanatory.

There is no entrance for me.

I swallow hard against the stinging threat of tears.

Did I only have one chance?

This library has thousands of books. Could I go through every single one of them, making the same plea over and over until something happens? Bleed myself dry until I find the one drop of my essence that is acceptable?

If the library approves of you, it will let you in.

With shaking fingers, I tuck away my pocketknife and give in to the urge to straighten my bow tie once more. My cold fingers brush against a bit of rough skin that peeks above my collar. A reminder of why I have been cut off from this world. I breathe through the disappointment. Through the devastating knowledge that I am not enough.

Something shifts on the page. My blood absorbs into the fibers of the paper, disappearing as if I never left my mark.

I gasp, a dangerous hope filling the empty hole in my chest. Jerking my chin up, I study the shelf in front of me. Nothing different there. But then I turn my head to gaze down the aisle.

And I see a door.

The door does not match the rest of the public library. The furniture here might be outdated but is still from the last few decades. Meanwhile, the door is made of heavy, scarred wood and hangs in a medieval-style arch of stone. A brass knob sits directly in the center, reminding me of the entrance to hobbit homes. Not that hobbits are real. Or maybe they are-my knowledge of the magical world is sorely lacking.

As I stare at the odd entryway, a man in worn clothes with a ragged backpack wanders past, taking no notice of the architectural addition.

Am I the only one who can see this?

Desperation has my hands fumbling as I reshelve the book, my head still angled to the side so I don’t lose sight of the portal. Because that’s what this has to be.

My first portal.

I hurry toward the door, my arms outstretched and my heart pounding. The knob is warm against the palm of my hand as I grasp it and twist.

For twenty years I have lived a life without magic.

Today, that changes.

I eagerly pull open the door, revealing a shimmering surface. The texture reminds me of water, only this is upright like a curtain and more black than blue.

Without hesitation, I slip into the unknown.

Traveling between dimensions, it turns out, is quite quick. One moment, I’m stepping out of a dust-scented, fluorescent-lit library in a small Pennsylvania town. The next, I’m stumbling into a vast hall fit for a fantasy castle that smells of book pages, pine wood polish, and melted candle wax.

I gasp, clutching my chest as I inhale the dreamlike experience and try not to cry from wonder.

There’s so much to absorb. Towering ceilings with stained-glass windows that allow in fractured light. Unearthly architecture that melds stone, wood, and tile as if the materials grew together to form this grand hall. Gargoyles hold candelabras and also allow water to spill from their gaping mouths into black granite basins while limestone grotesques with menacing grins perch above entries to other rooms.

Rooms with bookshelves.

As my mind attempts to catalog every detail, my attention drifts to the opposite end of the entrance, where a large archway stands, filled with a rippling surface similar to what I just passed though, only this one is a tangle of green and purple.

A dark silhouette appears in the portal, and as I watch, a man steps from the shimmering veil.

He pauses on the threshold, glancing around the space in a mirror of my actions. His crimson hair turns gold-tinged in the flickering candlelight. As I watch, transfixed, he glances my way.

Our stares meet and hold.

Two new arrivals.

A shiver brushes over my excited nerves, and I grin in what I assume will be shared joy at finding ourselves in such an enchanting place.

He doesn’t return my smile.

The man’s expression is stony. The hall stretches between us, but he’s close enough for me to see how his eyes narrow and his brow creases with a frown.

The stranger looks thoroughly disgruntled with not only his location, but also my overt giddiness.

How can anyone be grumpy here?

“Oh splendid,” says a voice next to me. The words have a kind lilt and ring with a thick southern drawl. “You must’ve picked a good book.”

I tear my focus away from the surly, red-haired stranger and find a short white woman with gray hair and a cheerful smile at my side.

If I’m not mistaken, she’s glowing.

“Welcome, Belladonna Mortevue, to the Endless Library.”

Two

The Hunter

Earlier the same day . . .

I knew asking my dad to drop me off at the portal station was a bad idea.

“Oh, Rhett. This reminds me of your first day of kindergarten.” Arnold Waltham’s voice sounds suspiciously watery. “Your backpack was bigger than you were.” Sure enough, the burly man starts blinking rapidly as moisture collects in the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t cry, Dad.” I clasp his shoulder, wondering if a hug will make this better or worse. “You do know that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man, right? And I’m going to the Wild Wood, not enrolling in the Hidden Academy.”

“Sure.” He sniffles. “But they’re right next to each other. And it’s your mother’s alma mater. And taking part in the Warrior Trials is a big deal.” He clears his throat. “If she was here . . .”

He trails off, and the hopelessness that seeps into his normally warm eyes guts me.

“She’s fine, Dad.” I opt for the hug and pull him in, still jarred by the fact that I can rest my chin on the top of his head, even though I’ve been taller than dad since I was fifteen. Arnold Waltham is a bear of a man with brawny shoulders and thick limbs, but he’s half a foot shorter than my six one height.

“Course she is,” he mumbles, hugging me back hard. “Know she goes quiet on hunts sometimes.”

I keep my breath steady to cover my own anxiety. Dad’s right that my mom will sometimes cut herself off from tech when she’s stalking a particularly wily wraith. But she’s never been out of contact for more than a week or two.

We’re approaching three.

And we’ve got an emergency.

Releasing my hold, I eye the long-sleeve shirt my dad is sporting to cover his bandages. With the temperature in San Antonio still reaching the eighties, the clothing choice has got to be uncomfortable.

Excerpted from The Monster Hunter’s Librarian by Lauren Connolly Copyright © 2026 by Lauren Connolly. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Monster Hunter’s Librarian’ by Lauren Connolly appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Hi, Katie! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

Hi! I’m a thriller writer currently based in York, England. My debut, Peter Miles Has to Die, came out last year and my second novel just released! I was born in the USA but grew up in Mexico and, except for a brief stint in the States while attending the University of Texas at Austin (Hook ‘em horns!), have spent the majority of my life outside my birth country. When I’m not writing, I love to travel, learn new languages, embark on long-distance cycle rides, and hang out with my husband and three literary cats, Poe, Hugo, and Hemingway.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I can’t remember a time where I wasn’t reading or writing. One of my earliest memories is standing by the bookshelf while reading a book—my logic was that as soon as I finished, I’d have another within arm’s reach, ha. I also started a zine with my siblings at one point (subscriber list two: our parents) and wrote little ‘books’ that I’d gift to people. But I never really saw myself as a writer until much later. Writers were a super exclusive and special group who created amazing worlds I could get immersed in, not regular people like me!

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
• The one that made you want to become an author: A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: Most recently, East of Eden by John Steinbeck

Your latest novel, The Terrarium, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Remember, always trust your gut!

What can readers expect?

Chaotic and unreliable characters, a true crime angle, unhealthy obsessions, and twists that will surprise you. I created a fictional true-crime podcast, Cuppa Crime, for the book and readers can expect some fun interjections from its hosts, Gail and Gary. And, of course, there are a few cats in there too!

Where did the inspiration for The Terrarium come from?

I actually worked as a cat sitter for a while in London! It was an amazing job and I loved spending my time with cats. The first spark of inspiration for The Terrarium came from one of my clients. Even though I worked for her for a few years, this client allowed me access to her flat (and cat) without ever showing any desire to meet me. As you can imagine, my writer brain went into overdrive with theories about who my mysterious client could be and what she did for a living. That became the core idea for The Terrarium, though obviously the crazier things in my book didn’t happen in real life (and I was always completely professional in my cat sitting gigs, unlike my main character, Annie!).

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

I really enjoyed exploring how far I could take Annie’s obsessions. As someone who is very much a rule follower, stepping into the mindset of a character with no boundaries and very ambiguous morals was so interesting to me. And I’ll always have a soft spot for Annie’s coffee shop bestie, Dom. He was so fun to write and a great palate cleanser when Annie’s antics get just a little too much.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

Each book comes with its own unique set of challenges. For The Terrarium, my biggest challenge was dialing it back and figuring out where I wanted the focus to be. In early drafts, I had so much going on and it was quite chaotic (not in a good way). Luckily, I had the best editor and he helped me dig through the unnecessary stuff to find the real heart of the story.

What’s next for you?

I’m working on my third book and hopefully there’ll be more news about that in 2027! I’d love to be able to write novels for as long as possible.

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up soon? Any you’ve got your eye on that are releasing in 2027?

Like every other bookworm out there, I have a TBR that is truly out of control. A few I’m looking forward to are Saratoga Schaefer’s latest, A Thousand Monstrous Forms, Max Porter’s Burn and Rave, and Remy Fink’s debut Thespians (among so many others!).

Will you be picking up The Terrarium? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Katie Collom, Author of ‘The Terrarium’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Last Prince of Florence by Zoe Sivak, which releases on November 17th 2026.

In 1490, a dark-skinned baby girl arrives at the Santo Spirito foundling hospital with a bronze dagger strapped to her chest. Raised by Iye, a scarred African nurse who teaches her to fight and survive, Simonetta refuses the only futures offered to foundling girls: nun or wife.

She has bigger plans.

Years later, when a midnight brawl leaves exiled prince Lorenzo de’ Medici owing her his life, Simonetta talks her way into the legendary Medici family—and finds herself falling for the beloved Medici son. But her dark skin and sharp tongue make enemies, and when the family accuses her of witchcraft, she’s forced to reveal her secret weapon: she’s pregnant with a potential Medici heir.

Alessandro’s birth should secure her place in the family. Instead, it makes her their prisoner.

Her own ambitions thwarted, Simonetta is determined to do anything—lie, cheat, and kill—to put Alessandro on Florence’s throne. European empires feed on the growing African slave trade, and the biracial boy threatens everything her enemies believe about power, bloodlines, and Simonetta’s legacy.

As the gulf between mother and son widens, Simonetta must choose between the crown she sacrificed everything for and the son who wears it.

EXCERPT

Ospedale di Santo Spirito, Roma
April 1500

Simonetta da Collevecchio smiled at the enormous fresco at the entrance of the Ospedale di Santo Spirito, or the Hospital of the Holy Spirit.

The painting dwarfed her—Simonetta was short for almost ten, with thick arms and legs, and eyes that curved upward like a cat’s—so the fresco’s subject looked over her knotted tangle of braids.

A wealthy woman dangled a newborn by the foot. The child’s skull had been struck and bled onto the stone below. Other mothers tossed their unwanted babies into the river, where unwitting fisherman caught their gray-skinned bounty in silvery nets.

By accepting all foundlings with open arms and hearts, as de-creed by the late pope, the hospital aimed to prevent infanticide by cruel, wanton women.

But the foundlings still died, except they died swaddled and hungry in the infant ward.

Simonetta only knew her mother was a dark-skinned slave from Collevecchio. But in abandoning her, she made Simonetta an innocente. She also made her free.

Abandoned children, the innocenti, were washed clean by the nurses and nuns of the hospital in all ways.

She hurried back to the group of girls—dressed in the same black kirtle and red apron emblazoned with the double cross of the hospital—at the chapel for predawn prayer.

Some of the girls wore ribbons, coins, or crosses as necklaces: each token arriving burrowed in their swaddling clothes to mark the child. For most, they only had the stub of their umbilical cord dangling from their bellies—sometimes still damp with blood.

Simonetta had arrived with a dagger and a flood.

“You came to us wet like a fish,” Nurse Lucia told her when she came back to the hospital a few weeks prior. “And armed.”

At nine, Simonetta still never went without the strange dagger at her hip: she kept it tied at her waist and hidden behind her new apron.

She knelt down carefully so as not to jab herself in the thigh, keeping to the very back of the group of praying wards.

After a minute of mumbled recitations, an older girl at her left spoke in a whisper, “You’re new.” Simonetta had only been at the hospital for a few weeks, but each day was so similar that it may as well have been years.

The design of the hospital ensured that the chants of Lauds traveled throughout the halls, allowing them to speak. “Hello,” she said, a bit stiff. She smiled to soften her awkwardness.

“My name is Sancia,” she whispered back. Her Italian sounded harsh and quick to Simonetta’s country ears, like a true Roman’s. Sancia seemed at least a little interested in her, which she didn’t want to ruin by saying something stupid.

“I’m Simonetta.”

In Simonetta’s old village, her main companions were the few shepherd boys who considered her more a curiosity than a threat. She stood out as the only negro, but here she was one of several. Of the seventy wards living in the conservatory, she’d noticed at least five. Sancia made six.

“Not many girls come back to the foundling hospital,” she said. Sancia shuffled a little closer with large, expectant eyes.

Simonetta did not know what to say. It was rare for a girl to return.

Before the age of eleven, the children lived with foster families who were paid for the service. As half daughter–half servant, Simonetta served in Widow Bartolomeo’s modest household: she foraged for mushrooms, mended clothing, plaited the widow’s hair, chased the Tiber’s frothing currents for as long as she dared while pretending she was the She-Wolf hunting for her human pups, Remus and Romulus.

But the lucky few girls who did not die—or the unlucky few who didn’t get adopted into their foster families—they came back to the hospital.

Sancia patted her arm, Simonetta’s anxiety poorly hidden. “It’s hard at first, but you will get used to it.” Sancia gave her a serious once-over. “Did your foster family not want you? You don’t look crippled.”

“My fosterer died,” Simonetta explained. “And none of her grown children could afford another mouth. The work was not so very bad, and I did not have to pray so often at the farm.”

Sancia rubbed the wooden button hanging from her neck where a cross would be. The wood gleamed in the candlelight, shiny from the oils in Sancia’s fingers touching it over the years. “They pretend like we’re little nuns,” she said with a snicker. “Until they make us little wives instead.”

She liked Sancia’s accent the longer they spoke. She sounded so metropolitan.

One of the more devout girls turned to shush her, but Sancia stuck out her tongue.

“Not if I can help it,” Simonetta murmured with more passion than she’d ever said a prayer. “I only just returned to Rome—they cannot sell me to some bumpkin.”

“The Feast of the Pentecost is coming up,” Sancia said, referring to the fiftieth day after Easter. Everyone made the sign of the cross, signifying that Lauds was coming to an end and they would return to their beds until dawn. “They let us out of our cage then, and you’ll get your taste of Rome.”

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Last Prince of Florence’ by Zoe Sivak appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Thief to Die For by Melissa Poett, which releases on November 17th 2026.

In a desolate, lawless land, Marian carries a dangerous secret. By day, she’s a high-ranking guard serving her father, the ruthless Commander who rules the region with an iron fist. By night, she becomes a whip-wielding thief, robbing the cowards she works with, to help the miners they mistreat.

That is, until Ryland catches her mid-raid. As an elite soldier charged with saving his homeland, Ryland has everything to gain by turning Marian in. Exposing her identity could help secure the coal his people desperately need. Or, it could blow everything apart—if Marian has her way.

But Ryland holds his own secrets—untapped magic runs through his veins. A magic the Commander wants, along with invading Ryland’s distant settlement. So Marian has her orders: win Ryland’s heart to betray him and his people.

And so begins a deadly dance of deception, stealing from the rich to give to the poor . . . and magic—the kind Ryland’s been waiting his whole life to wield.

EXCERPT

Excerpted from A Thief to Die For, by Melissa Poett. HarperCollins, 2026. Reprinted with permission.

Chapter 1
Marian

The books left over from the old world warned of the apocalypse: meteors, plagues, a sky choked with ash. An endless number of ways to make humanity clutch its failing heart. But where are the stories anticipating what came after?

Was it supposed to look like this?

As I ride my horse along the edge of the shallow cliff, I glance at the mix of trees and unassuming open plains below. The raised, bowl-like shape of our territory makes our lookout posts and catapults stand out like pointed jewels mounted on a crown—a warning to any would-be raiders—vagabonds—that they’d be stupid to try climbing the rocky elevation.

If only it would stop them.

“Marian! You’re finally here,” Lucky says as my horse trots up to him. He’s seated on a tree stump, nowhere near the post he’s supposed to be manning. His sword isn’t even on his waist. “Please tell me you brought water.”

“Did you not bring something to drink for your shift?” I flick open my leather satchel filled with morning field reports in hopes that maybe, just this once, he’ll hand me his report quickly. We both know we shouldn’t loiter together.

His lanky body nearly falls off his stump as he reaches for something on the ground. “I did, but it’s rotten.” He thrusts his goat-leather water skin in the air. “Go on. Taste it.”

My lip curls at the sour odor. “No thanks. And sorry, I didn’t bring water with me.” Not when I can hit all six active lookout posts along the perimeter and return to the compound in under an hour. I take in the view of the valley in the middle of our territory, filled with the Dresden camp. Our mine workers. I suppose the trees are thick enough here that if I have to linger, this isn’t the worst place.

Lucky huffs. “It doesn’t help that I might be dying.”

My gaze jerks back to him. Lucky rubs his forehead, pushing back his receding red hair, and I notice his pale skin does look paler than normal. “Dying from what? Thirst?” He’s still reasonably young—not even a decade older than my eighteen years.

“No, it’s more than that. There’s this spot. And . . . well, I guess, if you insist, I can show you. I’ll just need to take off—” He pushes to his feet.

“Stop!” I command, then bite back a curse. “You know full well the only thing I’ve been trained in is how to mortally wound you. I’m no help for that kind of stuff.”

Not to mention, the Commander would shoot us with our own arrows if he saw his guardsmen talking like this.

Actually, he’d probably only shoot Lucky. The leader of the Notting Militia would have other more humiliating punishments for his daughter.

“Just . . . see the medic about that,” I say.

“Ah, Grendle won’t do anything,” he grumbles. “Says I see her too often. But I could say”—his eyes turn hopeful—“that you sent me.”

I grimace. Our medic is a disorienting cross between a toad whisperer and a spiteful old bat—this will likely come back to haunt me. “Sure. If you think it’ll help.”

He nods, and I return my attention to the Dresden homes below us. The glorified tents and makeshift treehouses huddle together like a ring of mushrooms. But with most adults working at the mine, only children are walking around the communal firepits in the middle. “Report?”

“Ah, sorry, Mare . . . I haven’t filled it out yet.”

I inhale. Of course. “Just give it to me verbally, Lucky.”

“Okay. Two lone vagabonds got a little close to the northeast border at dawn. I sent a few warning arrows and a bucket of rocks from the catapult, and they tore off. But then a caravan of traders went by at noon. No contact. An hour later, I saw a pillar of smoke to the east.” He goes quiet. “Looks like the traders got bit.”

Bit, as in attacked or murdered for their possessions—a grim consequence of the Republic being ruled by raiding vagabonds, which is an ever-present threat.

Unless, of course, you prove your worth as a worker to a protected settlement, like us in Notting, and are granted shelter.

But even those havens are a dying breed.

I keep my face carefully blank, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the tragedy of it. In fact, I tuck it away, holding it close as a reminder of why the Dresden need to stay here under the militia’s protection. No matter what the cost.

“Okay,” I say to Lucky. “I’ve got to move on.”

“See you la—”

I throw him a sharp look, cutting him off. He knows better than to say that out loud.

My horse follows the dirt perimeter trail. On the left, the land drops off into a small cliff, and another quick scan of the plain below reveals no travelers. But that can change quickly, since we skirt the bomb-destroyed badlands and summer is settling in. This time of year, vagabonds are always on the move. It means everyone else has to hunt and scavenge while constantly being ready to flee.

Very quickly, a black shadow catches my eye. A raven. It swoops to a balding branch ahead, and I veer farther into the trees for a better look. It’s Benedict, and there’s something in his beak.

After tying my horse to the hitching post, I hide between the horse barns, remove some dried berries from my pocket, and toss them to the ground. A few guardsmen wander around doing chores and patrols, but they’re not paying attention to me. Benedict hops closer.

“And what treasure have you brought me today?” I whisper.

His black beady eyes blink at me, then he drops something on the ground not far from my feet. It’s a hairpin.

I huff a laugh, then toss him two more berries before picking it up. “What? You don’t like my high ponytail?” I pull the long, brown length of it out to the side and flap it at him playfully.

Benedict flies back a few feet and cocks his head, affronted.

“Marian.”

I jerk to a stand. Benedict flaps away. My heart kicks into a faster rhythm as Coatl approaches. Why is he out here?

And how much did he see?

I pocket the hairpin and fix my posture, chin up, back straight. Then out of habit, my gaze locks on a spot in the middle of his forehead. Anything to avoid those dark, circular eyes that remind me of fish.

“The Commander’s waiting for you.”

Well, that’s depressing. “Why? I’m not late.”

Disdain seeps into his face, causing wrinkles to stretch far into his bald scalp. Coatl hates when my tone is too casual with him. I don’t care. He may oversee the guardsmen, but now that we’re both Atlas’s advisors, I don’t answer to Coatl anymore.

“Something’s come up.” His irritation melts too quickly, replaced with a hint of a smirk. “He has something he wants to show you.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Coatl expressing any kind of pleasure involving me—yeah, that’s not good.

I trail him to the compound. The towering building is the size of a barn and holds a large dining room, indoor training area, and Atlas’s High Command, the cold, soulless place where I spend my afternoons.

The scent of roasted venison wafts in from the outdoor kitchen, making my mouth water. As we enter, the light dims, and I strain to see the floors of the living quarters rising up the far wall, the homes of the highest-ranking guardsmen. Oh, how I wish I could disappear to my bedroom right now. Any room, really.

At the High Command entrance, Diggs salutes, opens the heavy wooden doors, then shouts, “Entering now, the Commander’s captains.”

As always, the cavernous room is sunless and lit by oil lamps, but it seems extra dark today. And a bit damp. The chilly atmosphere isn’t helped by the old relics of magic adorning the walls. There’s nothing warm or inviting about ancient grimoires and mirrors that look like they’re haunted. Or the supposedly enchanted objects that probably only contain something awful, like someone’s rotten toe. But at least the swords and specialized crossbows Atlas collects are interesting. Useful, even.

We round the corner of the hallway, boots thudding against the plank floor, and find the Commander seated on his glorified throne. It’s set on a raised dais so he can look down on people sufficiently.

I spot my sister, standing before him.

Agatha’s fearful eyes meet mine and my stomach tightens. What has she done now? I stop not far from her. “Commander,” I say, voice monotone, face utterly blank.

“Marian.” I ignore the pleased look on his bearded face. His fingers toy with the ring on his thumb, stroking it like a cat—the very motion the traveling merchant who sold it promised would rouse the magic inside. A magic that, fifteen years later, has yet to appear. “Did you know your sister has been getting traders to bring her . . . old-world garbage?”

Agatha’s head lifts. “Not garbage, Father. Certain rocks known for their chemical compounds. Dezzy and I have been studying the effects of keno—”

“Enough!” The command echoes around the room.

Agatha falls silent.

“Don’t be brainless. We’re being attacked twenty-four hours a day on all sides. We don’t need rocks or useless powders. We need advancements in weapons.” He gestures to the wall covered in the most sophisticated crossbows in the Republic. “And Dezzy is your nanny. Why, at the age of seventeen, are we still keeping her around for you?”

I nearly scoff as anger rips through me. Dezzy is the closest person that Agatha and I have to a mother.

“She’s not— We’re doing experiments,” Agatha sputters. “Dezzy has studied alchemy. She knows about elements, and from the minerals I’ve secured I can—”

“Experiments,” Atlas repeats in disbelief. He turns to Coatl, who’s all too happy to mimic his disdain. “Can you believe this? She thinks it’s her coal to trade.” His angry gaze slides to me. “Did you know about this?”

In the past, I’ve tried and failed to explain that Agatha’s not cut out to be a guardsman. Even though she’s only a year younger than I am, she doesn’t fit into any part of his militia—so why not let her study her passion? He took my argument like a cornered snake . . . and we were the ones who got bit.

“I didn’t know,” I say. “But—”

“Hold your knife to her neck.” Atlas stands, his long overcoat skirting his feet as he steps down from his stage, wandering closer.

“What?” My breath comes faster.

“No, I—” Agatha objects. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“Marian,” he snaps, then speaks slowly, his voice carrying a threat. “Hold your knife to Agatha’s neck. Let’s do a demonstration about what actually matters in this world.”

My blood pounds through me. Slowly, I draw the hunting knife strapped to my thigh and step behind my sister, letting the blade float six inches from her voice box.

“To her skin,” Atlas clarifies.

Countless times I’ve been in Agatha’s position, either in training as a guard or in dangerous situations with raiders. Vagabonds. But this is different. It’s not about preparation or defense. This is Agatha’s punishment, and blood is about to be shed.

Refuse.

I grind my teeth, knowing that if I tell him to go to hell, I’ll be the one stuck there. Either Coatl will be unleashed on us, like the time I suffered a humiliating choke out after lying about Agatha attending guardsman training. Or this escalates to her getting a full-on beating, like the one she got after running away. And that I cannot watch again.

Do it. You have no choice.

“Coatl, show Marian what I mean.”

“No,” I shout, swinging my knife toward Coatl as he takes a step closer. He stops, his eyes flaring with indignation. “I’ll do it.”

Agatha’s trembling as I return the knife to her neck, this time pressing the razor-sharp blade to her skin.

“Now, get out of that,” Atlas commands Agatha. “Show me you can protect yourself.”

Come on. A half-dozen moves flip through my mind, and I mentally urge her to pick one. But she’s out of practice. Slow.

Finally, she grabs my forearm. Good. Now go for my thumb or press back into me. For a split second, it looks like she’ll go for a viper’s fang, a pressure point I’m positive she’s never successfully attempted, but I have no problem faking.

Instead, she raises her elbow. I see what’s coming from a mile away. My lips tighten as I force myself to take the blow. Sharp pain slams into my mouth and teeth, followed by the coppery tang of blood.

The Commander scowls. “You’re trying to humiliate me?”

“No,” we both say in unison.

“This is about proving how pathetic and utterly useless Agatha is. But I’ll give you one more chance.”

My eyes close. Stop calling her that.

Blood drips down my chin, and I spit onto the floor.

“Just do it,” Agatha mutters.

I step back behind her, then place the knife against her throat. Once again, she reaches for my forearm, only faster this time. But she’ll never be faster than me. A seething anger settles in my bones as I snap into action, removing the knife from Agatha’s artery and hip-checking her, throwing her down. Her back collides with the floor in a thunderous slam. Then in one swift motion, I drop to my knee, arcing my knife through the air, stopping just above her heart.

My sister gasps heavily for air.

I meet Atlas’s eyes, my face nothing but blank.

He smiles, absolutely delighted. “See, Agatha! That’s how it’s done. Now cut the nonsense. Train, and stop wasting my resources on useless hobbies.”

My shoulders drop an inch now that the trial is over.

I hold out my hand to help Agatha up, but she slaps it away and runs from the room.

The post Read The First Chapter From ‘A Thief to Die For’ by Melissa Poett appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Hi, Tina! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

You will quickly discover that I am the biggest nerd. I’m into sci-fi, how-to books, and 3D printing. Chemistry fascinated me so much that I held a research lab assistant job between organic chemistry classes in college. My biggest badge of honor is the fact that I’ve played Dungeons & Dragons for the past decade. Obviously, I’m bookish (my husband is too), and we’ve gotten to pass on our love for reading, storytelling, and nerdiness to our three kids. On any random weekend, you can find my family building LEGO castles, playing board games, stumbling through escape rooms, or re-watching Marvel movies. But I will admit, my favorite place to be is home, in bed, with a candle and a cup of tea.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I cannot remember a time I did not love it. My mom read to me every day. I remember being five, sitting on my bed, and my mom re-reading my favorite book to me for the 100^th time (it was Green Eggs and Ham). As soon as I was able to string a sentence together, I kept a journal and dedicated myself to writing in it every day, a practice I’ve more or less kept up my whole life. I wrote poems, journaled to process the latest drama in third grade or why I didn’t want to go to prom, and poured my grief over life’s curveballs onto the page because it was the only way I knew how to deal with it.

I am grateful that my parents were readers and brought me to Borders and the library on a weekly basis, and my aunt was also a librarian. She sent me a book every year on my birthday and at Christmas from the day I was born. I have always been into fantasy, but growing up, I was also enraptured by books like Jurassic Park, Ender’s Game, and Never Let Me Go. Can my answer be that my love for writing and stories was in my blood?

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: This wasn’t the first book I ever read, but one of my strongest memories is reading Holes in fourth grade.
• The one that made you want to become an author: Ooh, that’s a hard one, because there wasn’t just one book. But I’ll go with the Legend series by Marie Lu.
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: I recently finished Blood Over Bright Haven by M.L. Wang and LOVED it.

Your debut novel, This Wretched Alchemy, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

She’s sent to kill him.

What can readers expect?

I used Gladiator and Fullmetal Alchemist as comp titles, but I need to be clear. This Wretched Alchemy is NOT a Gladiator retelling. There are no arena competitions. Think of the Gladiator comp as a vibe. We have a brutal world inspired by Ancient Rome and some Japanese mythology. There is a lot of blood.  Many early readers have said things like “you cannot read this book with your brain turned off,” which I think? Is a compliment? I do want readers to know the magic system is inspired by centuries of alchemy and transmutation lore, and involves a degree of science (but it’s all fictional, so chemists, don’t come at me). You can also expect high stakes and a nail-biting journey where you truly don’t know who to trust and who might betray you. Lastly, there is plenty of yearning and angst.

Where did the inspiration for This Wretched Alchemy come from?

I’ve always been drawn to alchemy, an old tradition spanning history and cultures, blending science and mysticism. Fun fact: the first recorded mentions of alchemy date to the fourth century (thank you, Zosimos of Panopolis). Alchemy is widely regarded as a precursor to chemistry. Because the theories and schools of thought are so widespread, I took every creative liberty with my iteration. Though the magic system and story were not inspired by Fullmetal Alchemist, it is my all-time favorite anime, and fans will definitely see little nods to it within the story.

A major inspiration came from my years playing Dungeons & Dragons. For those of you not in the nerd scene, D&D is a fantasy tabletop role-playing game (TTRPG) where you create your own characters and embark on quests. The very first character I created was named Artemis Battlehammer. She was a labrys-wielding cleric, and often got her party into hot water because of her quick temper and overconfidence. Sound familiar? To be fair, Artemis was actually quite OP.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

Aside from the main characters, I’d have to say the Heart Ender, also known as Dex. He initially wasn’t supposed to be a major side character, but as soon as I wrote him into his first scene, he was magnetic. I thoroughly enjoyed exploring him, building out his backstory, and figuring out why he’s so charming and what he might be hiding. He has since become a reader favorite and stole the show. Tied with Dex was Orphy, Revel’s sentient serpent tattoo. Orphy demanded the spotlight, and it was fun wondering what she might be thinking and doing in every scene.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

Many of them. I started the book completely pantsing it, so it took a bit to get it off the ground. It was more of an experiment with no outline and no “big shiny idea.” After struggling through a few scenes, I realized I needed to flesh out the plot, world, and characters more. It might sound strange, but the way I overcame every moment of writer’s block was to put words down anyway. I challenged myself to write every day no matter what, even if it was 300 words at 11 p.m., even when I was tired, or in the middle of a crisis (which describes much of the year I wrote this book). I honestly believe I finished my debut because of how competitive I am with myself.

This is your debut novel! What was the road to becoming a published author like for you?

Four years ago, I quit my job of 11 years that had really burned me out. I was convinced I had no other marketable skills and would have to endure a job for a paycheck. From a young age, I’d dreamed of one day writing a book, as many do, I imagine. When I quit that job, with no plan B and a family that relied on my paycheck, I knew I had to make something happen. I launched a book marketing business, ran it for four years, and its success enabled me to start writing this book. I didn’t know if I’d ever share it with others. When I was nearing the finish line of my first draft, I thought about indie publishing it. I never imagined I would get an agent (my dream agent at that). I was in over my head preparing to go on submission, facing rejections, and feeling anxious over whether my story would find a home in trad publishing. I couldn’t believe it when the UK pre-empt from Harper Voyager came, followed shortly by the US auction, where we landed with Saturday Books. It is still difficult to wrap my mind around it all.

What’s next for you?

I recently turned in the sequel to This Wretched Alchemy last night, which will conclude the duology. I know the first book has just released, but I am already giddy for readers to find out how the story ends. I have also finished another book I can’t share about yet, so stay tuned.

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up soon? Any you’ve got your eye on that are releasing in 2027?

Ooh, there are many 2027 books I’m looking forward to. Chromeblood by Emily Varga, Bodice Ripper by Danica Nava, When Rage Broke Heart by Nisha Tuli, and Python by H.M. Wolfe.

Will you be picking up This Wretched Alchemy? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Tina Mars, Author of ‘This Wretched Alchemy’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Hi, Stephanie! Welcome back! What have you been up to since we last spoke for the release of The Hitchcock Hotel?

Thanks for having me back! I’ve been hard at work on a few novels and screenplays, particularly my fourth book, Revenge Plot. Oh, and I moved cross country from Brooklyn to Los Angeles.

Your latest novel, Revenge Plot, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Unhinged writer seeks literary agent

What can readers expect?

A peek inside the publishing industry, a good old-fashioned kidnapping, and a cat-and-mouse game set over a sumptuous Christmas dinner.

Where did the inspiration for Revenge Plot come from?

It was a mashup of two things, really. I was first thinking about dinner guests who don’t read the signs that the party is over and it’s time to go. Naturally, my brain then went somewhere darker. What about someone who refuses to leave someone else’s home?

I had also been wanting to write about the publishing industry, and I thought maybe I could blend these two elements. By now, we’ve read plenty of stories about writers stealing other writers’ ideas. We’re more familiar with the relationship between writers and their editors. But I had never read a thriller about writers and literary agents. Once those two roles slotted into the story, the novel took off. Revenge Plot is like Stephen King’s Misery, but instead of a writer and a crazy fan, it’s a literary agent and a crazy writer.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

Neve, the full-time novelist, was my favorite character to explore. There’s more of me in Neve than any character I’ve written. Normally I favor my unhinged characters because they’re so much fun to write, but I have a real soft spot for Neve. She gave me the opportunity to write about the vulnerabilities of being published and working in this industry. I enjoyed trying to explain the process of how I write a book, from that first light bulb moment to the finished story.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

I wanted to tighten the timeframe on this story. With my previous book, The Hitchcock Hotel, the entire book takes place over one weekend. With Revenge Plot, I wanted to go even tighter: one Christmas dinner. I was worried about having enough action to sustain the novel and pacing. In the end, I cheated by making the middle third a book within a book that takes the reader to an entirely different cast of characters and much longer timeline—but that’s just what the story called for!

How did you balance the psychological suspense throughout the novel?

One of my other chief concerns was how the reader would react to the middle of the book. The first part of the book is a classic suspense pressure cooker, where we have two characters facing off. Then we leave those characters behind for 150 pages to go through this “book within a book” story, which is aspiring writer Arnie’s manuscript. Of course this manuscript ties into the larger story in a big way, but I worried readers would be irritated by the change of pace. My hope is that Arnie’s manuscript provides enough answers to the mysteries laid out in the first part of the book that you don’t mind letting go of some of the more traditional suspense elements for a while.

This is your fourth published novel! What are some of the key lessons you’ve learned since your debut?

Hoo boy, I could write a whole book trying to answer that question. From a craft perspective, I’ve learned: the importance of causation, that readers don’t like ambiguous endings, how to juggle seven POVs in one book, that my antecedents are often unclear (thanks, copyeditors!), and on and on.

From a career perspective, I’ve gotten better at managing my expectations, asking questions, controlling only what I can control (which is to say: the quality of the book), building my writing community, and accepting that vulnerability and, sometimes, embarrassment, are part of the job.

What’s next for you?

For the past year I’ve been working on my first non-thriller! I can’t say too much yet, but it’s a dystopian novel set in post-apocalyptic California.

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up soon? Any you’ve got your eye on that are releasing in 2027?

I was lucky to beta read THE CHAPERONES by Amy Meyerson, which is an enthralling thriller, kind of like if Big Little Lies went camping on an island off the coast of California. That one comes out December 1. I’m also excited for THE THINGS YOU’LL NEVER KNOW by Ashley Audrain, out 1/12/27.

Will you be picking up Revenge Plot? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Stephanie Wrobel, Author of ‘Revenge Plot’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Divine Shadow by Lyndsay Ely, which releases on November 10th 2026.

In the shattered ruins of the Cathedral of the Enduring Flame, Lys grapples with the fallout of the latest divine conflict. The Whisperer has returned. Nolan is enthralled. Tempestra is still alive…with Lys as their newest avatar, which was definitely not part of the plan.

As the goddess worms deeper into her mind, Lys is determined to keep control—if not for herself, then for Nolan who is in danger of succumbing to his own divine possession. But resisting Tempestra is only the beginning. Across the Devoted Lands, the faithful and heretics alike spill blood in the names of their gods.

To end the war before it truly begins, Lys chases long-forgotten secrets where the first god fell. But as she prepares for her final stand, one question erodes the defiance she’s held tight: Is she truly ready for a world without gods?

EXCERPT

Eight

What hasn’t burned yet is consumed as I sweep through the city, stone turning tarry black and charred timbers crumbling to bone-gray ash. The air becomes dust choked, a roiling storm cloud to accompany this fresh wave of destruction as the Goddess finishes the job Osiron began, the fury of the Flame turning anything that might have been salvaged (with some hard work and a hefty dose of optimism) into nothing more than cinders and memory.

Except I’ve got nothing to do with it. My body might be the ship, but Tempestra is the gale. I’ve got no other choice but to batten down and bail out as they steer us back to the entrance of the city, every step feeling as if it will punch down through the cobbled streets into the very earth itself, a trail of graves for each of my—their fallen children.

Nothing.

Tempestra . . . stop . . .

We felt NOTHING.

I’ve lost physical control, but I’ve got a front-row seat to our blazing rage. Our vexation. And—most interestingly—our fear. The snuffing of a singular Chosen here and there might have been missed. But the mass murder of so many? We should have felt it as it happened, holes tearing open in the canopy of our power. Instead, Osiron managed to obscure their attack.

Understandable how that might worry you, Mother, but is this really the best way to react?

The gathered crowd shrinks as we reappear, tiny things that plunge to the ground until every soul left in Osturan is prostrate before us, save for our Chosen. Fleeing was not an option for these people, not when the Flame has unleashed its inferno. To run would be to acknowledge their weakness, that they are barely worthy to be prey to the power of the divine. As we pause to look over these frail creatures, the vision of the cowed heretic crowd returns, overlaying, bleeding into the figures before us. Each and every one deserves to burn. To be consumed by the Flame and have the wind disperse their ashes into nothing. A price must be collected. Here. Now. Love and loyalty be damned. They are nothing, after all. Nothing compared to what was lost.

We take another step forward, wrath swelling us like a drawn breath. No one moves. The faces that stare are so overwhelmed at witnessing the true potency of their god that they have gone blank with resignation, their bodies frozen with the understanding that whether they live to pray another day or end up as a communal pile of unidentifiable cremains is entirely out of their control.

One hand rises . . .

Don’t you dare, Tempestra.

We go stiff. I summon another memory, of familiar figures dropping through broken ice into an unforgiving current. The remains of my village, destroyed by the Flame’s servants.

Heretics.

Exactly. Something these people are not. They did nothing to warrant this. Not to mention this tantrum is unbecoming of a goddess.

The hand remains hanging in the air.

So let’s take a minute to cool off, yes?

We do, which comes as a surprise to both of us. The fury of the Flame contracts slightly, the searing light dimming. Which leaves an opening for the sorrow to pour forth, chilled water thrown on a whitehot forge, shattering the ravaging desire that gripped only moments before. Tears escape from beneath my eyelids, their trails like a cold razor blade drawn down my burning cheeks.

My children . . . dead . . . dead and taken . . .

Yes, Mother, but incinerating innocents isn’t going to change either condition.

My control returns, relief spreading before I realize I’d been afraid it was gone forever. That Tempestra had toppled—even unintentionally—those careful partitions keeping me, me. But despite the deluge of violence, the dams have held. We open our eyes. The citizens of Osturan still stare with a glaze of wonderment as thick as the silence that has fallen. They are waiting. None seem to know what for—an explanation, a punishment, death by immolation—but each result is one that they’d accept as deserved.

We stand a little straighter, a lump forming in my throat. “My Chosen . . . are dead.”

No surprise: I’m sure that’s a conclusion most had already reached. Instead, the collective sense among the onlookers is something less definable, like the moment when one’s balance falters, not quite lost yet but unclear whether it can be regained . . .

“My Chosen are dead and the Whisperer is to blame.”

Okay then. That’s how we’re playing this. No more secrets. No more manipulating rumors and half truths. It’s almost a relief—to me, not anyone else, Tempestra included. The Goddess would have much preferred to keep Osiron’s return tightly under wraps, and even I have to admit that it would have been more convenient to catch up to the Whisperer and handle our disagreements quietly. But both of us know by now that ignoring the stink of a rotting fish won’t make it go away.

“They have come from the shadows,” the Goddess continues, using my voice to speak, “as they always have, their devious nature betraying their weakness . . . their fear of us. They slink forth like the lowest sort of assassin, targeting those that have done them no harm other than giving their love to me . . .”

Framing that picture a little creatively, aren’t you, Tempestra?

“. . . and having the revolting gall to desecrate my children’s remains.” The Flame swells once more, chasing away some of the growing, if still nervous, relief throughout the crowd, the act reminding them that their Goddess is more than a doting mother—they are a warrior, a force of nature, a leviathan of very existence. It reminds me as well, a swarm of memories enveloping what is Lys. The clash of metal against metal rings in recollection, air thick with the scents of sweat and copper and opened bowels. Bodies spread across endless fields, blood soaking every inch, cries of the dying still filling the air. The very earth trembling as a deity sputtered and winked out of existence, the resulting release of energy as unchecked as a hurricane. “The destruction of Osturan will not go unpunished. The Flame has burned throughout a thousand battlefields, leaving all challengers defeated. That has not changed. I have fought, I have been victorious. I have endured. We will see this cowardly challenger dead and their vicious heretics punished in ways never before seen within these lands. I am Tempestra-Lystrata, Goddess of the Devoted Lands. I am the Flame, and the Flame is eternal!”

Before we have even finished, the crowd explodes, their love surging forth with as much enthusiasm as their cries, flooding through us and washing away some of the marks inflicted by Osiron’s attacks. But as bracing as that is, Tempestra suddenly recedes. With a single beat of my heart, full autonomy returns, the Goddess shrouding themselves in gray sorrow, moving beneath the shadowed eaves of me once more.

I take a deep, gasping breath, as if I have been drowning and finally broken the surface. Which . . . what the fuck, Tempestra? Was that really necessary?

They’re dead . . .

I know, I know. You loved them, Mother, as much as you’re able to love any of your children. But, frankly, one of us should have expected this. It’s our fault we were taken in by the fact that Osiron traded for so long in small, calculated maneuvers that a sudden shift to this scale simply didn’t occur.

My Chosen children murdered again and again . . . lost . . .

And whose zealous regime is to blame for that, Tempestra?

Exhaustion hits suddenly, along with the knowledge that our childish exertion of energy was a coin poorly spent, better saved to pay for what is coming.

“All of you, go,” I say to the crowd. “Follow your fellow citizens and find somewhere safe.” No one moves. “What? Did you want to pack up some of the ashes to take with you? Go!” The command comes more forcefully this time, quickly followed by remorse for my sharp tongue. The people here have lost everything. They also have no idea how close I was to letting the Goddess’s anger be taken out on them… far too close. I soften. “There’s nothing left for you in Osturan, but I swear that the moment the Whisperer is dead again, what has been lost will be returned, as much as is in my power to do so. Go!”

The combination of a gentler touch and my generous promise gets them moving, standing shakily, drifting away with a reluctance to leave the warmth of their Goddess’s flame. But beneath it all—infused in stolen glances and the set of tight jaws—I sense something else: doubt. In the ability of the Flame, in the truth of its promises.

Despite our little demonstration, there’s no unspilling that blood now.

As the last of the crowd disappears into the distance, Morgan and Ysell and the others, abandoned back at the Arbiters’ hall, reach my side again. They aren’t doing any better of a job in hiding their insecurity than the citizens of Osturan did, and wait for me to give some order, set some tone. Instead, I go over to the nearest chunk of stone that will accommodate my weary backside and drop onto it, letting my head hang to my chest. I don’t even bother to try to listen in on the low mutterings that follow.

“Goddess . . .” Ysell is the first to break my vigil, her voice tight with urgency. “We need to return to Aerdis and its legions. It’s not too late for the Clerics of the Blood to handle this, send the lesser Orders out to contain the spread of what happened here before it reaches too far.”

“That’s idiotic,” Morgan blessedly cuts in, saying exactly what I was about to and sparing me from hurting Ysell’s feelings. I look up in time to catch Ysell’s offended frown, but she has nothing to counter with. “There’s no containing this,” Morgan continues. “There are too many witnesses to spin this slaughter as anything other than what it was.”

“Not to mention,” I mutter, “someone will notice eventually how few Arbiters are out and about.”

My Chosen stop arguing and look back at me and the piece of rubble I’ve made a temporary throne, tension gripping each and every one of them, even Reia and Owin, who were spared the puddle of disembodied eyes.

“You can’t remain out in the open,” Ysell presses. “Goddess, it’s not safe.”

“If this is where Osiron had wanted to start a fight, they would have been waiting, ready to throw down.” I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice, patience far too much of an effort. Lys and Tempestra are tired. I recognize the feeling that’s crept its way into us, that one that follows loss, when a hole has opened up in you but neither time nor reflection has had a chance to start filling it in. The Goddess sulks even as something else bothers me even more: the fact that I have no fucking clue where Osiron is at this moment. The feeling of the new god, and the compass pointing north toward them, has not wavered at all. Was Nolan the true distraction, the bait meant to draw me away from the region so that Osiron could ensure their message of return would get out loud and clear? Or—a small flicker of hope sparks within me— has the new god already balked at being under someone else’s control? Even more optimistic: Has Nolan exercised some power over it, managed to break the new deity away from the Whisperer and driven them somewhere else?

But if that’s a possibility, then their purpose for moving north makes no sense. Why not return to Tempestra?

To me?

The only answer I have to any of those questions remains in that vague, pulsing sensation of their being, traveling farther and farther away with every minute we waste here.

Suddenly, the sun hangs low. Not low enough that we couldn’t make some distance from Osturan, but despite my impatience, I can’t bring myself to order us up and moving. My Chosen have exercised the patience I couldn’t while I was submerged in a sea of my own thoughts, Tempestra’s grief an anchor I couldn’t fight. The Potentiates have brought tea and food, warmed over a campfire they’ve built nearby. I accept the tea but wave the food away, not missing when Reia glances at Morgan, who nods before she actually scampers away with it.

“This is going to spread.” Morgan picks up that point as if it had never dropped. “And when it does, every heretic who’s been hiding out is going to worm their way to the surface, driven by the promise that their dead gods will return. The Whisperer’s spies have infiltrated who knows how many of our institutions. Ysell is right about returning to Aerdis, or Lumeris. We should fortify both internally and externally before one of them becomes the next target.”

“Osiron won’t strike the same way again.” I close my eyes. The air still reeks of burning everything, dry and astringent. “They chose Osturan because the Arbiters have been trying to flush out those very heretics, but also because it was small enough to take easily. The Whisperer wouldn’t be foolish enough to try for one of the larger cities. Whatever assistance they’ve mustered, their forces don’t have that level of strength.”

“But ours do,” Morgan insists.

“The Executrix is right.”

Lovely. My Bellator Prime and Executrix are teaming up.

“Let the legions sweep the land,” says Ysell, “before the next blow falls. We can comb every village, town, and city . . . chase down every hint of heresy and clear these rats out before they know what’s befallen them.”

“And how exactly”—I rub at the ache gathering in one  temple—“will you know who is a true heretic and who isn’t?” It’s a miracle I can say it with a straight face. As if that’s ever been a concern before, huh, Tempes tra? “At best, you will spread our forces thin and expend unknown amounts of resources to root out a handful of heretics that may not even be the ones we’re after. At worst—and I’d bet a jar of eyeballs that Osiron hopes we will react exactly as you just described—you’ll create a paranoid panic. Rivals will lob accusations against each other. Neighbors will offer up any vague half-remembered time where someone forgot to pray loud enough or didn’t greet them with ‘May the Flame warm you’ in order to make themselves appear above suspicion. Osiron has sown unmeasurable amounts of discord quietly. Don’t let them manage it in the open too, with you acting as their agent.” Ysell seems so chastised by this I actually feel a little bad.

So, what are we going to do? I see that question on all their faces.

But we don’t have an answer, do we, Tempestra? We can’t even fathom what other helpful tricks Osiron might have honed over the centuries, because we’ve been so confident in our supreme control for so long that we no longer know what pieces on this game board were there from the beginning and which ones Osiron has been sneaking in to mess with us. And since we don’t have a plan on how to deal with the Whisperer, I’m holding you to your godsdamned word.

We’re going after Nolan.

No argument comes, direct or otherwise.

Good.

“Ysell.” She snaps to attention. “You’re as fully informed of what happened here as anyone. Return to Aerdis and have the remaining Bellators ready the legions. For what, I don’t know yet, so don’t ask. It is

possible Osiron will try something else, so instruct them to send messages to every city and port and village big enough to have a name and tell them to keep their eyes open, weapons ready, and expect anything.” I stand to emphasize what I’ve said. “Get moving.” My words deepen. “And call all my remaining Chosen back to their Orders’ cities. Keep them together. Keep them safe.”

You had to add that little bit at the end, Tempestra, didn’t you? Fine. Do what you think will keep your Chosen from harm.

So long as we do everything possible for the one I want to save.

Ysell rides off. Night falls.

A chill laces the air, though I no longer feel it in the same way I did before. Or even how I did when we set out on this little adventure. The whole world is taking on a sharper edge the longer I remain avatar, as if the world is being reworked in glass. The tea I drank earlier poured down my throat like oil, and the night sounds of crickets and things rustling in the brush take on a strange melody. It is as if everything around me is shifting into the facets of a dream.

I refuse to dwell on these changes, though. Tempestra has kept to our bargain. I am still more Lys than not.

I hope.

A very human fatigue circles like a hungry vulture, but remains held at bay by a pressing restlessness, which finally drives me to my feet. I want to head to where the air doesn’t reek of cinders, but instead I find myself moving once again beneath the gates into the city, through its rubble and ruined streets. With everyone sent away, it’s even quieter within than without, not even insect song to add some ambiance. There is something lingering, though, sprinkled among the ash and coals, deeper than the cool veil of night. It’s not a feeling of Osiron, but I can’t put a name to it.

What else is here, Tempestra? Was this more than a message to the devoted, or even to you? We were always told that the Whisperer was the weakest of the gods. That’s why their siblings were able to destroy them so easily, and why they left no trace on the world. You believed that. We all believed that.

But that was then. This is now.

Eons have passed. Is there a possibility Osiron’s power has branched, evolved in such ways that they were able to obscure the massacre of the Arbiters? What else might they be capable of?

Without noticing, I’ve reached the stairs again. The eyeballs are gone. Morgan and Ysell insisted they be shown the respect that belonging to their brethren afforded them; what’s left now is a tiny pile of ash among larger piles of ash, already nearly indistinguishable. The urn was left where it rolled, colorful enamels catching the glow of the rising moon, a clean light that makes the soot-free stairs glow. There are no clouds, so the stars shine brightly above. I seek out one that shines brighter than the others, a fixed point that’s referred to as the Compass Star, as it always leads north.

North, where Nolan is.

What is he dealing with? I know what I’ve experienced, but what is it like for him, to be burdened with a new deity, one whose mind is still trying to form into something capable of comprehending our world? Has he maintained any sense of himself, like you’ve allowed for me, Mother? Or is it like being lost in a sea of your own body, buffeted about by the will of some chaotic, primeval creature? Does his forced baptism in blood protect him from the new entity at all?

I blink.

Morgan stands in front of me, a questioning expression on her face.

“Goddess?”

I look around, then up. The moon has moved well across the sky. “Yes . . .” How long have I been standing here? “What is it?”

“I . . .” She stares at me quizzically for a moment, as if waiting for me to say something. Then: “I woke and you were gone.”

I gather myself. Shrug. “Couldn’t resist one more sightseeing tour around Osturan.”

Unamused, her mouth thins, but blessedly she gives up on inquiries. Instead, she holds up some bread from dinner, topped with thin slivers of hard cheese. “You didn’t eat today.”

“I’m not hungry.” Not tired, not hungry, no longer subject to such insignificant human concerns. “You should still—”

“I said I’m not hungry.” It comes out fierce. I don’t mean it to, but it does.

Morgan shrinks a little, then frowns and draws herself up, taking a step closer and pushing the food toward me again. “You need to eat something, Goddess . . . Tempestra-Lystrata needs to eat something.”

She hits my name hard, with enough force that I obediently consider the bread again. I should be famished. Instead, it holds all the appeal of a handful of sand.

“You . . .” Morgan hesitates. “You’re thinner than you were.” Lys is, she means.

“Well, yeah,” I mutter. “There was a time in the not-so-distant past where feeding me was basically heresy.” It seems years ago that Caius kept me locked away and unfed for the whole trip from Cyprene to Lumeris, but it’s only been a couple of weeks. Add to that an infusion of divine being for whom food is only a necessary inconvenience and it’s not exactly shocking I’ve gone a bit bonier than before.

“Fine.” I reluctantly accept the offering. “But only because you used your Executrix voice.”

Morgan bristles. “I do not have an—”

“You absolutely have an Executrix voice. I bet you had it before you even imagined it was possible you’d become Executrix. You practiced it in your room in the Cloisters, didn’t you? Just in case.”

Morgan’s jaw flexes with the desire to fight back, to throw Lys’s teasing back at her with a good dose of rancor. But I’m tired enough to take pity on poor Morgan.

“Thank you.” I pick at what passes for a meal. It’s good, my sense of taste now as enhanced as the rest of me, the components taking on an unfamiliar intensity. It’s as if I can taste the specific grains that made the bread, the rain that watered that grain, the ocean the salt came from to brine the cheese. As if I can pick out the interlocking pieces of this land I’m bound to in the bounty that springs from it. It should be a transcendent experience. Instead, the act of chewing and swallowing brings no pleasure or satisfaction. It’s a performance, one that must be put on in order to assuage my devoted, and to serve certain parts of me.

The weakest parts.

Excerpted from THE DIVINE SHADOW by Lyndsay Ely. Copyright © 2026. Reprinted by permission of Saga Press at Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Divine Shadow’ by Lyndsay Ely appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

PLUS you can read an excerpt at the end of the interview!

Hi, Catherine! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

Hi there! I’m Catherine. I live in St. Louis right now, but I’m always dreaming of living in France again! I love fairytales, pastries, and gardens, and I’m also the cat-mom of a very chatty former stray named Sir Bruno.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

My older cousin was working on a novel when I was in middle school, and I naturally wanted to do the same. Conveniently, Twilight had come out around the same time, so I started out by writing vampire fanfiction… as do many authors, I suspect!

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: The Magic Treehouse books!
• The one that made you want to become an author: The Selection by Kiera Cass.
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: The River Has Roots by Amal El-Mohtar.

Your latest novel, Embers of Magic, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Tender, sweet, earnest, magical, warm.

What can readers expect?

A magical world wrapped in an enchanted winter, a kind-hearted prince twisted by a cruel curse, and a frightened firewitch on a quest to find her family. And of course… yearning.

Where did the inspiration for Embers of Magic come from?

I was thinking back on my favorite childhood fairytales, and The Snow Queen had always been my favorite. I also was reflecting on my favorite tropes–hurt/comfort and “cuddling for warmth” being among them. And there was a dynamic in my YA debut, Flowerheart, that was cut, and I wanted to recycle it. In a very early draft, the love interest, Xavier, was cursed to never feel emotion. I wanted to explore a love story where the hero’s very heart was “punished” the deeper they fell in love.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

I really loved Fiamma’s character. In each draft of the novel, I learned more and more about her. She is someone who has endured a great deal of pain, and I loved exploring how her vulnerability grew into a desire for justice and belonging.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

I think writing Prince Joseph was the hardest part for me. He transforms a lot over the course of the book, and I needed to make Fiamma — and the audience! — fall for him and come to get a sense of what his true heart was like, despite his curse. And I had to do so in a fairly small time frame, within the novel!

What’s next for you?

My adult romantasy debut, The Scarlet King, releases from Podium Publishing in the summer of 2027! I’ve been a vampire nerd since middle school… so getting to publish a vampire story is a dream come true! Be advised, this story is dark and gothic–very different from my YA offerings!

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up soon? Any you’ve got your eye on that are releasing in 2027?

I’m so excited for Til Quest Do Us Part by Ivelisse Housman comes out in December 2026 (an adult romantasy-romcom that sounds so fun and swoony all at once), and I just adored When Death Came to Honeybloom by Madeleine Gunhart (an adult cozy fantasy that is magical, sweet, and so romantic). In YA, I cannot WAIT to read Bottle Blonde by Elle Grenier (I cannot resist any book that features Legally Blonde the Musical)!

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

The flames in my dreams were always the first sign that it was time to leave.

Sometimes I tried to ignore them. I told myself that my mind was weak and tired and that my imagination was simply bringing up bad memories. For a few more days, I would live as though nothing was wrong.

Then I started to smell ash.

By then it was nearly too late. My fire was overdue, ready to burst out of me any day now when I was feeling my most fragile.

It was a beautiful early morning as I shoved all of my belongings into my pack. The soft pink of the sky and the warm air felt almost mocking in their happiness as I unpicked the stitches of my life once again.

I set a weathered map upon my table. I’d travel following the Specchio River. Once I was alone, I could let my fire fall flame by flame into the rushing waters, like my father had once taught me. After that . . . I would walk south until I found a new town.

Around my neck was the compass Papà had given me shortly after my fire had first begun to bloom from my hands. I swept my thumb over its metal backing and the strange words carved so delicately into the piece—

When summer turns to early frost,

Go to the Westerlies to find what is lost.

“The Airs made this just for you,” Papà had said. “It will keep you safe.”

Such a thing had made sense, back when fairy tales were true and no story ended in tragedy.

He had slipped the gold chain over my head, the evening sun shining in his warm brown eyes. “We are going on a long journey, Fiamma,” he told me as Mamma helped pack our things. He brushed tears from my cheeks and didn’t mind as I stomped my feet and whined about having to move away.

“You are going to lead us, all right?” Papà had asked, scooping me in a hug. “You and your compass shall guide us to the Westerly Mountains.”

But so much had changed since that day.

In the dim toolshed—my temporary home—I hauled my pack onto my back and set the key for the shed upon my small table. All of the mending and the darning and the embroidering I’d done for the farmer’s wife, I folded and left neatly on the bed.

There was a small creak as the window was knocked open by a gust of wind. The breeze pulled on my curls and then tossed aside one of the handkerchiefs I’d stitched, as if to get a rise out of me. With a huff, I turned to the window and snapped it shut.

“The Airs will always take care of you,” my mother had promised me.

I left my little shed behind and walked on through the rising dawn. The dirt road bent south, eventually following alongside the Specchio. Apple trees lined the path and offered me shade from the heat of midsummer.

A few people passed me by throughout the day: travelers on horseback, messengers, merchants. I kept my fists balled at my sides, my head down without greeting. I did not mind being alone. It was better this way. Safer this way.

The winds were rowdy that day, making the tall grasses alongside my path bend and roll like tides.

My father used to stand in grand gusts of wind and gladly welcome the spirits. Our windows were always kept open out of deference to the Airs, and he would simply laugh when they blew out our candles or knocked books off our shelves.

In folklore and rumors, they were spoken of as if they were tricksters or naughty children. And while that was true of their mischievousness, the Airs were far too powerful to be either. Their attention was rarely a blessing. Gossipers would see me drift into town, a wandering orphan girl with the wind constantly tugging at my hair, and they’d whisper in grave tones, “The Airs must have plans for her.”

I left the dirt road and marched through the tall grass in the direction of the river. Far away, it gleamed like a long, straight mirror, just like its namesake.

There, I knelt upon the damp grass along the riverbank. Scooping handfuls of its clear water, I drank my fill and then patted down my neck and cheeks after a day beneath the glaring sun. I glanced behind me to make certain my bag was a safe distance away and that no one was watching. The world was quiet but for the murmuring of the river and the rush of wind through the trees.

I uncurled my fingers. Sparks fizzled beneath my palms, making my hands shake. I could almost hear my father’s voice saying, “Let’s go to your river, Fiammetta.” My throat felt thick; the smell of smoke grew stronger, and my eyes stung, though there was nothing, no fire but the blaze in my mind.

One by one, small flames fell from my fingers like raindrops and fizzled as they were swallowed by the water.

I glared at the fire falling from my hands. The fire grew, crackling, and I shook it off of me as if it were mud. More flames came, more and more. I scrubbed at the fire, sweeping it roughly off my hands. It never burned me or my clothes, as if the fire and I were part of each other. I hated that thought the most.

When the worst of it was over, I swept away the embers and fell back onto the grass, feeling so very hollow.

This violent power inside of me was gone for now. I wished I knew how long the reprieve would last.

The oak tree above me cast dappled shadows upon me. Soft breezes made the branches whisper together.

It had been ten years since that last, worst day. Since I had begged the Airs for help.

They had not answered.

So for ten years, I had not spoken to them, either.

The branches swayed peacefully above me, seeming perfectly, teasingly normal.

I shut my eyes. My sleepless nights and the weight of my pack and the heat of the day made me sink into the grass. Just a moment, and then I would continue on.

A fleck of something cold fell upon my brow. I blinked and sat up, touching my forehead—just a drop of water—before I looked heavenward.

From the leafy green boughs of the oak tree, three small white petals drifted down. But no—when they landed on the brown linen of my skirts, I could see them for what they were. Three perfect, crystalline snowflakes.

I gaped. They melted slowly, but they were there, and very real, days before the kingdom would celebrate midsummer.

I leapt to my feet. Leaving my bag beneath the tree, I walked a few paces back toward the road and scanned my surroundings. Perhaps some ice-cursed creature lingered close by, or a Frostwitch. Such a thing would be strange indeed; most witches had left for the Westerlies a decade ago. But there was nothing around but the occasional tree and waves of tall, unkempt grass.

The sky above was slowly filling with clouds, its color fading from vivid blue to pale gray. The burning of sunlight on the back of my neck was replaced by a chill.

Another snowflake landed upon my cheek. A cold breeze slithered through the grass, sounding almost like . . . soft, hissing laughter. The Airs. They didn’t manipulate ice and fire and the earth the way that witches did. They couldn’t have been responsible for these bits of snow in the middle of the summer. But—

I hastily flipped over the compass lying against my heart. Even after all this time, and after all the years tracing the inscription with my thumb over and over, the words were still legible:

When summer turns to early frost . . .

For just a blink, I was back in my family’s cottage, with Mamma baking the apple crisp I loved, and Papà showing me how to follow the needle of the compass.

What if it was true, what my parents had said? That this compass was not purchased from some merchant by a father trying to calm his daughter . . . but some divinely made gift. Like in my father’s stories, where the Airs gifted rings and talismans and even crowns to those they favored.

How else could this be? A message, written ten years ago, finally coming true. Perhaps it wasn’t meant for my family, but for myself, here and now.

“Go to the Westerlies to find what is lost,” I whispered.

I held tight to the thought, as beautiful and impossibly distant as a star:

They could be alive. They could be waiting for me in the Westerlies.

As a child, I was certain that someday my parents would come find me again. When they never did, I first believed that they had abandoned me. I was a wicked child—why would they have wanted me, anyhow?

The alternative was worse. That my actions on that day had taken them from me completely.

But perhaps . . .

Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps they looked for me for years, as I had looked for them. We had planned to go to the Westerlies, to make a new home for ourselves there. The perfect meeting place.

My mind was racing. The Westerlies were far south. The journey would be costly and dangerous. First, one had to pass through the woods that stood like a barricade in front of the Westerlies. The Hexenwald Forest was difficult to traverse—filled with monsters created by the witches who inhabited the Westerly Mountains. And then the mountains themselves . . . crossing deadly peaks of ice and snow would be no easy task.

But I was far from the first person to have made the journey. Many witches—most witches, by this point—had journeyed to the mountains years ago. Back then, to thank them for their service in his revolution against the Corevero family, King Vier had decreed that the Westerlies now belonged to witchkind. He was a good king, said to answer the wishes of any citizen who knelt at his throne. Any witch who asked would receive aid and transportation to the Westerlies at the king’s behest. I had only to go to the castle.

I could see my family again.

It could be a foolish hope. A chance as small as a grain of sand. As fantastical as one of my father’s fairy tales, I thought with a fond smile.

I gathered my things and cradled my compass in my palm.

As if my parents could hear my words, I whispered to it, “Guide me home.”

Will you be picking up Embers of Magic? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Catherine Bakewell, Author of ‘Embers of Magic’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Hi, Katharine! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

Hello! I’m a writer based on the Kapiti Coast in New Zealand. I’ve got two kids with hectic schedules and a fondness for dogs. My little bestie is a Jack Russell x Miniature Schnauzer x Foxy called Sprocket, and we have a gorgeous rehomed guide dog caller Tyler who we adopted after puppy raising him. We often have guide dog pups in our house but are taking a break right now so Ty gets a bit of time to settle in.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I honestly don’t remember a timed when I didn’t love stories. I’ve always lost myself in books and had read everything in the childrens section by the time I was ten. I wrote my first book at the age of 5, got a typewriter for my 9^th birthday, and have written on and off all my life. I started taking it seriously in 2019 when I was home with the kids and finally finished a full length manuscript the same year.

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: Matilda by Roald Dahl
• The one that made you want to become an author: Sabriel by Garth Nix
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood

Tonight, I Blaze is the third and final installment in your Witches of Halstett trilogy and it’s out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Queer. Dark. Twisty. Epic. Fiery!

For those who haven’t picked up the series yet, what can they expect?

Deathwalking witches, bisexual pining, a queer normative world, non-conventional romance, a hot male love interest, and a deliciously ethereal female love interest. Penny Albright is a daughter of the thorn coven who walk in death each night to protect the veil between life and Death. To cross into Death the witches burn at the stake, and their bodies reform in Life the next morning. There are two rules to Death: never look back and always walk alone. But on the eve of Penny’s first burning, her sister goes missing and fails to return, and when Penny breaks the rules to go after her, the consequences are far greater than she could ever imagine.

And for readers who have, what’s to come in Tonight, I Blaze?

Penny is forced to decide what truly matters most to her as she fights to protect the people she loves. There’s more Dante banter, more Tobias and his cinnamon roll vibes, more impossible choices, more of the Albright sisters, the truth behind the history of the world and the character’s backstories, and a whole pile of deceit.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring further?

Definitely the scenes where Penny is back in her villiage. She’s spent so long pining after her former home, that writing the reality of it and her realisations while she’s there was super satisfying. I’ve always adored writing Alice. She’s just so floaty on the surface and so strong underneath it, she’s a delight to spend time with on the page. Malin’s sarcasm is fun to play around with as well, and I love the way he bounces off Penny. I really enjoyed cracking his façade a bit and going deeper with him as he accepts some of his failings in book three.

And I always love writing the book sprites! (And Dante’s fun too!)

Did you face any challenges whilst writing with the final installment? How did you overcome them?

Trying to give each character appropriate page time to tie up their stories was tricky. There’s a big cast of supporting characters, and I fell in love with every single one of them as I wrote, even the Warden. I think most of them got the endings they deserved, not everyone though or that would have been no fun, and the epilogue paints a little picture of life after the events of TIB, too.

The biggest challenge was probably Penny being alone for stretches of Tonight, I Blaze. She’s depended on a lot of people throughout the trilogy, and I wanted her to have to lean on herself and what she’s learned for a while. Writing those scenes involved a lot of internal monologue, especially as she faced the truth of who she is, and it was tricky to balance that with the action to keep the story moving. It took a lot of editing to get it to a place where I was happy the words were doing their job on the page.

Looking back to the initial concept, did the direction of the trilogy change much over time as you worked on each book?

I tend to play join-the-dot with my plotting with each point set down on paper, but I don’t always know how the characters will get between the points until I start writing. None of the bigger picture stuff changed, a lot of that was laid down in book one and would have been really difficult and unsatisfying if I’d decided to mix it up, but the characters and their motivations definitely revealed themselves along the way. Some of them surprised me!

What’s next for you?

I’ve got a short story coming in a Stars and Sabers anthology, and I just finished up a draft of something twisty and bloody which I’m almost ready to send to my agent…so watch this space!

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up soon? Any you’ve got your eye on that are releasing in 2027?

So many! Someone Else’s Daughter is near the top of my list. I love Andrea Stewart’s other series, especially The Drowning Empire, and can’t wait to see what she does in the Psychological Suspense space. Julie Leong’s The Isle of Lonely Monsters is releasing in January. I’ve been hanging out for her next book since I read The Keeper of Magical Things. Rosalie M. Lin has Dark Lotus Blooming coming in August. If you’re a scifi fan, Yume Kitasei’s scifi, Envoy, is hitting stores in 2027 and Megan Chee’s debut science fantasy The Archaeology of Falling Worlds is coming early in the year too.

And I was fortunate enough to get my hands on an ARC of Teri Dederer’s debut, Feast of Hearts, which releases in April 2027, and it’s the most gorgeous book I’ve read in a while!

Will you be picking up Tonight, I Blaze? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Katharine J. Adams, Author of ‘Tonight, I Blaze’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.