Women in the small kingdom of Aeriana are disappearing.
Iris Daniels, a budding painter in the East Territory, is trying to keep her head down. In a kingdom filled with abilities, music, and Destined love, Iris is determined to build a career out of...
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"Reese, I worry about Wylan. There aren't any kids his age here at the palace other than Kit and Her Highness. Promise me we'll look into after-school programs next week. Love you."
—Kara Garrick, note found on a table in the Garrick family quarters, First Palace
Nicola Peters' Acemark was a set of interlocking crescent moons on her back.
Wylan dropped his head back against the couch. "I wish it had been her."
Thad rolled up a t-shirt and shoved it into his go-bag. "I didn't. She insulted me."
He couldn't control the smirk that appeared. "She called you pudgy. I hardly count that as an insult."
"I'm not pudgy, I'm built."
Wylan lifted a brow. "You know, there's a lot of women who like bigger men. Just not Nicola Peters. Nothing to worry about."
Thad threw a sock at him.
He caught it effortlessly. "Don't let it get to you. She'll be a speck in our rearview mirror in no time."
And wasn't that the truth? His father had already called them back home. They needed to stop, regroup, and figure out their next steps. Wylan tried not to dwell too much on why they were heading back to Redlian and the palace there.
Failure.
They'd exhausted all their efforts in locating her and nothing had been sufficient. Driana Antonov did not want to be found.
"I'm taking a shower," Thad muttered and escaped the room.
Wylan sighed into the air above him and curled a finger under the chain at his throat. He'd been nine when everything happened. Old enough to remember the screaming. To remember the people who'd stormed the palace on silent feet, hiding among the shadows.
And old enough to remember the young doe-eyed princess who'd followed him like a duckling after her mother. The same one who'd sobbed and screamed in his father's arms as they'd fled. Staring behind his father's shoulder at the bodies of her parents and the pool of blood around them.
It'd been his fault when his father handed her over to another guard. His fault that his attention had been split. And when they'd found that guard's body weeks later at the safe house, it'd been his fault too.
Wylan's thumb traced the coin at the end of the chain, tracing the silver outline of King Aedan III.
Mama says this is great-grandpa. Driana's voice was still the voice of a child's, even in his mind.
