We, the Fairest

We, the Fairest

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, May 20, 2017
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Fiction
Fantasy
They hail her as their 'Regienne Verust,' the Fairest Queen. She is simply bewitching to behold, or so they say, with her skin as pale as snow, her hair as dark as night, and her lips as red as blood. Or at least that's what they preach in the markets at midday. It's only under the cover of night that they whisper other things; stories of poison, murder, and a vault of palm-sized glass boxes, each with a preserved heart inside that rests upon cushions of hammered velvet. But Isoleí vun Déi Wäiss hasn't the time for their idle talk. Her sole interests lie in kingdoms and power, and crowns and revenge -- especially now that the war for her inheritance has begun. After a betrayal ten years ago, Isoleí has been biding her time, preparing herself for battle against the wicked despot that sits upon her stolen throne. The war she wages is her only chance to have the vengeance she desires and become the queen she was meant to be. Yet, victory is only half of the battle for her title. Enemies linger in the deep shadows of Wulfhaven Keep and confronting them means Isoleí must be willing to uncover just how far betrayal has spread in the kingdom of Fruaërt. Determining friend from foe will be a cruel test for her judgment but then again, Isoleí has always striven to be fair.
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Caldorin

A girl raised by a ghost. A prince swallowed by exile. A kingdom that kills its miracles before they can even cry. Isolde walks the blood-slick streets of Rindek, a city of silence and ruin, where fire-born fae are executed before their first breath and rebellion is just another word for treason. She's a blade in the dark-silent, swift, loyal. Or so they think. By night, she breaks the very laws she enforces, smuggling the condemned to the fabled isle of Sepulkrin-a myth wrapped in fog and storm. No one returns. No one knows if it still exists. Not even her. But secrets have teeth, and history doesn't stay buried forever. When Victor-the exiled prince with eyes of war and winter-steps out of the shadows, Isolde's carefully constructed world begins to collapse. Because he knows what she's done. Because he remembers the revolution their fathers died for. Because he's come to finish what was started. And this time, the dead are watching. In a world ruled by blood and betrayal, how long can you hide what you are before it burns you from the inside out?

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