Sing the Night

Book 1: Opera Magique

by Megan Jauregui Eccles

Genres: Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

Discover a fantastical story inspired by The Phantom of the Opera, as musical magicians compete for the once-in-a-lifetime role as the King's Mage, but only if their magic--or fellow contestants--don't destroy them first--perfect for fans of Leigh Bardugo and Erin Morgenstern.

For as long as Selene remembers, she's only wanted one thing: to sing the boldest, brightest magic into existence and win L′Opéra du Magician. To the winner goes the spoils of being declared King′s Mage, a position her father held years ago, before he lost control of his magic and spiraled into madness, leaving Selene an orphan.

But when the competition turns cutthroat and a competitor steals Selene′s song, the chance to redeem her father's legacy begins to slip through her fingers. Until, in the depths of the opera house, she discovers a mysterious and beautiful man trapped within a mirror. He offers not only the magic of music, but a darker sorcery of shadow, blood, and want. He can help Selene if she helps him in return—but his forbidden magic may not be worth the cost.

As the competition continues and mages are driven to ruin competing for the king′s favor, Selene must navigate betrayal, the return of childhood love, and the price of ambition.

Release date: March 10, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter 1

Selene took a half step onto the stage, the staccato articulation of her heart a sharp reminder of what was to come. She sang each precise note and summoned the wind, fluttering the curtains open. Row after row of empty seats shimmered blue and gold in the flicker of stage lights and the chandelier. This was her tessitura: what she knew, what she expected, what she was destined for.

In six days, this auditorium would be filled, and Selene would perform for the wealth of Mondreves and the king. It was the height of opulence and elegance that positioned the kingdom on the cutting edge of art and magic. Dignitaries would travel from around the world to see their latest innovations and offerings. They were allowed in selectively—the king guarded his secrets well. One of the many reasons auditions were kept closed. Selene was mere breaths away from her chance at the stage, free of nerves or concern that she would make it through. She was favored to win in all the papers and knew the scope of her talent and ambition. Competing in L’Opéra du Magician was the only thing she’d wanted for as long as she could remember.

Almost.

There had been a time when Selene wanted to be something new each day. A pirate, a flower seller, the girl who sang the books back onto the shelves in the library. She wanted to be everything. But that was a long time ago, before she’d come to live in the opera house, before she’d lost her father. She’d traded a menagerie of dreams for this singular purpose. Selene had nothing else. She only wanted this.

Something shifted behind her. A whisper, a flutter, that familiar feeling of solitude breached.

When she turned, the stage was empty. Selene was alone.

The ghost.

A thrill of fear ran through her. The opera house was notoriously haunted. For decades, students swore they saw a face in the mirrors. The rumor was a girl grew so frightened that she threw herself from the rooftop. And so there were no mirrors in all of the Opera Magique—not to protect their vanity, but to protect their souls.

Selene had looked for the ghost in bowls of water and window glass, in any place she could see herself reflected. She wanted ghosts to be real. She wanted to believe that the people she loved and lost were somehow still here. That her father stood in the place between shadow and light, watching her. That somehow, he’d forgiven her for what she had done.

“You’re early.”

Gigi stood behind her, dark, curly hair swept up in a tight bun. Her cheeks were rouged and eyelids dusted in glitter, lips showing the barest shine. She turned out her long, sculpted legs in first position. She looked like she belonged in a music box, spinning and spinning and never growing weary—the kind of pretty that was meant to stay forever, but never would.

Selene relaxed a little. She pulled her father’s watch from the pocket of her dress and ran her thumb over the familiar engraving: a nightingale caught in starlight. It was the only piece of him she had left. “If you’re on time—”

“—you’re already a minute too late.” Gigi laughed through her teeth. “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”

“Nothing left to do but sing.”

And Selene was ready. She knew her aria like she knew the rhythm of her own heart. She’d written it piece by piece over the last three years, making sure it was perfect. Every note filled with meaning. Risoluto. Con fuoco.

rendering of classic beauty. The hollow of her long neck fluttered with each intake of breath, like a butterfly reposing on a blossom. Her hair was long and lush, her mouth painted in plum. It was a shame that someone so beautiful could be so terrible. That pretty face twisted into a sneer. A flash of cruelty—before it was replaced with a politician’s smile.

“I don’t know why you two even bother.” Priya swung her hips as she walked, each step a performance. “Madame Giroux’s talentless daughter and the orphan of the Mad Mage. No matter how you perform, the king will never pick you. What will the papers say?”

“ ‘Talent surpasses nepotism and bribery,’ ” Selene snapped. “ ‘Priya Ankari seen weeping in her lover’s arms while her fiancé looks on.’ ”

Priya’s mouth flattened to a thin line. “And what would you know of lovers, Selene?”

“Nothing,” Selene said sweetly, trying not to let the barb sting. Once, Selene had thought she loved someone. But it was the folly of childhood, gone as swift as a sigh. “My only love is music.”

“Then I fear you’ll be spurned.”

“Ignore her.” Gigi pulled at Selene’s sleeve.

Selene caught the retort on the tip of her tongue. She’d show Priya on the stage. Gigi was right, Priya wasn’t worth the wasted words. She wasn’t worth the energy hate would expend. Selene needed everything she had today.

Gigi’s fingers tightened on Selene’s arm.

Priya stood with a poisonous grin. She held a small, silver mirror in her hand.

It caught the light. A glimmer, a glint, a slip of reflective glass. Anywhere else, it would have been a worthless trinket.

In the Opera Magique, the mirror was a knife.

“Selene.” Gigi’s fingers dug into Selene’s flesh. Selene knew the shape of Gigi’s nightmares—had been with her through those sleepless nights. The ghost had terrified her since before she could remember.

“The only monster here is the one holding the glass,” Selene seethed.

Priya curled her lip. “What do you think it would take to get your mother here, Gigi? Shall you cry, or do you think she’d come quicker for Selene?”

“That’s enough.” With a few steps, Selene positioned herself in front of Gigi.

“As if you could tell me what to do.” Priya bared her teeth. “Are you scared, Gigi? Scared enough to jump from the roof ?” She lunged forward with the mirror.

Gigi staggered back, forgetting the rope that coiled like a snake beside the velvet wing. Selene grabbed for her hand—but she was too late. The sound of Gigi’s body slamming into the stage echoed through the auditorium. Selene dropped down beside her.

“It’s fine.” There were tears in Gigi’s eyes. She looked past Selene to Priya.

Selene’s heart thundered con furore. She could accept Priya’s viciousness on her own behalf—had been for years. But for Gigi, she would let the world burn.

Priya’s face was marred with rapture. “What are you going to do?”

The options were endless. Selene could sing the air from Priya’s lungs. She could summon fire and spark that fine dress into flames. She could grow vines to wrap around Priya’s pretty throat and squeeze until all the light was gone.

Except.

Magic was never to be used as a weapon. Magic was art and entertainment—beautiful, impractical, and privileged. It required years of study, careful attention to technique, and could turn dangerous quickly on a technicality.

And maybe it was hubris or recklessness or the privilege of never living in fear. Selene had been raised on the wild idealism that magic and art existed in the everyday. She had not been held to the standard that magic was only meant for this higher form. Selene didn’t understand why magic couldn’t be more. Her father had taught her first how to pull water from the sea into a bucket, how to hush out a candle with a breath of wind, how

to find the heart of a flower and make it grow. It wasn’t until she’d lost her father and been sent to the opera house that she’d learned a fear of magic. Rumors abounded of magicians who tried to light a candle with the power of their voice and instead set themselves ablaze. Ruined for a flame.

Selene knew of ruin. She knew what magic could be. She didn’t care about candles or clouds. Those were simple, small things. There was so much worse magic could do. Selene had tasted the sweet poison of destructive power. There was already blood on her hands.

There could be blood on her hands again.

She banished those violent delights, breathing slowly and deeply. Priya wasn’t worth it. Selene wasn’t one of the silly dilettantes seeking a hobby before they shackled themselves to a wealthy spouse. Those practitioners weren’t here to win, not really. They wanted the prestige and stories to tell at parties. This didn’t matter to them like it mattered to Selene. Priya—despite her engagement to a viscount—actually seemed to want this. At least she wanted it badly enough to destroy anyone who stood in her way. And because of that, Selene knew exactly how to hurt her.

Her smile was the sharpened edge of a blade. “I’m going to be better than you.”

Worry flickered in Priya’s eyes before it was replaced with pity.

“It’s a shame the Mad Mage didn’t finish what he started.” Priya angled the mirror to reflect Selene’s throat.

The high collar of Selene’s dress had shifted, revealing the tips of the silver scars that circled her neck. Without thinking, Selene adjusted the lace to conceal them. She regretted it immediately. Priya’s smile curled at Selene’s show of weakness.

“Did your father lose his mind before or after he tried to rip out your throat?”

It was all Selene could do not to be crushed by memories of that day. She focused on the music—power building under her

skin. She’d pull the moisture from the air and freeze it into a sharp shard. Priya would bleed, all the evidence melting into the red. The placement of the music lifted the back of her throat. High road be damned.

No.

She wouldn’t throw away her chance to be the King’s Mage for Priya. She wouldn’t give everything up for vengeance.

Priya’s smile faltered, her motives clear. She’d been trying to goad Selene into action. She’d gone after Gigi first, then Selene’s father. She’d wanted Selene to react and get herself thrown out of the competition.

Selene took a deep breath, letting the heat of her fury cool to an icy rage. She brought her hands together in a slow clap.

“Brava, Priya. Though you’ll have to try harder to—”

The surface of the mirror rippled.

Selene might have convinced herself that it was a trick of the light. But there was something there. A face cast in shadow, all angles and furrowed brows. Cold, blue eyes that cut straight to her soul.

The melody came to Selene before she had the chance to process what she was doing. She sang the wind into a scythe that forced Priya back against the wall. The mirror shot in the opposite direction. Away, away, away. Selene waited for that beautiful breaking sound. It would be freedom. A mercy.

But the mirror did not break.

It didn’t even fall.

It hovered there in the center of the stage, catching the lights.

Madame Giroux stood in the threshold, eyes thinned to slits beneath her half-moon glasses. She leaned heavily against her wolf’s head cane. Her mouth moved with music, soundless.

Madame had a cat’s countenance and a gift for silence, even in song. Magic did not need volume or vibrato; it needed practice and an open mind. Anyone could do magic if they had the pitch and the focus

and knew the melody. But not everyone could be a magician. While there were magicians in taverns and carnivals and every rich man’s hall, it was a dangerous undertaking. As with all art, talent was not spread evenly. One might be good enough to sing shifting shades of light on a street corner and still be unable to weave an illusion deftly enough to hold the attention of a tavern. There was little unity between mages. The failure of one meant the success of another, which bred contempt as they became more adept. The higher the court, the more the mage had to work and sweat and bleed to get there.

And the King’s Mage was the highest one could go. Once every seven years, a mage had the chance to be known as the greatest in the world. It was more than prestige. There was power in it. Doors opened to the whole world, if the mage wanted. There was no more competing for the limited spaces in which a mage could earn a living. It was everything, a guarantee of a good life, a great life.

But it was not without risk. Magic required perfect technique and absolute precision. Few were brave enough to perform without schooling. Fewer still underwent the preparations for L’Opéra du Magician. It took years of training, and more magicians seemed to lose themselves each season.

Selene couldn’t be good. She had to be the best. The audience expected grandeur, each competition bigger than the last.

And Selene would give them that, if she made it through the auditions.

All the fire left Selene, replaced by fear. Like Priya, Selene had broken the rules. Priya may have brought in a mirror, but Selene had harmed a fellow magician. Art was not a weapon. It was a soul laid bare, an expression of beauty and pain and all the loveliest things. It was never supposed to be used in violence.

Madame’s melody changed, barely audible over Selene’s furious heart.

The mirror shattered. Not shards or pieces, but a shimmering powder that drifted down and settled into the cracks of the stage like glittering ash.

“Can you still sing?” Madame looked directly at Priya, her eyes as severe as her voice.

blood. Her hand trembled. She clenched it into a fist. “Yes, Madame.”

“My office,” Madame said. “When the auditions are finished.”

“And what about her?” Priya’s look of vindication slipped from her face like a mask. “She could have killed me.”

Selene braced herself. There was no way she’d be allowed to compete now. Her stomach dropped like a stone. Priya had gotten exactly what she wanted.

Madame’s gaze settled on Selene. “You were warming up your voice.”

Selene swallowed hard, not letting any emotion show. “Yes, Madame.”

“Magic has its risks.” Madame Giroux stood very still.

Priya looked like she’d bitten into a lemon. “That’s not—”

“Enough.” Madame struck her cane against the stage.

Selene kept her breath even, her features empty of guilt or surprise. She’d accept this mercy from Madame Giroux. Gigi struggled up from the floor and Selene rushed over to give her a hand. She tried not to think of what she’d seen in the mirror and how Priya would make her pay for this later.

The door opened behind her. The rest of the students filled in the spaces between Priya, Selene, and Gigi. Benson took his place beside Gigi, catching her fingers in his. He looked to Selene.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

As usual, Benson was impeccably dressed. His clothes were tailored and pressed, hitting all the right lines and angles. Except for the ankles. He’d gained inches over the last few months, and there wasn’t any hem left to be let out from his trousers. People in the opera house regarded him with fluttering lashes and bedroom eyes, as if the inches made him a new man. But he was still Benson. All Selene saw was the boy who flooded the practice rooms when he first learned how to sing for water. Who cried when he learned that meat came from things that had once been alive. Who still tore the crusts off his sandwiches because he swore they tasted better that way. She’d vowed never to let childhood friendship turn into something more. She’d never be that foolish again.

Gigi was not afraid of those feelings. She’d loved Benson since he was spindly and strange. She’d finally gathered the courage to tell him a few months ago. He loved her, too. Selene had volleyed their affections back and forth as a confidant for both, never knowing if it was the right thing to encourage them into each other’s arms or encourage them to let those feelings die. The rules for the King’s Mage were clear: your first loyalty belonged to the king. Marriage was banned. And though discreet romantic entanglements were ignored, the kind of love that both Gigi and Benson had would not be allowed. If either of them were to win, they’d have to put their feelings aside for the next seven years.

Still, Benson pressed his lips to her forehead. The pain in Gigi’s face dissipated.

Selene made her face as smooth as glass, flattening out every ripple of emotion.

Benson raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking into half a smile. “You know that trick doesn’t work on me.”

Selene thought of those pale blue eyes from the mirror, like sapphires set in silver. Perhaps she could write that off as a trick of the light.

“She used magic against Priya.” Gigi spoke barely above a whisper.

“Did she deserve it?” When they were younger, Priya had filled Benson’s only pair of shoes with honey. He’d worn only socks for weeks. Needless cruelty was her hallmark, now heightened by L’Opéra du Magician. “What am I saying? Of course she deserved it.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Selene whispered.

“My hip.” Tears choked Gigi’s voice. “I don’t know if I can perform today.”

“You should have killed her.” Benson wrapped his arm around Gigi, helping her keep the weight off her injured hip. “I’ll kill her.”

Gigi relaxed against Benson. “She’s not

worth it. She’ll never be worth it.”

On the other side of the stage, Priya held court, garnering sympathy from her friends. The twins—Camille and Cecile—gasped at Priya’s tale. Revelio dragged his lips down the line of her neck. She held on to him, the weight of another man’s engagement ring clearly not enough to keep her hands off.

Madame Giroux held up her pocket watch by the chain. The second hand settled over the twelve and she struck her cane against the stage. Selene took her place in the half-moon around Madame.

Frantic footsteps of students desperately trying to make it before it was too late echoed in the hall.

Madame sang a few crisp notes that made up the motif for metal, slamming the door to the stage shut. Locks clicked into place.

And like that, those students’ chances were gone. Selene heard sobs. Shouts of protestation. Fists against the door and melodies wrangled through frantic throats. But it was too late. In the next hour, they would be ushered out of the opera house, condemned to normal lives. A dream, a wish, a lifetime of work, gone. There was a possibility they’d find work as magicians, but it wouldn’t be easy. There were so many hopeful mages willing to risk life and limb trying to carve out a reputation in the city and garner patronage. Some noble houses wanted the next best thing and some houses preferred someone loyal, someone who would last. Foreign courts would gladly open their doors to a talented magician who’d trained in the Opera Magique.

But without the prestige of L’Opéra du Magician, it might not be enough. They’d be lucky to find a place with a high enough wage to sustain a life, a family. There were plenty of street magicians, singing tableaux on the street corners, hoping to catch a few coins. And there were those who did magic—not magicians, per se—singing the fires lit in noble houses and sweeping up rooms with a collection of notes. Practical magic, nothing more than utility. Not music, not performance, nothing but a vessel for quick and basic

 tasks. There was still some risk, but those mages rarely pushed themselves. To Selene, it seemed like a fate worse than death.

Those who’d been born into wealth would be fine. They’d fold back into their fancy dresses and horse-drawn carriages with little thought for the years they’d spent in the opera house. Those without titles and wealth—like Selene, like Benson—would look back on the wasted years with endless regret as they tried to make up for the time they’d lost working a trade. If they were lucky, they could find a steady gig, but those seemed few and far between. Talent seemed a minuscule measure of success.

Selene didn’t concern herself with that kind of stress. She was confident about her chances, and even when the barest sliver of self-doubt crept in, she remembered she had her name. She was the daughter of the great Giuseppe Dreshé. That was enough to get her through any door, and her voice would keep her there. She could go anywhere.

But there was only one door that mattered. Only one place she wanted to be.

“You know why you are here.” Madame took out a deck of cards. She discarded three, flinging them out and singing them gone. A burst of fire, and then nothing—Madame used practical magic without fear of scrutiny. She was a teacher; she had to teach. “You are the brightest mages in the land. And your time here has made you the best. L’Opéra du Magician is not about memorization or mesmerization or even the music. This is your chance to show what magic can do.” Her dark eyes slashed through them all. Selene

felt the cut, hope welling inside her like blood to a wound. “Each of you will perform your audition piece. Your years of training come down to a single aria.”

A ripple of uneasiness moved through the remaining thirteen competitors. Madame Giroux didn’t have to explain what that meant. They had all seen it firsthand: when the magic went wrong. Selene didn’t think of her father, but of the many hopefuls she’d studied with over the years who hadn’t made it to this point. One wrong note and their dreams—and sometimes limbs—were shattered.

“Once auditions are finished and the competitors are named, you will be announced and presented at the Unmasking Ball. Then the end begins—with L’Opéra du Magician as your final performance as my students. And one of you will be named the King’s Mage.”

Madame’s eyes rested briefly on Selene. The hairs on the back of Selene’s neck rose. This was it. This was her moment.

Madame struck her cane against the stage and took her place in the third row. Monsieur Fenrir, the manager of the opera house, had slipped in. He slumped back in his seat, looking frazzled, like someone had told him that the sun would continue to rise and it was too much for him to take.

“He’ll quit before the end of the week.” Gigi leaned against Benson as they descended the stairs to the auditorium.

“He can’t. We’re too close,” Selene said.

Gigi smiled with the wisdom of a girl who’d grown up inside the opera house. “Bet on it?”

“The usual?”

Selene reached her hand down to Gigi and discreetly shook before taking her seat a few rows back. Monsieur Fenrir flinched when the palace representative settled beside him. The man was young and handsome, moving with the ease of someone who knew his worth. It was a familiar confidence. For a moment, Selene held on to a spark of hope. But it died when she saw the man’s face. Stupid, to feel this way after all these years. It was not Victor. It would never be Victor.

“And now … ” The cards moved like water between Madame Giroux’s hands. “We begin.” 

 

Chapter 2

Let it be me, Selene thought.

She wanted to be first, needed to be first. Her hand rested on her folio. Music was a language, with each sentence holding the potential for magic. Selene had carefully crafted each motif to tell her father’s story. She’d copied and recopied her aria, burning the pages in between. He was the only mage in history to serve a second time when that season’s mage lost her mind shortly after her debut. Before he was the Mad Mage, he had been someone respected and loved. Someone whose art had meant something. It could mean something again.

Madame drew a card. Selene closed her eyes and imagined her own face there. Willed it to be true. Madame Giroux spent a moment scrutinizing the card, then turned it around.

It was the perfect depiction of Revelio.

Revelio looked a little stunned, like he couldn’t believe his luck. He kissed Priya full on the mouth. She whispered something to him and a smile spread across his face.

Selene tensed in her seat, the delicately carved arms of her chair biting into her skin. Gigi reached for her hand and squeezed it apologetically.

Revelio handed the maestro his music. The orchestra sightread as an attempt to prevent sabotage or the arias being leaked to the press. Selene wasn’t worried about that. She had her own ways to protect her music: locks and keys, secret places, pages curling with fire.

Revelio strutted across the stage. His puffed black silk pants gleamed with strips of gold. He’d left his shirt open halfway down his chest, revealing a swath

spread out by the copper dome, to turn his olive skin into such a rich bronze.

That was one way to prepare for L’Opéra du Magician.

He flourished dramatically with his hand and nodded to the maestro. The maestro tapped his baton against his music stand. This was it, the moment of silence that always made Selene feel like she was home. The pause for breath before everything was sound.

The baton sliced through the air. ...