The Forest King's Daughter

Book 1: Thirstwood

by Elly Blake

Genres: YA Action & Adventure; YA Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

For fans of Sarah J. Maas and Holly Black, The Forest King's Daughter is an enemies-to-forbidden-lovers romance from the New York Times bestselling author of Frostblood.

Once upon a time, among the bloodred trees of Thirstwood, a young forest princess became friends with a lonely boy from underground. He gifted her an amber ring, a worthless trinket—or so he thought—because no sooner did he slide it onto her finger than the queen of the underground and the forest king declared war.

Years later, Cassia is a crucial force in her father’s army, wielding her ring of light that can blind and disorient hundreds of enemies at a time. Then battle-hardened Zeru abducts her, planning to steal the ring back to fix his costly childhood mistake. Exhausted, terrified, and more than a little mistrusting, Cassia is forced to travel with Zeru to a place they both believed only existed in storybooks, one where their childhood friendship slowly rekindles into something much more. But it's only a matter of time before the war they’ve escaped comes for them, and a hidden threat to forest and underground folk alike grows in the shadows.

From the author of the Frostblood Saga comes the first book in an enchanting, adventure-filled fantasy series about the daughters of the powerful forest king, sure to leave readers breathless and desperate for more.

Release date: February 11, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 384

Sample

Sylvans and Dracu

By war divided,

Never now shall meet

Without bloodshed, tears, and pain.

—EXCHARIAS, SYLVAN POET

CASSIA THRUST HER ARM IN RAPID JABS, CONSCIOUS of her footwork on the layer of straw covering the training yard. Her knife was an extension of her arm. A talon, a claw. The Dracu had claws, but she had her knife.

The fortress of Scarhamm had shaken most of its snow cover, but the frozen earth lay fallow, waiting for warmth. Cassia felt like the seeds lying silent underground, full of potential, needing only the right conditions to burst free.

A few dozen Huntsmen had paired off, some practicing with heavy wooden swords, others weaponless, sparring with fists. Her two older sisters, Enora and Thea, crossed wooden swords, their clatter blending with the general din. Burke, the Second Huntsman, was perfection itself, his movements economical and relentless. Though Sylvans had many different builds, heights, skin and hair colors, their uniforms were always the same: green and brown to blend with the forest. Usually, Cassia enjoyed watching the Huntsmen spar, imagining that she might be that proficient one day. But sometimes she was struck by the memory of her mother tending honeysuckle and roses in this very spot. She remembered watching as the seeds were dropped into the rich soil. She’d always felt peaceful here at her mother’s side.

Over the past ten years, most of the gardens had become training yards, the roses dug up or trampled underfoot.

Cassia was acutely aware of Tibald, the weapons master and trainer, watching her with sharp eyes. Later, he would tell her whether she had been too slow or too broad in her movements, if she’d failed to protect her weak spots. But she’d been practicing every evening for hours, and she moved through her routine with more confidence than usual. The Huntsmen were always talking about the strange joy found in battle. The wild frenzy of it! The beauty of the fight!

How she wanted to feel like that, to fight alongside her sisters, to prove she had as much value on the battlefield as she did wielding the ring from some safely tucked-away location.

“Go for the throat, Cass!” a small voice piped.

Cassia smiled but didn’t turn, waiting until she had finished her routine before facing her younger sister, Rozie, who sat atop a rock on the edge of the yard.

“If this were a real battle,” Rozie said, eyes shining, “you’d have killed at least seven Dracu. Maybe even eight.”

Cassia laughed. Imaginary Dracu were easy to kill. “What about you? How many have you taken down today?”

Rozie looked at her fingernails, a mannerism she’d clearly picked up from Thea. “A dozen or so, I would think. On the way here.”

Cassia grinned at her sister’s careful wording. The added words, “I would think,” made it not quite a lie. Sylvans valued truth above all things, believing a lie was like a broken vow, which carried dire consequences. Even trying to lie made Cassia’s throat close up.

“And what did you kill them with?” Tibald shouted from across the yard.

Rozie scrunched up her face in a fearsome scowl. “I looked at them like this.”

Tibald’s booming laugh echoed. “That would do it!”

Their eldest sister, Enora, ruffled Rozie’s curly red hair. Her own silvery blond hair was neat as a pin in a long braid coiled crown-like on her head. “We need you on patrol, Sproutling, if you can kill with a look.”

“No,” Thea, the second eldest, broke in, mischief in her dark eyes. Her long brown braids danced as she strode to Rozie in her long-limbed, graceful way. “Tell the truth, Sylvan, lest you choke on your lies. You felled them with your stench. You can’t avoid the bath forever, you know.”

“I am simply not dirty,” Rozie declared, spreading her arms for inspection. Her eyes narrowed on her arm. “Except for that one spot.”

Thea snorted. “Now I’m worried about your eyes as well as your nose.”

As the Huntsmen laughed, Tibald shouted, “Don’t listen, Rozenna! You’re as clean as a snake and twice as pretty.”

“Thank you!” Rozie said without a trace of irony. Her love of creatures that slithered or crawled was well known.

Sparring resumed as Enora and Thea took a break to swig from water skins. Rozie hopped off the rock and came to Cassia’s side. “You’ve been practicing.”

Cassia grinned. She glanced at Burke, who only bestowed his approval to the most proficient among the Huntsmen, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her. “Did Tibald look impressed?”

Rozie frowned, pushing back a hank of hair. “He looked the same as always. Smiling. A little drunk.”

“Rozie! He isn’t.” Cassia glanced at Tibald, who was watching the Huntsmen in his all-seeing way. She dropped her voice. “He has red cheeks, that’s all.” What you could see of them under that salt-and-pepper beard.

“I know,” Rozie said, only slightly quieter. “I said he looks drunk, not that he is.”

Cassia shook her head at her sister’s irrepressible nature. “Well, if you’re in the training yard, you need to train. Raise your weapon, Huntsman.”

Rozie looked delighted, then made a show of looking around. “Where is my sword? Ah! How could I be so careless?” She pretended to heft a blade from the ground, complete with grunts and facial contortions.

“You need a lighter weapon,” Cassia said, tucking her knife into the sheath at her waist and producing a pretend one. “Try this,” she said, handing her sister an invisible dagger.

“Ah, that’s much better.” Rozie gave it a once-over. “A handsome weapon.”

They bowed to each other, fighting smiles. At seventeen, Cassia was older than Rozie by five years, yet she spent more time with her than with their elder sisters. Though she wanted above all things to be like Enora and Thea, warrior-like and ruthless in battle, in her secret heart, Cassia envied Rozie’s ability to make everything playful.

Rozie lifted her hand, blade up, and loosed a battle cry that roused birds from their nests. Cassia chuckled as she pantomimed a return slash. Rozie parried, and the fight was on. Enora and Thea laughed at their antics, and some of the Huntsmen ceased their training to watch the mock battle, shouting advice or howling at Rozie’s expressions. After a minute or two, Cassia got the better of her young sister, grabbing her in a quick hold. But she failed to take the killing blow. Rozie reached behind her and sank the pretend knife into Cassia’s heart.

Cassia gasped and put her hands to her chest, her eyes closing to Rozie’s pleased guffaws. As she fell to the ground, a hush fell over the Huntsmen. The wooden swords went quiet. A throat cleared. Blinking the sweat from her eyes, she looked up. Looming over her was the most intimidating sight in Scarhamm.

The Sylvan king. Her father.

For a second, she lay frozen. No matter how familiar, the sight of him always shook her. He stood ten feet tall, his shoulders broad as an ancient oak, his dark eyes piercing in a face carved from granite. Antlers grew from his head, more impressive than any crown that could be crafted. It was a sense deep in her bones that mixed awe with fear whenever she looked at him. This was not only her father, but the warrior king who had saved the Sylvan people from destruction at the hands of humans.

When the Ancients had abandoned the mortal world, leaving the land folk at the mercy of humans, it was Silvanus who had become defender of his people. He alone had guided forest-dwellers of all kinds into the safety of Thirstwood, his power commanding the loyalty of the trees. Feared as much as admired, Silvanus’s presence was felt by every creature of the woods, his forest magic humming through every vein, whether filled with sap or blood.

Cassia found her feet, her back straightened as if pulled by strings. She had a hot-cheeked sense of how ridiculous she must look, mussed and covered in dirt and bits of straw. Her father rarely came to watch his daughters train, but when he did, his verdicts were decisive and cutting.

“Raise your hand,” he ordered.

She reached for her dagger, eager to display her hard-won proficiency.

“Your other hand, Deathringer,” he barked. “The Solis Gemma.”

With a silent gasp, she lifted her ringed hand, wincing as a tremor ran through it. As always, she felt the weight of the ancient artifact. Not the physical weight but the one in her mind. Everything it was supposed to be.

Deathringer. It was a name from legend, given to the last person who had wielded the Solis Gemma in battle. A champion who had slaughtered thousands in the Ancient Wars. Not only did her father believe the stories were true, but he also expected her to live up to that name. Not a day had gone by since she’d first put on the ring that she didn’t feel the heaviness of this burden, the sense that she was not living up to what she was meant to be.

She could create a blast of light. She could cause terrible pain to Azpians, those creatures who dwelled in darkness underground, like the Dracu and Skratti. She had rendered hundreds, maybe thousands of them defenseless in that way.

But she could not kill.

“Demonstrate your power,” he commanded.

She swallowed, looking up at him with a silent plea. She always trained alone with the ring, never in front of anyone else. Not because she was worried about hurting any forest-dwellers—they were unaffected by the ring’s light.

What she hated was risking failure in front of an audience.

But her father’s glare was implacable. She had no choice.

Shakily, she forced her will against the ring, calling on its power, pushing past the pain that ran from her heart through her limbs. The gemstone responded, its glow intensifying. As the yellow light pulsed, she had a moment of hope that she could do this. In battle, she could create a blast that would disorient enemies in a fifty-yard radius. But now, under the watchful eye of her father, with her stomach twisted and her palms sweating, the light didn’t expand as it should. A middling flare pulsed a few times through the yard before dying.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cassia saw Enora and Thea give each other a look.

Embarrassment heated her skin as an owl hooted somewhere nearby. Owls were viewed as mortal representations of Noctua, the ruler of the spirit realm. The bird’s call felt like a condemnation from the Ancient herself.

“A paltry display,” the Sylvan king pronounced, his contempt like the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.

Cassia bent her head. How small she must seem to a warrior with so much natural power. As she stared at the ground, she could feel the eyes of the Huntsmen, these men and women who depended on her. She was a vital part of their army, as Tibald always reminded her. But she’d overheard the jokes about her. The speculation that the legends were either exaggerated or the king’s daughter wasn’t up to the task.

She was a disappointment. Never what they truly needed her to be—a warrior who could fell armies, not just weaken them.

Swallowing, she found the courage to look up at her father. His eyes were thunderclouds, his lips a grim slash above a squared jaw. She had a sudden urge to run into the forest to hide among the trees.

“The war room,” he said as he turned and strode away, his footfalls shaking the ground.

The silence stretched until Tibald broke it. “Quit gawping and get your arses back to practice!”

With throat clearings and scuffles, the Huntsmen resumed their training. But the relaxed mood had been ruined. Even the sunlight seemed gray.

“Keep your chin up,” Thea said briskly.

Cassia lifted her chin, but her stomach twisted as she followed her father.

“Why can you not master the ring?” the Sylvan king demanded, his anger shrinking the dimensions of the large chamber.

Cassia had always found the war room intimidating with its echoing size, creaking floorboards, and massive fireplace. The gray stone walls bristled with swords, axes, maces, shields, and other instruments of warfare. Her father stood at the head of the ancient oaken table, which was scarred from centuries of use. There were no chairs. The Sylvan king didn’t believe in sitting when action was being decided. Flames from the fireplace behind him burnished his antlers but left his eyes in shadow.

A familiar tremble took hold of her limbs, the usual sickness coiling in her gut like a venomous snake. She hated these lectures. There was only one note, one repeated theme. No matter how hard she worked, no matter how desperately she stretched herself to her limits, to bend herself into the shape of someone worthy of his approval, she failed him. Every time.

And if she argued, if she tried to defend herself… well, that had only happened once. She had spent hours trapped alone in the dark war room, the table itself shackling her at her father’s command. She’d learned not to offer excuses. But neither could she say nothing.

“I don’t know,” she said, hating the weakness of her reply, knowing it would stir him to greater anger.

His fist met the table, the impact rattling through the wood and into her stomach. “The Solis Gemma is a thing of great power. An artifact of the Ancients themselves! And you make a mockery of it.” His voice scraped along her every nerve. “When you first wore the ring, I rejoiced that this would be our edge over the Dracu, our salvation in a stalemate that had lasted far too long. Now, ten years later, what do I have to show for it? You should be able to kill enemies outright with a blast from the gemstone! A Deathringer who brings no death is no use to me.”

No use to me. The words seemed to beat against her like the wings of some great, screeching bird.

He spread his hands, a gesture that might express defeat if they weren’t his massive hands, his powerful frame that spoke of consequences to anyone who didn’t do what he commanded. “Day by day, their attacks increase. The Dracu draw closer to Scarhamm, to your home, the seat of your people, the last refuge of the Sylvans. And instead of applying yourself to mastering the power of the stone, the one thing that may end this war, you roll in the dirt like one of the hounds. Do you take nothing seriously?”

He had her all wrong. I’d do anything to master the ring. How can you not see?

But if she said that, he would hold up the many examples of proof that she didn’t care enough, or at all.

“The Dracu alone outnumber us three to one,” he said, “and even still they recruit from the Azpian hordes. Every day more drakes, imps, pit sprites, and Skrattis have joined their ranks. Our greatest danger is the full moon after the snows melt, when the Dracu are hungry from a long winter and the wards thin. Soon, our walls and our wards will not be enough to protect us.”

Cassia stared at her father, a solid lump in her throat. In the great hall, he spoke of crushing their foes and wiping the forest of the memory of the Dracu. But here, in the hush of the war room, she heard a starker truth.

They were losing.

What about Thirstwood? she wanted to ask. The trees were loyal to the Sylvan king, the last and best protection of the forest folk. They had always been enough.

She had never seen her father this worried.

He paced, making the floorboards jump with each step. “Seer after Seer has proclaimed it: The war between Sylvans and Dracu will only end because of the Solis Gemma. We will beat our enemy decisively, but we need the ring. Do you care about your people at all, Cassia?”

She wanted to shout but spoke softly. “Of course! I—”

“Then prove your loyalty!” It was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown in her face. “Find the power within you to master that stone. Do so now, before you have no people left.”

She pulled in a long breath. Can it really depend on me? She stared at the deep grooves in the table, biting her lip to stop its trembling. Finally, she lifted her head, knowing she must always meet his eyes when he spoke or when she spoke to him.

“I will.” The words were barely a breath. “But how? I’ve tried everything, Father—”

He threw an arm out, the wind of his motion flinging air against her cheek like a slap. “My field is battle. Must I spoon-feed you everything? You are responsible for learning how to use the ring.”

She reared back, recovering with squared shoulders and a stiff nod. “Yes, Father. Leave this to me.”

As he stared at her, tension held the breath hostage in her chest.

“Remember,” he said with solemn warning. “You are the Deathringer. It is up to you whether you live up to that name. If you fail, you fail all of us.”



The Old Ones were giants who sprang forth when the world was young.

After ages alone, they longed for someone to admire what they had wrought.

From their longing, the Ancients came to life.

—FROM THE ORIGINS OF THE LAND FOLK

CASSIA LEFT THE WAR ROOM, HER EYES ACHING with the threat of tears. She turned, finding Enora and Thea leaning against the wall next to the doorway, their arms crossed as if waiting for her. Enora’s pale gray eyes looked concerned. Not wanting to worry her sisters, Cassia rolled her eyes, trying to hide the despondency that hung over her like a dark cloud. Thea lifted a dark brow, her deep brown eyes attentive, and Cassia knew she saw through her. But Thea wasn’t one to talk about feelings. In a wry tone, Thea said, “I don’t suppose he hauled you in there to discuss the serious issue of the Second Huntsman’s pants being too tight?”

Despite herself, Cassia let out a hoarse bark of laughter. Thea could always lighten the mood. Taking a steadying breath, she explained what her father had said about the Azpian numbers. “Add to that, the usual. I’m not using the ring to its full potential. I could master it if I took it seriously.”

Why did her stomach twist so painfully? It wasn’t the first time her father had lectured her. It wasn’t the first time he’d expressed disappointment. Far from it. But this time, the words had stung in a new way. Perhaps because there had been an edge of urgency to them.

Why couldn’t she be what he wanted her to be?

“Oh, Cass,” said Enora, putting a hand on her shoulder. “No one takes things more seriously than you do. We know you’re trying. Caring too little is not your problem.”

Wanting to get away from the war room, Cassia started down the corridor, her sisters falling into step beside her.

“I agree.” Thea jostled her shoulder, bumping her the way she had when they used to wrestle as children. “On the other hand, maybe if you’d stop staring at Burke’s arse for two seconds, you’d find time to figure out your ring.”

Enora’s laugh was cut short by an unconvincing cough.

“I don’t ogle him,” Cassia protested, adding for the sake of truth, “much.” Which drew more laughter. “I’m mostly jealous because it all comes so easily to him. I wish I had an ounce of his confidence.”

“Arrogance, you mean,” Enora said.

“It’s warranted,” Thea said. “He’s good.” The highest compliment she could give.

Cassia sighed. “Father is worried. The harsh winter gave us a break from the attacks, but the thaws will bring the Dracu back. We used to celebrate spring with revels. Now we wait to see how badly they outnumber us.”

It made her chest ache when she thought of their history, the stories shared in front of the great hall’s massive fireplace of a thriving people who had covered lands from sea to sea. Like other land folk, Sylvans had been pushed back by the encroachment of humans, retreating into wilder, less cultivated places like Thirstwood.

The Dracu had done the same. The difference was, the Dracu allied with fearsome creatures: the goblin-like Skratti, winged imps, and poison-tongued lizards called drakes. Though Sylvans were as tough as tree bark, most of the forest-dwellers tended to be smaller, including pixies, river folk, and wood sprites who did not have a history of battle. The Sylvan king’s Huntsmen fought to protect the forest folk, but their numbers were cut with every raid, their strength culled in every fight.

“Regardless of what Father says, it’s not all on your shoulders, Cass,” Enora said. “Focus on the ring, and we’ll be at your back on the battlefield.”

Cassia forced a smile, knowing that Enora was trying to be encouraging. She only wished it were a mere matter of focus. She’d focused on nothing but the ring for years. The Sylvan king had been confounded by her lack of ability to use the gemstone as a weapon. He seemed to think it would be something she would do instinctively, the way he spoke with the trees. He had hired Seer after Seer to guide her with whatever knowledge of the ancient artifacts they possessed, cobbled together with spells.

Finally, at twelve years old, she’d created her first blast of light. Though the radius had been small, her father had immediately placed her on the battlefield to test its effect. Her second blast hadn’t killed enemies, but it had incapacitated them. She would never forget watching Azpians fall to the ground, writhing helplessly as the Sylvan Huntsmen stabbed them in the chest or took their heads. She’d doubled over as the world had spun and faded to black. She’d woken in the arms of the weapons master, Tibald, as he’d rushed her away from the fighting. She’d never been allowed that close again.

After that, her father had placed her far enough away that she was out of sight, but near enough to use the blast on enemies. The current Court Seer, Veleda, had experimented with potions to increase the gemstone’s range, with some success. But it wasn’t enough.

“I have to push myself harder,” she said aloud.

“Or find a new angle,” Thea suggested. “Surely there’s something you haven’t tried yet. Sometimes when we’re strategizing, I find just looking at the map in a different way can help me see something I missed.”

Enora nodded. “Go see Veleda again. Be like Rozie. Pester her until she comes up with something.”

Maybe they were right.

Thea punched her shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, Deathringer. We know you will.”

She felt her lips compress at the nickname, even though she appreciated Thea’s faith in her. A new resolve took hold as she took the stairs down to the lowest level of the fortress.

Cassia drew up short when her foot splashed into cold wetness. Grimacing, she continued on, her boot squelching. She didn’t know why Veleda chose a place where water found its way through cracks and no amount of mortar would keep it dry. Scarhamm was built in a bend of the Scar, a river that began in the snowy heights of the Ambrose Mountains to the north before meandering through marshy lowlands on its way to Thirstwood. The river provided water for the people of Scarhamm and offered protection against enemies. But it also created a constant battle against damp and rot.

When Cassia reached the Seer’s familiar peeling wooden door, she took a breath before pushing it open, knowing the smells that would hit her: pungent herbs and even more pungent odors of animal remains. She peeked her head in and was greeted by the sight of an upside-down rat skull, light flickering through its empty eye sockets. The Seer stood at her worktable with her back to the door, her arm moving as she stirred something in an iron pot. Her long dark curls were knotted with a scarf at her nape.

“Come in, Cass,” Veleda said in her easy tone.

Cassia stepped into the room, calmed by Veleda’s off-key humming. The space seemed more and more cluttered every time she visited. Rickety shelves groaned under the weight of dusty bottles and vials. Herbs garroted with twine dangled in haphazard bunches. There were bat wings preserved in oil and glass jugs of crickets. A stuffed boar’s head stared with marble eyes from one wall, while a goat’s carcass hung in a corner from a steel hook. Cassia turned away, her gorge rising.

She’d seen divination rituals performed by Court Seers over the years. Some used runes, some bones, others needed blood or raw meat for summoning spirits from the Netherwhere. Veleda tried a little of everything. She spent most of her time in these damp rooms rather than dispensing predictions from her raised seat of honor in the great hall. But she’d proven herself after her arrival from a tiny village to the north, offering more correct predictions than any Seer Scarhamm had ever had.

“What can I help you with, Cass?” Veleda asked, turning. She was a tall woman, strong of jaw and cheekbone, her full lips almost always curving up with a hint of mischief. Her eyes were a nebulous color, sometimes green, sometimes bronze. Though her face had few lines, it was hard to tell age among long-lived Sylvans. Even the king, whose great age wasn’t known—not even by his daughters—had few creases on his sun-weathered skin.

“I need to learn how to control the ring,” she said, the statement coming out more of a question than she’d intended.

“Is that all?” Veleda’s lips twitched. “I thought it would be something difficult.” She tossed some animal hides onto a table, revealing a chair.

Cassia eyed the chair, which must certainly have blood on it, before perching on its edge. “I know you’ve said that you can’t See everything. Some things remain obscure, as is the will of the Ancients. But there must be something else we can try.”

“Let me see.” Veleda looked around the room, as if for inspiration. “We’ve read every text we could find. We’ve used herbs, enchantments, and divination. We’ve summoned spirits. We’ve tested potions until my fingers turned green. Almost as green as your face when the healer gave you that purgative.” Her eyes twinkled at the memory.

Cassia grimaced. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“We even tried to find your mother’s tree to ask her.”

Cassia’s breath stopped short at the casual reference to her mother. No one mentioned the Sylvan queen lightly.

During the war, Queen Coventina had grown listless. Year after year, she’d weakened, finally becoming so ill, she’d needed to retreat to her tree for rest.

Every Sylvan had a tree. Both energy source and sanctuary, they served as places to heal and rest.

But Cassia didn’t even know where hers was, let alone her mother’s. From the time they were born, her father had forbidden his daughters to have a direct connection with their trees. She didn’t know why. She only knew the restless ache she’d felt for as long as she could remember.

That was what had led her into Thirstwood as a child, though it was a secret she had never revealed to anyone. When she’d first met Zeru, she had been searching for her tree.

Then she’d received the ring, and her life had changed forever. Everyone’s lives had changed. That was the part that lived inside her heart like a leaking poison. Her defiance had led to her mother’s illness. And to war. Every terrible thing that had happened in the past ten years was a result of Cassia’s own headstrong disobedience. Her childlike conviction that it wouldn’t hurt to follow her instincts. To search for the forbidden.

“Some things do not want to be known,” Veleda said, spreading her hands.

“Isn’t there someone else we can consult?” she asked, succumbing to that familiar ache in her chest. The secret hope that ending the war would bring her mother home. She would do anything.

Veleda’s eyes sharpened. “Who do you imagine knows the truth about your ring?”

At a loss for how to answer, Cassia glanced around the room, her eyes falling on what could have been a Dracu horn. “The Dracu queen, maybe?” As she said it, she warmed to the idea. “The night I got the ring, she didn’t call it the Solis Gemma. She called it the Dracustone. They must know more than we do. Maybe their Seers or some of the elders…”

Veleda held up a hand. “First of all, the Dracu queen will claim anything as her own, regardless of its origins or true name. If it’s in the Azpian realm, it’s hers. Second, how do you propose to ask her? A trip to the Cryptlands?”

Heat crept up Cassia’s neck. “Of course not.” No Sylvan went into the Cryptlands. At least, not if they wanted to come out. “What about summoning a Dracu spirit?”

The Seer chuckled, leaning her hip against her worktable. “Even if I did manage to summon one, it would be hostile to Sylvans and wouldn’t tell us anything. Nothing true, at any rate. I don’t have to tell you, it’s dangerous to have a hostile spirit in the room.”

That had happened once. One of the spirits had shaken the shelves, breaking half of Veleda’s glass bottles before she’d dismissed it. It had almost managed to break through the protective circle she had drawn around Cassia.

Cassia pressed her lips together and stared at the floor. There had to be a way.

Veleda sighed and her tone softened. “Your hopes torture you. If you could be content. The blast of light debilitates the Dracu for long enough that your Huntsmen can gain an advantage.”

“My Huntsmen?” Cassia repeated. “Surely they’re yours, too.”. . .