The Second Son

Book 2: Betrayal Prophecies

by Adrienne Tooley

Genres: YA Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

An epic clash of deities explores the two facets of pain—rage versus sadness—in this rousing followup to The Third Daughter, a dark crown fantasy duology with a sweeping sapphic romance.

The centuries-old prophecy has been fulfilled at last: the New Maiden has returned to Velle. Unfortunately, so has a malicious demi-god, whose elusive prophet is intent on converting the New Maiden’s followers. The Second Son is a vengeful, angry deity, whose psalm resonates with the disenfranchised.

With Elodie on the throne and Sabine in her own unique position of power, it should be easy enough to track down the culprit. Yet even as they're falling in love, both girls are keeping dangerous secrets from each other. While the cult of the Second Son threatens to overthrow not only the Church of the New Maiden but also Velle’s monarchy, Elodie and Sabine must navigate impossible odds to dismantle the root of his power, all while their lives hang in the balance. 

The Second Son is a must-read for fans of:

• BookTok Romantasy
• ​Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard 
• These Violent Delights by Chloe Gong
• Friends to Enemies / Betrayal
• Slow Burn Romance / One Bed 

 

Release date: July 16, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 352

Sample

On the thirty-first day of Her Second Ascension, the wind shifted east, and the New Maiden gave a sermon on the bell tower’s front steps.

Sabine’s skin prickled beneath her elaborate robe. The expensive silk—hand-dyed in the New Maiden’s signature aubergine—rippled like water and shimmered like a jewel in the afternoon light. It was the finest thing she had ever worn. The fabric was light as a feather along her pale arms, the cuffs of her sleeves hand-embroidered with tiny white stars. The young woman who had stitched it, a member of the clergy in the Arts District, trembled when she handed the garment over to Sabine.

“I cannot believe the New Maiden stands before me.” The woman was only a few years her senior, the same age as Sabine’s older sister, Katrynn. Her deference made Sabine uncomfortable.

“We are not so different.” Sabine busied herself with admiring the delicate handiwork. “Thank you for sharing your gift with me.”

“No, thank you.” The woman looked up at her with wide, marveling eyes. “For coming back to us.”

Sabine did not know how to respond. She was constantly being thanked, praised, and extolled for things far outside her control. She had not asked to be born the third daughter of a third daughter. Her role as the New Maiden reincarnated was no more than happenstance.

Yet happenstance meant nothing in the face of a miracle. That miracle of her ascension, her public calling forth of the darkness, was the reason so many had gathered in the city square to hear Sabine speak.

“Maiden?” A gentle hand came to rest on Sabine’s shoulder. She turned to meet the soft gray eyes of Silas. “It’s nearly time.”

Silas was a bishop, returned from the small province of Adeya to run Harborside’s recently reopened house of worship. Tall and broad, her gray hair shorn short to reveal a striking, hawkish face, the woman was Sabine’s favorite member of the clergy. The bishop taught Sabine about the rites and responsibilities of her new role, introduced her to the Church’s hierarchy, even organized this inaugural sermon. The size of the crowd was a testament to Silas’s influence.

“I still can’t believe this many people want to hear anything I have to say.”

“Not you, Sabine,” Silas corrected her, gently. “The New Maiden.”

That’s right, Sabine could practically hear her darkness mutter. No one cares about you, only what you stand for. But the darkness was gone, absent from her veins, which now shone blue beneath her skin. The voice that had once haunted her every waking moment—infiltrating her judgment, suffocating her confidence, poisoning her actions—had gone silent, too. Her tears no longer held magic—now, they were nothing but salt. Where the people of Velle believed the New Maiden to be rife with magic, wisdom, and power, in truth, Sabine had never been more ordinary.

Her followers were too busy clamoring for her attention to notice. The city had welcomed an influx of worshippers desperate to meet Sabine’s iteration of the New Maiden. They intercepted her on the street, fell to their knees, begged for her blessing. Doubt bloomed like belladonna as Sabine received accolade after accolade. It was only a matter of time before the world realized she was a fraud.

Her family’s arrival in the city square was a welcome relief. Katrynn, Artur, and their mother pushed their way to the front of the spectators. While she was under no illusion that the Queen of Velle had time to attend a sermon in the square, Sabine scanned the crowd for Elodie anyway.

The only Warnou present was the third daughter: Brianne. Sabine had not seen her since the girl had awoken from her strange sleep. Even though she’d returned to the realm of the living, Brianne still looked peaked, her skin waxy and her corn silk hair limp. Some of Sabine’s own exhaustion was reflected in the eyes of the youngest Warnou. She wondered if Brianne, too, was haunted by the urgent warning she’d delivered to Sabine: Your time will be short and the fall will be far.

A few paces behind the princess was a much less desirable face: Tal’s.

Their few interactions had left the New Maiden with little fondness for the Loyalist. Tal seemed a haughty, entitled boy whose easy relationship with the Queen of Velle set Sabine on edge. His eyes were always on Elodie, his lips always close to her ear, a gnat impossible to swat away. While she trusted the queen implicitly, Tal was pretty, as far as boys went. Sabine feared his words were as sweet as rotting fruit, that he might poison Elodie’s affections away from her.

As though he could sense her scrutiny, Tal’s green eyes met hers. A chill shot down the New Maiden’s spine. His expression was coolly calculated, composed as a seasoned gambler. Sabine was the first to look away.

Her white-robed clergy lined the square’s perimeter. The Royal Chaplain’s purple sash glittered in the sunlight even as he scowled. His fingers twitched as though itching to ascend the makeshift pulpit and command the crowd himself. But his days of speaking on behalf of the New Maiden were long gone. Now Silas stepped forth to quiet the crowd and introduce Sabine.

They had practiced this sermon many times, Silas conducting Sabine like a sonata, reminding her when to breathe and where to pause dramatically. Speak from the heart, Silas reminded Sabine. Her heart. But every time Sabine reached inward for inspiration, she returned empty-handed. Yes, she had exorcised the darkness from her veins, but it had not left her joyful or free. She had instead fallen victim to the staggering weight of numbness. Adrift in the endless abyss of feeling nothing at all.

“I welcome you,” Silas called warmly to the crowd. “As She does. I welcome Her, as you do.” She gestured to her left. “The New Maiden.”

Sabine ascended the steps. The new angle offered her a pleasing perspective: The crowd below her was united by hope. Sabine’s trajectory from Harborside girl to reincarnated deity was proof that a person born to nothing could one day achieve greatness. She was proof that the New Maiden had kept Her promise to return, proof that goodness and righteousness prevailed amidst the uncertainties of life.

It did not matter if Sabine did not feel like the New Maiden. To them, she was.

That knowledge gave her the confidence to speak.

“Citizens of Velle,” Sabine shouted, and the crowd roared in response, “friends from afar, I welcome you today, to this place where I was made, where you witnessed me call forth the darkness and then banish it. I am as She was—as She shall always be. The New Maiden’s word”—Sabine paused as Silas cleared her throat pointedly, then adjusted—“my word is a light in that darkness. Trust in me, for my promises are always fulfilled. Follow me, for I will brave the first step down every path. Depend on me, for I am yours.”

For hours after her remarks, Sabine was surrounded by a clamoring throng. None were willing to leave without a personal blessing from the New Maiden, and by the time the city’s square had emptied, the sun hovered on the horizon. Pink and gold painted the sky as night crept nearer.

Sabine and Silas returned to Harborside in silence, save for the squawking of seabirds and the shouting of dockhands. The bishop was well attuned to the New Maiden’s mood, never asking for more than Sabine could give. A rarity these days when everyone wanted something from her.

Harborside came alive when the stars began to wink down from above. Silas and Sabine walked the crowded cobblestone streets, past boisterous taverns and raucous gambling dens. Boarded-up buildings were plastered with flyers, the salt from the sea curling the corners of the parchment.

“A day of virtue, an evening of vice,” the bishop noted solemnly, as they passed the open door of a gambling hall. Inside, Sabine spotted a familiar face, confounding in this context. Tal had exchanged his Loyalist reds for an ensemble of black. His hands were busy folding a piece of parchment.

His presence was unsettling. There was no reason for him to wander the seedy underbelly of Harborside, and certainly not without the protection offered by his Loyalist uniform. Sabine nearly called his name, but just as before, Tal’s head jerked in her direction without prompting.

Their eyes met, and again, a chill slithered down Sabine’s spine. Tal’s mouth twisted into a nearly imperceptible frown. This time, he looked away first, furtively sliding the scrap of parchment into his pocket before vanishing into the crowd.

Sabine hardly noticed when they arrived at the front door of her family’s apartment, so flummoxed was she by Tal’s presence in her neighborhood.

“Well done today, Maiden,” Silas said, gently untangling her from her reverie. “You shone as brightly as I expected.”

“Thank you, Silas.” Sabine offered the bishop a modest smile. It was quite the compliment, coming from someone who had been committed to the New Maiden’s word longer than Sabine had been alive. Still, she was not entirely certain she deserved it.

She bid the bishop good night and pushed her way inside. She took no more than two steps before sinking to the floor with exhaustion, ready to sleep on the hard wood, no pillow or quilt required.

“All right there, Bet?” Her younger brother sounded amused.

“Fine, thanks, Artur,” she mumbled, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Bet, get off the floor,” Katrynn said. “If you’re hungry, I made soup. It’s mostly broth, but—”

“Sabine.” It was the use of her real name that finally caused her to open her eyes. Her family was gathered around the table, expressions grim. Sabine sat up straight, exhaustion forgotten.

“What’s the matter?”

“Why don’t you come sit.” Orla Anders patted the empty chair beside her.

“What’s happened?” Sabine spun through endless horrible scenarios. “Is it Da?”

Artur produced a piece of parchment, folded several times over, nearly identical to the one Tal had pocketed. “Found this on a craps table in the Faceless Fox this afternoon.” He passed the document over to his sister.

On the page was a penciled portrait of a moth, the insect’s body bulbous like a maggot, its wings outstretched and spotted, antennae pointing up. Why depend on Her, the poster read, when you could shine with Him?

Sabine didn’t need to wonder who He was. Sebastien. The Second Son, twisting words from the New Maiden’s own sermon to mock her.

“The posters are all over,” Artur continued, voice pained. “On building walls, at the bar, in the toilets, even.”

In the hands of her least favorite Loyalist, too, if her suspicions were correct.

“He’s coming,” Sabine said flatly. It wasn’t a question. The words Brianne spoke in her incense-clouded bedroom floated again to the forefront of Sabine’s mind. He will hold the faithful in His iron grip, and Velle will fall at His feet. “This isn’t a warning.” She swallowed thickly. “It’s a promise.”

The apartment was silent as a cemetery.

“I don’t like this, Sabine,” Orla Anders said. “Not one bit.”

Sabine tried to smile, but her cheeks ached with the effort. There were no words of comfort to offer her mother.

“You should take this to the queen,” Katrynn suggested. “Elodie will know what to do.”

“No.” The word was too loud amidst the fretful quiet of the tiny room. Her family frowned at her dismissal. “The queen has plenty on her plate,” Sabine backtracked quickly. “She doesn’t need another thing to worry about. Not until we have a better sense of the threat.”

Her family’s troubled expressions indicated they did not agree. But Sabine held fast. As the New Maiden, she could not allow herself to appear undermined already, not when Elodie had established herself as a generous, competent queen. Sabine wished to be a twin pillar, not a drain on the crown’s resources. She was the head of the Church now. This was her problem, no one else’s.

“I wonder why a moth.” Sabine’s mother frowned down at the page. “They’re pests. Leave holes in all my best sweaters.”

“Because they fly?” Artur suggested. “They can ‘rise above’?”

Sabine stared down at the sketch, unease brewing in her stomach. She’d never paid much attention to the pesky insects fluttering uselessly in the dark, desperately seeking flames.

Understanding dawned on her. “It’s because moths are drawn toward light.” The Second Son’s light.

It was a credo diametrically opposed to her own. Where the New Maiden urged her followers to uncover the brilliance within, the Second Son claimed He shone bright enough alone.

Sabine waited for the slippery voice in her ear to chime in with its usual nihilism. Instead, there was only silence. Its absence was a chasm.

Still, as Sabine refolded the parchment and tucked it into the pocket of her robe, she allowed herself the faintest sliver of relief. The poster’s words held a familiar, cynical air, as though her darkness had expelled its judgment outward, onto posters hung in public spaces.

It was a dark comfort to know that the Second Son doubted Sabine almost as much as Sabine doubted herself.

The next day, Elodie rose before the sun. The hours when the sky still clung to midnight, evading the efforts of impending dawn, were the only time the Queen of Velle managed to find a moment’s peace. As a child, Elodie had observed her mother’s reign with scrutiny. Why, she had wondered, did Tera Warnou have no time for anything but her job?

The answer, Elodie had recently learned, was because the demands of the throne were all-consuming and never-ending. She entertained nobility in between slurps of soup, waved to babies on her way to sentencings, composed speeches while she reviewed bank statements and forecasts of export numbers.

There were so many demands that Elodie could not help but feel as though no one wanted the queen to actually accomplish anything. If she sourced labor or materials from artisans outside Velle’s capital, the masons in the Manufacturing District stopped repairing the city’s potholes. When she lowered the cost of grain to make food accessible to all economic strata, the accountants in the Commerce District had lectured her extensively about this disruption to Velle’s currency, the kelber.

Even her breakfast was consequential. Marguerite, her lady-in-waiting, arrived every morning at six bells with a tray containing the same spread of fruit, nuts, and cheese.

If Elodie refused the fruit, she slighted the farmers of the Second Republic, whom Velle depended on for imports of citrus, berries, and greens. If she asked for ham instead of cheese, she insulted the dairy farmers of Vyen and offered undue recognition to the butchers of Lower Dale, which, according to the fine print of a decades-old treaty, was not allowed so long as she wished her army to have access to the road that led to the Fifth Republic.

Elodie had not expected absolute power and privilege to come with so many restrictions. The constant niceties and politicking left her exhausted, but there was very little time in a sovereign’s itinerary for sleep.

Marguerite had just finished pouring her tea when there came a knock at the queen’s chamber door. Elodie scowled, her time alone cut even shorter than usual. “Enter,” she called, already irritated with the person on the other side.

“Oh, good,” she said brightly, when she saw the subject of her ire. “Someone I don’t have to pretend to be nice to.”

Tal let out a good-natured laugh and settled himself on the settee opposite Elodie. He gestured to a cube of cheese. “May I?”

She nodded through a sip of tea. “Please. I can hardly stand the sight of it.” She sighed, loud and long. “I never imagined it was possible to resent cheese.”

“That’s the price of power, Majesty,” Tal said, shaking his head.

Elodie dipped a dried plum in honey, the sugar tense between her teeth. “Some days, I’m not certain it’s worth the cost.”

Tal considered this. “I think,” he said finally, “that anything worth doing will always feel just a little bit like a sacrifice.”

Elodie knew all too well what he meant. Once, she would have delighted in this image: Tal a decorated Loyalist, she the queen. Their closeness would have been a boon, not a burden. But that was before Brianne’s warning had confirmed Tal’s starry-eyed promises: The Second Son, whoever He was, would be the New Maiden’s downfall.

Tal’s devotion to this Second Son pitted him firmly against Sabine. Yet in order to disentangle His threat, Elodie had to pretend as though she didn’t care, had to behave as though Tal’s presence in her chambers was casual rather than curated.

The Loyalist nudged her foot with his. “What’s on the agenda today, Majesty?”

Elodie reached for her teacup. “The usual. Opening an orphanage in the Arts District. Entertaining the nobility who control Velle’s drinking water supply. Drafting a letter to the King of Vathi. Reading a letter from my accountant. Finding someone in this castle who can translate the letter from my accountant into something I actually understand.”

Tal chuckled. “Rob was always good with numbers, wasn’t he?”

Elodie’s mood darkened at the mention of her brother. Ever since her coronation, Rob had been noticeably absent, locked in his room day and night, composing somber concertos that included heavy percussion and tolling bells. Elodie had tried to call on him, but he refused to speak to anyone who was not Tal, rolling his eyes at his sister’s every inquiry.

“That boy is a thorn in my side.” She leaned back against the couch.

“He’s…” Tal looked thoughtful. “Going through something.”

“And I’m not?”

Tal bit back a smile. “It’s rather different, I think.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” Elodie said dryly. “Because he won’t speak to me, or answer any of my summonses. I don’t even know if he’s planning to show up for the orphanage opening, even though I invited him days ago and it will be difficult to explain to the parentless children why the prince couldn’t be bothered to show up and bring them any toys!”

Tal flinched but recovered quickly. “Temper, Majesty.”

Her face flushed. “Apologies,” she said shortly. “You must find me most disagreeable.”

“On the contrary.” He straightened his shoulders, the gold chain around his neck glittering in the morning light. “There is nothing you could do to make me believe so. You are a wonder, Lo. Even when your cheeks bloom with rage.”

Elodie squirmed beneath the force of his earnestness. Tal’s feelings for her had always toed the line between friendship and flame. Her heart ached for what she could not offer him, and thus for years she erred on the side of suggesting hope, so that she would not have to watch him break.

Perhaps now, she might use that to her advantage.

“You flatter me,” she said, reaching over to swat his knee. “I don’t know what I’d do without you to keep me in line.”

Surprise tiptoed across his face. He leaned forward, grinning. “Someone’s got to.”

“Pray tell, what might it take for me to convince that someone to wrangle Rob for me?” She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I wouldn’t ask, only you know he loves you more than he does me.” She bit her lip. “Can’t say I blame him.”

Tal cleared his throat, ears reddening. “You know that I am always at your service, Lo.”

She smiled through her unease. Her mother had touted manipulation as a queen’s most tactical weapon. It was only right she should practice wielding it.

“Make sure he wears something green,” she called after Tal. “If he won’t act like a member of the family, the least he can do is dress in Warnou colors.”

At seven bells, Cleo arrived with an armful of dresses, an exhausted-looking Brianne in tow. Elodie winced at the sight of her youngest sister. Brianne’s cheeks had lost their rosiness, and dark bags had developed beneath her eyes.

“Bri, sit down.” Cleo ushered the youngest Warnou onto a stool and started fussing with her hair. “El, I brought the dress you wore for Mother’s birthday last year,” she said through a mouthful of hairpins. “It’s in our color, and the skirt is slim enough you’ll have no trouble getting in and out of a carriage. You won’t look foolish, nor too rich in the face of scarcity.”

“Wonderful thinking, Cleo.” Elodie was grateful for her middle sister’s machinations. Cleo ensured that the queen always looked elegant and appropriate for events, and she never forgot a single name.

Elodie had just stepped in. . .