Throne of Nightmares

Book 3: Prince of Sin

by Kerri Maniscalco

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

“Beware of waking the gods, their dreams are often our nightmares...”

A book of dangerous magic draws two readers into a perilous quest to find it—and their own happy ending—in this action-packed standalone fantasy romance from New York Times bestselling sensation Kerri Maniscalco.

A prince who prefers games of the head to those of the heart.

Prince Sloth hates leaving his enchanted library, but when a forgotten deity threatens the very fabric of the Underworld, he’s thrust into a race against time. He must find the Book of Nightmares—an ancient artifact that has the power to break worlds—before it unleashes a deadly game to free its master, the Goddess of Night.  When a betrayal leaves him marked, and desperate, his path collides with a young woman who possesses the legendary Phoenix Tear—a portal stone unlike any other. 

A librarian who is all sweet sunshine…until she burns.

Lore Brimstone has always loved getting lost in a book—but she never meant literally. Yet, after visiting a traveling caravan, she quickly finds herself transported to a terrifying but oddly familiar world—with the worst, twisted prince at her side. Realizing they are living out her favorite novels one by one, they face off against an increasingly dark magic as they try to survive the story.

A twisted tale that means they can’t trust themselves—or their hearts.

As Lore and Sloth navigate the pages of her beloved novels gone wrong, she must channel her inner main character to defeat the Book of Nightmares before the wall between the gods and mortals comes crashing down, dooming them all.

Release date: February 10, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 384

Sample

I FUMBLED IN the dark, ungloved hands frantically roving across walls papered in tattered silk, cursing at the thick layer of dust marking my every move.

I might as well light a torch and wave it around for the Collector.

Perhaps he’d think me mad and look for less troubling prey.

I tucked that away as my last option, still hoping to escape this neglected manor the good old-fashioned way first: by jumping out a window and running for the woods. That always seemed to work in my favorite books.

Though maybe it was time to stop pretending I was in a mystery novel.

Stories had gotten me into this nightmare. It was a tall tale that drew me here in the dead of night, searching for my own adventure.

Foxglove Manor was supposedly haunted by the killer’s victims, and when the hunter moon rose, ushering in the harvest season, curious souls could spy the dead seeking revenge.

What the folktales failed to mention was the very real, very bloodthirsty murderer who still stalked these abandoned grounds, hoping mystery-loving fools ventured here alone.

How else might the infamous Collector harvest more souls to add to his collection?

Rain thrashed against the lone window at the end of the narrow corridor, sounding as frantic as my heartbeat.

I’d come upstairs because of the promise of freedom the window had offered, unaware that it perched too high to reach, its single eye impassively watching my attempt to cheat death.

I pushed against the solid wall, refusing to admit I’d found a dead end.

A single sconce without a candlestick seemed to mock me.

Or maybe it was trying to get my attention. Blessed, dusty thing.

I gave the misunderstood yet valiant candleless sconce a little tug, and chunks of plaster crashed to the hardwood in a loud, unmistakable invitation for the Collector to come kill me.

Why wasn’t there ever a secret lever when you needed one?

Maybe the old manor house was the true villain.

I drew in a deep breath, trying to ignore the walls of fate closing in.

Main characters always got out of trouble at the last possible second. There was an art to dramatic effect. One they perfected.

If only I could channel my inner heroine under duress.

At this rate, I’d be lucky to even be considered a side character. At twenty-four, I was about to die in some brutal, ritualistic death, and I’d only just entered this cursed manor house.

Thunder boomed menacingly, rattling the windowpane.

I couldn’t tell if the storm was trying to scare the life out of me before the killer arrived, or if it was just as upset about my soon-to-be violent ending.

I shook my head. I’d now reached the anthropomorphizing stage of denial.

A floorboard creaked on the stairs, followed by another.

Like any rational adult facing certain demise, I squeezed my eyes shut, debating my next move.

I could either pretend my fierce yet fluffy animal familiar had finally come to my rescue or admit that the dagger-wielding lunatic had caught up with me and I was as far from a main character with a magical sidekick as one could be.

Logic was so boring. No wonder I was doomed.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the hulking shadow of my stalker before plunging me back into darkness. He was here, he was inches away…

A rough hand clamped onto my shoulder, shaking me.

“Lore!”

I screamed, jolting upright… blinking as reality came crashing back and the book in my lap fell unceremoniously to the floor.

It took another long second to piece together what had happened.

I was still in the library where I worked.

Little half-eaten pastries, empty mugs of tea, and uncorked bottles of sparkling wine were scattered across low tables.

The monthly book club I hosted had met earlier tonight to discuss the first release in the Collector series, a thrilling murder mystery that featured a fearless heroine tracking a killer who’d attacked her twin in the opening installment.

It was all terribly brutal and thus thoroughly engaging.

My best friends, Blake and Agatha, offered to help me clean, but I’d sent them off so they could dive into the sequel.

I’d stayed behind to read one more chapter before locking up, and, well… one chapter quickly turned into ten.

I blamed the author for whatever addictive substance she’d woven into the story. It was like a delicious potato chip—eating one was simply out of the question.

I glared up at my brother.

“Gods’ blood, Fable. Don’t you ever knock? I was just getting to the good part.”

He gave me a bemused look. “It’s a public library. And we’re late.”

“Late for…”

“The traveling—”

“The traveling caravan!” I glanced at the clock and cringed. We still had some time to wander around, but we needed to hurry. “I completely forgot.”

“I figured. Blake stopped by and said I probably needed to drag you out of here.” He plucked my novel from the floor and shook his head at the title. “You started rereading Harvest Moon already?”

I snatched the book from his grubby paws and dusted it off.

“After our discussion tonight, I wanted to scan a few passages. I must have dozed off for a minute.”

A knowing smirk curved his lips. “You mean you and your cohorts were obsessing over the villain again.”

“Obsessing is a bit overstated.” I wrinkled my nose. “He’s just…”

“Dark, brooding, misunderstood?”

“Layered, you snob. He lives by his own moral code, killing the worst of society.”

My brother’s grin widened.

“You’re rationalizing violent, sociopathic behavior because his cheekbones are described as: ‘as sharp as the blade he wielded.’”

He wasn’t wrong, but, as the youngest sibling, I would never admit it on principle.

I placed the book back on its shelf and started quickly gathering up the discarded plates while Fable went for the empty mugs.

“Say what you will, but vigilante justice makes for exciting stories when it’s done well.”

“Because committing murder is such an admirable quality in a mate.”

I waved off his very logical response.

“No one wants to read about normal, well-adjusted people. They want the misunderstood villain with the sassy pet dragon. Tell me you’re not more intrigued by the man who will torch the world for his true love rather than sacrifice himself for the greater good. The first creates glorious tension; the second makes you bawl until you’re a snotty, distraught wreck, lying catatonically on your bed, staring at the ceiling while wondering when you became such a masochist. No one wants to watch their true love die a horrible, slow death, even if it’s honorable.”

My brother barked a laugh. “I would worry about you, but a sassy dragon is hard to beat.”

“You, sir, are a man of infinite wisdom, no matter what your fellow professors say.”

It was a dirty lie that had both of us grinning at each other.

My brother was wickedly intelligent, especially when it came to dissecting novels, and I adored teasing him.

He’d been away teaching at the most prestigious university on the island for the last few months, and I’d missed him and our lively debates.

It felt good to have him back, even temporarily.

Blake and Agatha never shied away from dissecting every book we read, but teasing my brother was one of my favorite pastimes.

Fable’s main area of study was the emotional impact of stories on mortals.

Like everyone in our family, he was just as obsessed with fiction.

Wholesome, good-natured. My brother looked the part of a storybook hero.

Dark hair, dark eyes. And enough easy banter to carry him through an entire narrative on his own. He had eligible men and women fawning over him, not that he ever seemed to notice. His first true love was reading.

I matched him in coloring but missed out on the leading-lady gene.

Unlike my brother, I had no horde of adoring suitors lining up.

Even with a name like Lore Brimstone, which practically begged for a dark, romantic adventure, I was doomed to never be a main character in real life for one insurmountable reason—I had no tragic backstory.

No dead or terrible parents.

No murdered sibling or dark family secrets.

No snarky animal familiar to speak with, mind to mind.

And—much to my constant dismay—no fated mate trying to strike a questionable bargain with me.

Just a bookish family who spent our evenings passionately discussing our favorite reads of the week over dinner.

Worst of all? We all loved one another. Fiercely.

With so much stacked against me, I accepted my lot in life as a secondary character destined for cat ownership, and that was that.

I liked cats and books, and honestly that wasn’t the worst fate.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true; I wanted to fall wildly, madly, wholeheartedly in love like the characters in my books.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t someone who fell in love easily, though. I only courted a few suitors, and while they were perfectly lovely, there was always something missing. I didn’t want to marry any man; I wanted the right one for me. Someone who loved me and my quirks, not despite them. The same way I wanted to adore who he authentically was at his core.

I grabbed my cloak from the peg on the wall and fastened it around my shoulders, preparing for the cool evening air.

Before I turned off the lights, I swept my attention around the little library, ensuring all was well for the morning shift.

The books were returned to the shelves, the chairs had been rearranged back into the seating section, and I’d put out the fire.

Satisfied everything was in place, I followed my brother out and locked up.

The library was nestled on top of a hill, surrounded by towering evergreen trees that stood so close together it was only accessible by foot.

We set off down the dirt path that led into the village center, and I inhaled the cold, salty breeze blowing in from the ocean.

Bellington was a small port town that was famous for… well, not much. But it was a quaint place that seemed to be taken directly from the pages of a novel.

My father shared old oral histories that claimed our island was magical, that travelers could come here from other realms, and that our time period was unique to us. If those stories were true, then Bellington could be replaced by other cities and places and all new inhabitants and none of us would be any the wiser.

Dimensions sitting on top of each other was a lot to take in, but my father loved unearthing more folklore about our home, and I’d always sit at our table, entirely rapt.

Other legends claimed this island could manifest any setting—from a Regency-era world complete with a king and queen, to a primitive world where mythical creatures roamed the shores and skies.

I’d certainly spent a lot of time looking for the impossible, especially since there were several stories from a few generations back where villagers were said to have manipulated the elements, but nothing was ever too notable.

Thus far, our little town was as normal as anything.

I had the opportunity to study in a larger city up north like Fable but loved the library too much to leave, even if I craved adventure.

My book club was filled with people who were as into the latest releases as I was.

Blake and I were both antihero-obsessed and didn’t care who knew it. And Agatha and I could talk for hours about our favorite romance tropes. The three of us spent an unhealthy amount of time theorizing about sequels and plot points, and sometimes we’d just spend all day reading in our separate corners, together but completely absorbed in our own worlds.

I worried that moving to a larger city would somehow feel less personal, though I knew Fable had found the opposite to be true.

Maybe I was just scared to take that first step into the unknown.

Across the way a crescent-shaped cove offered a stunning view of Mount Lyra, a forbidding summit superstitious locals rarely traveled to for fear of angering the old elemental gods.

A temple had been carved into the mountain, and while some out-of-town adventurers hiked there, I had no desire to venture into the space.

Not because of the old gods, but because of the rumors of dead bodies. The hike into the mountain was treacherous.

I glimpsed its snow-covered peak rising through the trees and clutched my cloak tighter, swearing it felt colder somehow, like the very land itself was seething over something.

Internally, I shook myself. The mountain wasn’t raging. I was probably crashing from too much sugar consumption tonight.

I silently vowed to not mix that many chocolate-covered raspberry jellies with wine again.

Everything in moderation, nothing to excess.

The sage advice from Father flitted through my head. For the most part I followed it, except where books were concerned.

I was a gluttonous little fiend when it came to devouring novels. Father supported that addiction, though, mostly because as a folklorist he suffered from it too.

In fact, our parents named us Lore and Fable because of their shared affection for those kinds of tall tales—loving fiction was my destiny.

If someone cracked me open, they’d find ink in my veins and stories in my soul.

Reading was transportive; the moment someone picked up a book they stepped into the characters’ journey, following them through battles and heartache and cheering when good eventually defeated evil and they found their hard-won happily-ever-afters.

Watching favorite characters overcome obstacles and never give up inspired real hope that transcended fiction.

If they soldiered on, even in the darkest of times, then so could we.

Through books readers lived a million lives and felt a million emotions. I adored them all, but romantic adventures were my favorites.

The tension, the impossibly high stakes, the yearning. The moment the characters stopped fighting their fate and gave in to their hearts.

I sighed dreamily at every declaration of love and kicked my feet like a giddy schoolchild.

I was a hopeless romantic, emphasis on hopeless.

I followed my brother’s careful steps and concentrated on not tripping over any roots as we descended the trail and the village proper slowly came into view.

Every time I rounded the corner and took in that first glimpse of the tiny wharf town below, I couldn’t help but smile.

Small rows of stone buildings with charming thatched roofs were stuffed together, forming a village square filled with family businesses.

There was a baker, a butcher, a cobbler, a dressmaker, and even a forge at the far end of the main road. When I was younger, I used to daydream about marrying the blacksmith’s son like the heroine in my favorite romance novel.

“What do you want to check out first: the tarot reader or candied apples?” Fable asked as we approached the edge of town and the caravans’ wagons came into view.

A hive of activity had sprung up in the hours I’d been at work; it looked like the entire village was out partaking in all the fantasy and fun the newcomers had brought.

My gaze skipped from one covered wagon to the next.

Acrobats in a rainbow of colors twirled around from ribbons they’d strung up between buildings, fire-eaters breathed flames from on top of whiskey barrels, where villagers stood riveted by the show and the scents of caramel corn and apples filled the air with the sweetest aroma.

I wanted to experience everything, storing all the magic and fun away to revisit in my memories during the long, cold winter that was fast approaching.

My attention skimmed down the long train of covered wagons that had rolled in, pausing on one that stood out from the rest.

It was older, shoddier, and from what I could see of the many glass jars lining the shelves inside it, looked to be selling items for spells.

The story lover in me went on high alert, and before I’d made the conscious decision, I was heading directly for it.

“Lore?” Fable called after me. “Where are you going?”

“Be right back!” I glanced over my shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the card reader!”

My brother mumbled something about things never changing and headed for the line. A strange thread of excitement tugged me deeper into the festivities.

I couldn’t help but wonder if something wonderful was about to happen.

I MADE MY way through the crowd, smiling at familiar faces as I edged around families and couples strolling through the square. The closer I got to the wagon, the more my skin prickled with an odd sense of foreboding.

When I finally arrived, there was no one tending to it.

“Hello?”

I peered up at the jars—this close I could clearly make out dried flowers that seemed to be tea and not occult items like eye of newt and preserved dragonfly wings.

I sighed. My imagination had gotten the best of me again.

There were no secret witches or grimoires or spell candles for finding my one true love. No enchanted pendants or rings. I could probably find an herbal mixture to relieve bloating the next time Father made his infamous beans, though.

I turned around, searching for Fable as the crowd surged toward the acrobats.

Fireworks lit up the sky, the sudden crackle and pop making me inhale sharply as I watched the embers rain down, then fade.

I thought of the mountain, that strange feeling of angry gods, and internally slapped myself.

I’d read one too many fantasy books.

The gods were fables meant to keep us in line, the mountain was like any other natural landscape, and I was wasting time being lost to daydreams instead of living in the moment.

I’d taken a step away when a warbled voice spoke behind me.

“Gift for the gifted?”

“Blood and bones!” I spun around, my hand pressed to my heart.

It thrashed like a fish caught on a line.

A tiny woman with silver hair and eyes took my measure. Her face was lined and weathered, matching the sound of her voice.

I placed her roughly between ninety and nine thousand.

An ancient aura settled around her, furthering my suspicion that my mind was working overtime tonight.

She wore a black hooded cloak and looked like she’d been plucked from the pages of a fairy tale. Except she was the wicked poisoned-apple-wielding character sent to make the heroine’s journey an epic disaster.

It was a good thing I’d resisted getting candied apples first.

Every internal instinct I had warned me to run. I tamped them down, not wanting to give in to my sugar-fueled imagination again tonight.

Maybe she was my fairy godmother in disguise.

It took another second to get over my surprise and process what she’d said.

“I’m not magically gifted, but thank you for the offer.”

Magic wasn’t unheard of here, but according to my father’s research and my own curiosity, it had been a long time since someone had wielded anything supernatural.

Feeling terrible, I motioned to the jar with dried petals.

“I would love to buy some tea from you, though.”

Her eyes narrowed as she followed my gaze, her head shaking slightly.

“You don’t want tea, girl. What you want is adventure.” She looked me over again, and I had the oddest feeling she could read my soul. “Are you ready to shed the mundane and live your dreams?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“Few want to work for it. And even fewer are brave enough to face their fears first. You think you are?”

If she wanted me to play along, I was game. “Brave enough to face my fears? Definitely, especially if that means I get to live happily ever after.”

“Good. You agree to see this quest through to its end?” she asked.

That escalated rather quickly—from facing my fears to agreeing to a random, mysterious quest—but since this was clearly hypothetical, I nodded. “I agree.”

A distant rumble of thunder shook the ground. I glanced around; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The old woman harrumphed.

“Take this. You’ll be needing this to get you on your way.”

With reflexes far faster than should have been possible, her hand shot out and icy fingers closed around my wrist. From her other hand, she dropped something smooth and cold into my palm, then closed my fingers around it.

I almost convinced myself it hummed against my skin.

“Hurry along, now.” She let me go and hobbled back. “He’ll be coming any moment. And forces of change rarely make things easy.”

My brows rose. That didn’t sound ominous at all.

“I’m sorry, but I think you have me confused with—”

“I know precisely who you are, Lore Brimstone. Now, focus on your quest and go.”

I subtly pinched myself to see if I was dreaming, then rubbed at the sore spot on my arm. I was definitely awake and now I’d have a bruise.

The woman looked like she wanted to smack me over the head, but her attention abruptly shifted behind me, her eyes widening.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She motioned to a silver pin I hadn’t noticed on her cloak.

If she expected me to recognize the sigil, she would be sorely disappointed. It looked like a sun wedged between two crescent moons that faced outward on either side. A sword speared down the center of the sun.

Something about it felt a little menacing.

“A friend.”

Before I could comment on it, her gaze grew distant before snapping back into focus.

“He’s here. And he’s ready to begin.”

Her voice fell to a whisper so low I almost missed what she’d said.

If it wasn’t for the fine hair rising along my neck, I would have thought I’d imagined it.

“Begin? I thought the quest was hypothetical. I don’t really want to—”

Heat rolled along my spine, like someone had locked me in their sights and was taking their time drinking me in.

Which was absolutely out of the question.

I slowly twisted in place, following that strange sensation if only to prove myself wrong.

My gaze scanned the crowd—acrobats, families, sugary treats, fire-breathers, the same as before. On second thought, that wasn’t quite right.

People were milling about with frothy mugs of ale now. I made a mental note to snag two before I met Fable at the card reader.

There wasn’t anything…

All at once I knew exactly who the old woman meant.

He strode into view, his gait long and confident, looking like the kind of man from generations past. Battle hardened, cold, his emotions locked away behind an impenetrable wall.

A dark cloak billowed out behind him, showing glimpses of the equally dark fighting leathers he wore beneath it.

His hood was drawn low over his face, covering all but his full mouth.

For a moment, all I could do was stare, my attention riveted to the mysterious man.

He had the square jawline given to all leading villains, and irrationally, I wanted to run my fingers over the pale stubble I could just make out.

His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, and without being too bulky overall, he looked muscular enough to toss a few hundred pounds without breaking a sweat.

I couldn’t even see his features, but there was something about him that made me stop and take notice—as if some long-forgotten instincts kicked on and alerted my brain to a primal need he could fulfill.

He was dangerous but would likely defend those he loved without mercy.

I gave him an appreciative look.

I’d put his talents to use and send him out to collect overdue library books.

I glanced up, wondering if I’d somehow fallen out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.

The man probably murdered without remorse and had a stash of bones he guarded like an ornery dragon with its treasure.

Only a fool would consider getting on his bad side.

Or even his good side.

He was trouble and not in the fun fictional kind of way. He was the kind of man who had an objective and didn’t stop until he’d reached it. And if someone got in his way, I had little doubt he’d crush them without hesitation.

My heart decided it was a wonderful time to beat twice its speed when he parted the crowd and continued walking as if he owned the road.

Men and women alike paused to watch him pass; even with his face hidden, he exuded raw masculinity mixed with power and animal grace.

He moved with purpose, with singular focus. An apex predator locked onto his prey.

I pitied the unfortunate soul who’d caused his ire.

I was so caught up in that strange intersection of both admiring and fearing him that it took much too long to realize he was coming straight for me.

I staggered back from the force of his attention and shot an accusatory look at the old woman. “Did you steal this pretty rock from that nice lethal-looking gentleman?”

She smiled wickedly. “No. But if I were you, I’d run along now, girl. He’ll take pleasure in the chase.”

“Or the kill.”

Her grin widened. “Same difference.”

“In what universe?”

She didn’t bother to respond.

So much for a fairy godmother; I’d gotten one straight from the bowels of hell.

And she’d sent a devil after me.

The stone in my palm pulsed, the heat unmistakable.

I glanced down—it was glowing.

Except it wasn’t emitting a bright shining light; it was dark and dangerous, with hints of red, like an ember slowly dying in a fire.

Or sparking to life.

Ribbons of shadows suddenly streamed out from it, winding up my arm.

They were oddly warm as they crisscrossed under my long sleeves.

For some inexplicable reason, I’d always imagined shadows being cold. They slithered higher as if amused by my thoughts.

My mind crashed to a halt at that.

Shadows couldn’t understand emotions; that was absurd.

Oh, gods. I must be in shock.

Having read so much, I thought I’d be more prepared to act swiftly if I ever encountered something paranormal. That was sadly untrue when faced with something so beyond any frame of reference.

My brain tried desperately to reason away the unreasonable.

Instead of throwing the stone or screaming or passing out, I watched, unblinking, as I tried to make sense of it all.

There was no way this was real. Rocks didn’t spew out shadows, and old women didn’t send people on quests to achieve their dreams.

And yet I didn’t think I was having a psychotic break… which was probably what everyone who’d experienced one thought too.

The shadows wound themselves tighter, almost like they were feeding off my growing alarm and becoming agitated themselves. The more I tried to calm my nerves, the more my pulse raced and the shadows writhed.

“Holy gods—”

In the next breath, what could only be described as a glittering portal yawned open, engulfing my arm entirely.

Now I couldn’t throw the damn stone if I wanted to; half of my body was just gone. Darkness swirled like an angry storm growing, enveloping more of me.

It all happened so quickly; I had no time to scream.

Someone grabbed my other arm, and the heat from where he’d latched on indicated exactly who’d caught up to me.

I wasn’t sure if I was grateful for his presence or not.

From somewhere far away my brother shouted my name, and before I could yell back, the stranger and I were suddenly ripped away from Bellington on a warm midnight breeze.

We fell, through time, space, and the gods knew where else, finally landing in a painful heap, with me flat on my back, on hard-packed earth.

Next to me, my homicidal companion didn’t make a sound.

Maybe his neck snapped in the crash.

I lay there, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the world to stop spinning. This absolutely couldn’t be happening.

Yet the physical pain hinted otherwise.

Maybe it was just a very vivid dream. I tried to think of the last thing that was normal before I’d met the fairy godmother from hell.

Fireworks had gone off. I exhaled slowly.

I could have gotten smacked in the head with an errant flare.

Rocks and pebbles dug into me as I shifted a little to see if I could move.

Nothing seemed to be broken, but it felt like I’d been torn into a million pieces, then crudely stitched together again.

I studiously ignored the fact that the village streets were hard-packed dirt in most places, or cobblestone, and they didn’t have any pebbles like the ones I was sprawled on. Reality was closing in hard and fast and I really needed a minute to come to terms with things.

I debated whether I should just stay there until I woke up.

There was no way any of this was really happening. Any minute now Fable would shake me out of this bad dream, and we’d laugh about it.

Two large hands settled around my waist, then unceremoniously hoisted me to my feet. My eyes snapped open.

He let me go so swiftly I almost thought I’d burned him.

He turned around, surveying our surroundings, and I caught the most unexpected smile on his face. Like this was all completely normal. And he was pleased.

Wonderful. I had a sociopath for a companion.

I drew in a sharp breath that had nothing to do with pain as I skimmed over the mercenary assassin who was now glaring at me and took in our new surroundings.

I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around what I was looking at.

I stared, unblinking, and tried to come up with any excuse that didn’t hint at magic. There was no way we’d fallen through a portal to a new world. And yet… here we stood, very clearly in a different, unfamiliar place.

This was not Bellington. That much I was certain of.

There was no hint of the ocean, no Mount Lyra, no crowded street.

We’d fallen onto a mountaintop in the middle of a vast range of mountains, with no signs of civilization for as far as I could see.

I focused on maintaining even breaths, or else I might begin to hyperventilate, and I did not want the stranger to know how scared I was.

Something cautioned me to treat him the way I would any