Page 3 of Ruin of Revenants

Maris watched as the phoenix shifter numbers dwindled. Watched as Prince Archer grew up, adored by a kingdom who viewed him as both their powerful protector and their charismatic golden male. He was dedicated to wiping out the phoenixes they reviled, but he was also dedicated to a good bottle of wine, a conversation filled with laughter, and a revel seeking all manner of pleasurable magic, refreshments, and company. Unlike his father, he was handsome and charming, and the people wanted to follow him. If part of that was due to the way his magic influenced their feelings, the fae were none the wiser. They only knew he wasn’t terrifying like his father.

But Maris also watched Isoria Gildmere grow in her safe haven tucked away in the Cinderwood. Isoria cherished her peaceful way of life among her loved ones and showed no sign of wanting to pursue her prophecy. Indeed, she was forbidden to leave the borders of their village, and she never tested that limit.

Slowly, Maris grew bored. She conjured visions in the smoke of more flames fueled by logs and bones and other unspeakable things. It continued to shift, but it still showed the same two possible outcomes: either Isoria would destroy the royals, or Prince Archer would destroy the phoenixes.

“Something must happen to draw them together,” Maris muttered to herself angrily.

And then, it did.

Something made Maris summon a sight of a distant, half-forgotten village tucked away on the far northern border. Of the tiny graveyard there, sitting still in the moonlight. Palm fronds waved in the breeze at its edges. Frogs croaked. Somewhere, a snake slithered through the shadows.

A sound made the earth shudder. A pale, dirt-encrusted fist punched through the freshly turned earth of a new grave.

A female tore out of the earth, her eyes blank and soulless, flesh colorless. The gaping wound that had stolen her life—one that Maris knew, without having to see it, had been the result of a battle with greedy goblins, still marring her chest. She walked with grace and strength, her bare feet weaving a confident path back toward the home she’d shared with a sleepless husband within.

She pounded on the door, and he answered.

Confusion, hope, terror—those were his last feelings.

The royal message keeper, a light-wielding fae who could see events happening across the kingdom and keep the king advised, frantically requested an audience with him that morning. Taking breakfast with Princess Briar and Prince Archer, King Wystan looked utterly annoyed until he saw the wide-eyed terror in Liana’s face. Her voice wobbled as she shared her news.

“The dead are rising.”

Chapter One

Archer

The Cursed Bog reeked of blood, death, and despair. When I reached up to wipe at a crusty, itching patch on my cheek, my hand came away wet with mud and gore that wasn’t my own.

Everything in me ached with exhaustion, and my well of magic was all but depleted. Scanning the swamp that had become a battlefield, my earlier optimism melted into the ache of grief.

We’d won—but at what cost?

The cries of the wounded and dying stabbed me with guilt. I’d failed them. I was the one who’d rallied my regiment with cries of confidence and bravery. The one who’d promised them we would save Emberglade. The one who’d so wrongly believed this would be...easy.

“Your Highness.” The healer was an older fae with facial hair beginning to show its first streaks of grey among the black. In the chaos of the aftermath of battle, I’d never even caught his name. “We’re losing the wounded—and fast. We’ll have to move them to drier ground and burn them.”

Though the revenants couldn’t be wounded by fire once they rose from the dead, we’d found out that burning anyone who’d recently died prevented them from becoming a revenant. Unfortunately, beheading the bodies did not work, even though that was the only way to stop them in undead form.

My eyes flicked to the thick clouds gathering overhead, promising another bout of the wet season’s heavy rains.

“Archer!” Owen Stormveil, Captain of the Guard and one of my closest friends, cried across the battlefield from where he knelt beside another injured fae. Lily Starblood, daughter of our Chief General, was nearby, her eyes red-rimmed from all the loss we’d already witnessed today. “We need a healer.”

I cursed as the male at my side rushed to their aid, and I trailed him.

When I reached the spot my friends were, I knelt beside the first soldier, who was lying in a pool of his own blood. The light was already fading from his eyes. My stomach twisted. It was too late for him.

I didn’t know the soldier’s name, but he turned to me in recognition, his voice cracking. “I have a wife and children, Your Highness. Could you…please see that they are safe. Cared for. Please?”

He sighed his final breath before I could respond, his gaze settling on some unknown point over my shoulder.

“We have to burn him,” Owen muttered, echoing what the healer had already warned me about.

Again, I cursed. Despair threatened to seize me in its claws, but I shook it off. Later, I’d give myself a moment to grieve our losses, and then I’d pretend to drown the pain with more gold wine than an entire court could consume. “Gather the supplies. See if there are any other able-bodied soldiers available to help move the bodies to drier land.”

My eyes settled on a nearby wounded female, preparing to go to her and comfort her with my magic. It was the least I could do.

Owen dipped his head, and he and Lily ran for help while the healer darted toward another wounded soldier. Apparently the healer had determined the two near me were lost causes.