prologue.
𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐀
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓, Isadora stares at the shadows dancing across her wooden floorboards from bolts of furious lightning. She’s always despised storms. Storms in the Celestine Isles build into full-force typhoons with the wretched humidity and stale winds. They don’t move. They just sit, and they seem to want to sit right on top of the Monteiro palace on the mainland of Edrana.
The thunder and lightning isn’t what truly scares her, though. These storms bring a dark presence that always sends a paralysing chill down her spine, one that haunts her even when she falls asleep.
It’s a reminder that he’s there, watching her, waiting for her guard to be let down.
Out of the corner of her eye, a hound prowls in the shadows, one descended from the bloody pits of hell. Plagued eyes track her gaze as the silhouette slinks behind her vanity, then her hope chest filled with linens and quilts from her grandmother. She almost shrieks out for her mother and father, but her voice strains behind the grasp of a hand over her lips.
It’s him and his beasts, muting her and feigning her powerless. It’s always him. He’s in her nightmares, stalking her, toying with her like she’s a marionette and tangling her strings.
Ever slowly, she turns her head to meet his hideous eyes—an oily sulfur black, a strange contrast to his golden locks. He’s beautiful in appearance, a beauty so sharp that it leaves nothing behind but fear.
They call him Rhimme, the god of darkness and death, the ruler of the night.
She extends her hand to use some of her magic to relight the dead hearth, knowing that light will forever be his detriment. Only in these storms can he make his rounds, otherwise the eternal light of Edrana shines too bright. The god snatches her hand and turns her skin to ice before the heat can break the surface.
Rhimme coos as if to calm her like a frightened little lamb. “I can make the storm end, Isadora,” he murmurs softly.
She shakes her head and closes her seafoam irises tight. It’s all a nightmare, and she’ll awaken soon. She must.
Rhimme combs a strand of her moonlit blonde hair behind her pointed ear, a lock so platinum it almost appears white. His nails scrape against her scalp, tugging at the strands and pulling them tight. She whimpers against his palm as a salty tear cascades down her cheek.
“There’s no need to cry,” he purrs against her pointed ear. “It’s not like we haven’t met before. Our paths cross every night, because what is great darkness without its counterpart?”
Isadora’s cries turn into nasty sobs. Ever since she was a little girl, she knew she was special. Her parents, the king and queen of Edrana, reminded her that she was born as their little miracle, the brightest star in the sky. She was destined for great things, because to them, she was everything that was pure and light. She was a teardrop from the heavens, a blessing that would pardon the cursed.
Rhimme continues. “A celestial ancient like you is unheard of, Isadora, but you and I…” He releases a toe-curling smirk. “We’re the strongest of them all. We would be unstoppable.”
Isadora shakes her head, this time fighting against the captivity of his fists. She’s so weak, so fragile, that she knows he could snap her like a twig.
“Come with me, Isa,” he whispers. “Come back to my sanctuary and burn this world to ashes.”
Her bedroom door snaps open, and her father’s light magic ignites her hearth with eternal fire. Golden firelight licks against the walls of her bedroom, and when she gazes upon the spot where Rhimme and his hounds once lingered, she finds them to be empty. Gone.
From that night on, she always sleeps with a candle beside her bed to keep the darkness away. And it worked for years, until one fateful day before the summer solstice.
She found a small candle flickering in the shadows, one her heart followed blindly until she was lost.
