From Blood and Ash A Blood and Ash Novel

As the Maiden, the Chosen, Penellaphe's life is a gilded cage of solitude and suffocating duty. Veiled from the world, never to be touched or truly seen, she waits for the day of her Ascension. But a restless spirit stirs beneath the layers of white silk. By night, she slips on a simple domino mask and a borrowed cloak, seeking a few precious hours of freedom in the city's shadowed corners. In a notorious gambling den called the Red Pearl, amid whispers of a man found drained of blood near the dreaded Blood Forest, she seeks not trouble, but life itself - a taste of the world she is forbidden to know.

Her escape leads her to a darkened, private room, and into the arms of a man who mistakes her for another. He is Hawke, a new Royal Guard whose honey-gold eyes and caged-animal grace have already captured her secret attention in the castle halls. Before she can speak, before she can think, his mouth is on hers. The kiss is nothing like she has imagined; it is not sweet or soft, but hard and overwhelming, a claiming. “I don't know what kind of game you're about tonight,” he whispers against her lips, “but I'm willing to find out.” The encounter is a dizzying blur of forbidden touch and sharp, witty words that leave her breathless. He calls her Princess, his voice a low tease, and she feels a spark of connection she has never known. But when he discovers the wolven-bone dagger strapped to her thigh, their dangerous game is cut short by an interruption, leaving her to flee back to her lonely reality with the ghost of his kiss burning on her lips.

Life in Castle Teerman is a landscape of stark contrasts. By day, she endures the cloying presence of the Duke, a man of overly familiar hands and a thirst for punishment, and the sneering contempt of Lord Mazeen. But in the dead of night, she has another secret: a gift from the gods that allows her to feel the pain of others. With her personal guard, Vikter - the man who trained her to wield a sword and dagger - she slips out to offer dignity to the Cursed, those bitten by the monstrous Craven. In a cramped home thick with the sour scent of decay, she finds a dying Huntsman named Marlowe. Opening her senses, she takes his agony into herself, replacing it with memories of sunshine and sea-salted air, granting him a peaceful end before his body can twist into the nightmare that haunts the lands.

The shadows lengthen within the castle walls. A Lady in Wait is found murdered, her neck bearing two precise puncture wounds unlike any Craven bite. The growing sense of dread culminates in an attack in the Queen's Gardens. An arrow finds its mark, and Poppy can only watch in horror as her guard, Rylan, falls dead at her feet. When the hooded assailant comes for her, she does not scream or flee; she fights, wounding him before he is called off into the darkness. In the bloody aftermath, Hawke is assigned as her new personal guard. In a tense ceremony before the Duke and Duchess, she is forced to unveil. The Duke's cruel words hang in the air: “Half of her face is a masterpiece, the other half a nightmare.” But Hawke steps forward, his gaze unwavering as it takes in her scars. “Both halves are as beautiful as the whole,” he declares, sealing his vow not to the Maiden, but to *Penellaphe*.

The annual Rite, a ceremony giving the kingdom's second and third children to the service of the gods, becomes a stage for horror. Crimson banners hang in the Great Hall, a grim foreshadowing of the bloodshed to come. As masked nobles and commoners celebrate, the hall is besieged. Wolven-masked assailants fire arrows through the windows, and the panicked crowd becomes a stampede of terror. In the chaos, Poppy sees friends fall, their red gowns turning a deeper shade of crimson. The night's most gruesome discovery is made behind the dais: the Duke, impaled by his own punishing cane, hangs from a broken banner rod. Above him, scrawled in blood, is a chilling promise: *From blood and ash, we will rise*.

Trapped and surrounded, Poppy is forced to fight. The Maiden vanishes, replaced by a warrior as she wields a dagger against the attackers. But her skill cannot save everyone. She watches, helpless, as a Descenter's sword pierces Vikter's chest. His last words are a plea for forgiveness. “I failed you,” he rasps, and something inside her shatters. A volcano of grief and fury erupts, and she turns on Lord Mazeen, the Ascended who delighted in her suffering. The world narrows to the gleam of her blade and the sound of her own screams as she cuts him down, not stopping until Hawke's arms wrap around her, pulling her back from the carnage and into the welcome dark of unconsciousness.

Fleeing the massacre at Masadonia, Poppy is escorted toward the capital by Hawke and a small band of guards. The journey is a blur of cold days and colder nights. On horseback, held securely against Hawke's chest, a fragile intimacy blooms. They ride through the Blood Forest, a nightmarish landscape of crimson leaves and bone-littered ground, where they are ambushed by Craven. The fight is brutal, and another guard, Airrick, falls. As he lays dying, Poppy kneels by his side and uses her gift, taking his pain and filling his last moments with warmth and light. Phillips, another guard, witnesses the act. “It's true,” he whispers in awe. “You have the touch.”

Their arrival in the town of New Haven feels wrong. The welcome is too quiet, the smiles of the townspeople too knowing. Phillips confirms her fears. “This is a trap,” he warns her, believing Hawke and his friend Kieran are not who they seem. The confrontation happens in the stables. Phillips strikes, but Kieran is impossibly fast. As the blade slices into him, Kieran transforms, his body twisting into the massive, furred form of a wolven - a creature thought to be extinct. The ensuing fight is a whirlwind of flashing claws and bared fangs as Hawke reveals his allegiance, striking down his own men.

The betrayals cut deeper than any blade. Hawke is a Descenter. He is an Atlantian, a sworn enemy of the kingdom. As he stands over the bodies of the guards who trusted him, his lips peel back, revealing the fine points of fangs. He has played a long, patient game, orchestrating events from the shadows to get close to her. Every shared glance, every whispered word, every secret touch was a calculated move. The final, soul-crushing truth comes as he corners her, the man she knew as Hawke replaced by a dangerous stranger. “You're him,” she breathes, the pieces clicking into place. “You're the Dark One.”

His name is Casteel, he tells her, Prince of Atlantia. Everything she knows is a lie. The Ascended are not blessed, but cursed - vamprys who feed on the children given to them during the Rite. The Atlantians are not monsters, but a people fighting to reclaim their kingdom and free their true heir - Casteel's brother, Malik - who is held captive by the Queen. In a storm of rage and heartbreak, Poppy plunges a dagger into Casteel's heart. But an Atlantian cannot be killed so easily. He survives, and in the snow-dusted woods, he finally claims her, his bite a searing brand of pain and exquisite pleasure. He has saved her life with his blood, binding her to him in ways she cannot comprehend. As he holds her, he reveals his final, shocking intention. He is not taking her back to the capital. He is not using her only as a bargaining chip. “I'm taking you to Atlantia,” he declares, his golden eyes burning with an ancient fire. “We go home to marry, my Princess.”