Every 25 years, the empire of Sivka is born again as magic dies. Who will survive the chaos?
The Imperator. During the Luncycle, alkhemy reigns supreme. But every quarter-century, the miracles brewed from the blood of alkhemists vanish. None benefit more from the upheaval than the cruel Imperator.
The Alkhemist. An ambitious girl who will do anything to save herself from an illness only the Philosopher’s Stone can cure. Unfortunately, the one Stone known to exist belongs to the Imperator.
The Boy King. A young man raised on the memory of his family’s slaughter. Desperate for revenge, he intends to overthrow the Imperator and reclaim his throne.
The Prophetic Sister. An idealist who only wants to keep her family safe, she and her sister join the boy’s revolution in pursuit of the Stone, risking their lives — and hearts — in the process.
For when the Suncycle dawns one year from now, they will all bleed red.
A story that subverts tropes and bridges the gap between Epic Fantasy and Romantasy. Ideal for readers who were obsessed with Little Women, Anastasia, and Swan Princess as kids, but enjoy the twists, turns, and occasional brutality of Game of Thrones as adults.
Every 25 years, the empire of Sivka is born again as magic dies. Who will survive the chaos?
The Imperator. During the Luncycle, alkhemy reigns supreme. But every quarter-century, the miracles brewed from the blood of alkhemists vanish. None benefit more from the upheaval than the cruel Imperator.
The Alkhemist. An ambitious girl who will do anything to save herself from an illness only the Philosopher’s Stone can cure. Unfortunately, the one Stone known to exist belongs to the Imperator.
The Boy King. A young man raised on the memory of his family’s slaughter. Desperate for revenge, he intends to overthrow the Imperator and reclaim his throne.
The Prophetic Sister. An idealist who only wants to keep her family safe, she and her sister join the boy’s revolution in pursuit of the Stone, risking their lives — and hearts — in the process.
For when the Suncycle dawns one year from now, they will all bleed red.
A story that subverts tropes and bridges the gap between Epic Fantasy and Romantasy. Ideal for readers who were obsessed with Little Women, Anastasia, and Swan Princess as kids, but enjoy the twists, turns, and occasional brutality of Game of Thrones as adults.
Remembering is hard — like trying to read a letter after the ink has spilt. Drips and drabs and scattered meaning. But I try. I press my palms to my eyes until they’re throbbing, and try.
The room stank of blood. I was a child then, but I knew the stench. I’d seen a pig slaughtered once and this wasn’t much different. The squeals, the pops of flesh. The heat. It was no wonder the guard’s hand slipped on my throat. As a man grown, I now recognize the war in the guard’s eye. Duty or conscience? In the hesitation, I snuck away. The guard carried on.
He’ll be an old man now. Retired to the capital, grown fat with his jolly wife. He’ll have watched his grandchildren play at his feet, licking salt beef from his fingers. Maybe he’s taken time for the theatre and learned to appreciate the ballet. But I do not care.
I do not care about the grandchildren, or the jolly wife, or the guilt. I don’t even care about the mercy. When the time comes, the guard will die like Papa — wide-eyed and eager. Like Mama, a rope of red around her throat. Like my brothers, their chests flailing. My sisters — the oldest, Tasya, on a spear; or baby Amaliya crushed beneath a boot.
When the time comes, the guard will die with his masters.
And I will remember every bit of it.
An unexpected return: 350 days to the Suncycle
The boat appeared on the horizon exactly as Nadya had dreamt it.
True, she had seen Danika’s coming in the clear night, the planet of Mercia burning high and bright above — and presently, the sky was a muggy gray, clouds bloated with rain. In the dream, Nadya had worn a thin white shift. Shards of ice pebbled along her face and arms, skin a cage — fragile and dangerous as a layer of frost over a still pond in Wetwinter. Her hair hung limply down her back, nearly transparent in the moonlight; and she clung to the edge of the emerald cliffside, toes curling into the damp grass as if Baba Yaga herself was about to shove her into the solid black waves yawning below.
Currently, however, Nadya stood solid — buffeted against a warm westward wind. Her legs and arms banded in cotton strips. Her usual tunic and apron tied tight around her waist. Hair tucked snugly into a knot at the back of her neck.
But so far as Nadya was concerned, such differences between dreams and reality, Above and Below, mattered little in the turning of the world. There was only one thing that mattered. One thing she knew for certain — her sister was coming home.
The Swansea churned beneath the approaching skiff, as impenetrable to outsiders as steel plate to a dull spear. But Danika was a Kotov, and like all people who lived upon these waters, the tide would bring her in.
Nadya locked her knees, resisting the urge to race down the rocky incline to meet the boat. Mama had called Nadya’s errand foolhardy — clucked her tongue and pursed her lips when Nadya told her of the dream that had woken her before dawn. “Don’t let that girl disappoint you again, Nedeshda,” Mama had said, delicate hands turned brutal as she chopped turnips for the evening stew.
After all, Danika’s return was not expected for another thirty days — thirty days of which Nadya would have counted every one. But as the vessel navigated the razor-sharp shore and nestled into its cove, as Danika crested the hilltop and emerged between two prickly bramble hedges, as she joined Nadya at the top of the northernmost peak of the isle they called home, Nadya was grateful to have ignored Mama’s naysaying just this once.
A fine mist clung to the hem of Danika’s alkhemist’s coat. Made of whitefishskin, it shone pearly in the gray light. A leather rucksack dangled from one shoulder, and her hair, a darker blonde to Nadya’s light, had been cut to just below her chin. Nadya closed the short distance between them and pressed a kiss to Danika’s cheek. She smelled of salt-air and fire.
“I dreamt of your coming,” Nadya said.
Danika’s face twisted, brow wrinkled. Nadya kissed that too — just to irritate her.
Whatever Mama or Danika’s doubts, Nadya was not swayed. The essence of her dream had been true. Her sister had returned. The only question remaining was why.
Fear bounded in her throat and she scanned Danika with a sharper gaze. “You have returned too soon. Are you ill?”
Danika’s face was flushed, but not feverish. She was tall and thin as ever, but not starved. Her gait seemed steady — it would have to be to climb all the way to the isle’s peak. There was no obvious cause for alarm, save the blank irritation on her face at Nadya’s pestering.
“I am perfectly well,” Danika said sharply. “Though stifling hot. Summer is long over, is it not?”
“Tell The Mother. She does not set herself by the Volodyan Calendar.”
“If only we could all be so fortunate.” There was an ache in Danika’s voice. Nadya struggled to find some words of comfort, knowing they would be in vain. There was no stopping the Cycle, and few would suffer its results more keenly.
"You have the Celestial Fire. Some would call that very lucky indeed,” Nadya said, taking Danika by the wrist. She ran her thumb along the vein, where a shimmer of a silver-white glowed beneath pale skin. “If you are not ill, why have you come?”
Danika snatched her arm away and started up the gravel path carved between two high rocks. “My instructors sent me back early to finish my final work. It can be done just as well here as from Izumgray.”
The narrowness of the lane forced Nadya to keep a step behind. Their turfhouse had the finest view on the Von, but the steep climb to and from the shore ensured they paid for it. “How soon will you have to go back?” Nadya queried.
Danika stumbled and caught herself on the outcropping.
“Nika?”
“It is nothing. This coat is ill-suited to the weather. I will have to change into my linens.”
“I have never seen you so eager to shed your coat — whatever the weather. Your first Autumn back from Izumgray, Mama had to force you to take it off to sleep.”
“I have little need of it on the Isles. I will have no need of it at all soon enough. Why not accept the inevitable?”
Nadya focused on the sharp line of Danika’s shoulders. She knew her sister better than anyone, considered it her honor to be the only one among the family who could see past the mask, honed and hard-won as it was. And with as much certainty as Nadya had known Danika would return home early, she knew that Danika was lying now.
Nadya grabbed Danika’s shoulder and swung her around. “What has happened? It is not like you to give up before the end.”
“What can be done in a year, Nadya?” Danika’s voice echoed hollowly. A pair of hawks cawed to each other overhead. They swooped perilously close to the clifftops before darting away again. “What can I do to delay the inevitable? The Suncycle will come, and with it, alkhemy will vanish. Everything I have worked for, everything I hoped to achieve, everything I am… will be gone.”
“Alkhemy is not all that you are.”
Danika stared flatly back at her. None of them knew for sure what a life without alkhemy would look like. It had been twenty-four years since the last Suncycle. Nadya and her siblings had only ever lived under The Mother’s moon — the Luncycle — the life with alkhemy.
She had heard the stories, of course. The disease, the poverty, the longing for another quarter-century to pass. It affected all of Sivka and the Kotov Isles — even those without the gift of the Alkhemical Flame. Perhaps it affected those most of all. It was a dark time, despite its moniker. Not even Nadya could find a reason to look forward to it — and she did not have nearly so much to lose as Danika.
Nadya shifted her hold to the back of Danika’s neck. “You will not give up your coat, Danika. Promise me. Not yet.”
“There is something I should tell you—”
“It can wait. Your promise cannot.”
Danika took in a breath, meeting Nadya’s gaze directly for the first time since she had come ashore. Her stormy blue eyes to Nadya’s cool clear ones — the sea and the sky, as Papanik called them.
“I promise, Nadya. I will not give up.”
Fragrant white blossoms still teemed on the turfhouse roof despite the approaching Autumn. Zin and Mikhail sat crouched in the dooryard around a patch of bare earth, cups in hand, dice scattered in the dirt.
As Nadya pushed through the wattle-gate, its creak caught their attention. Their heads popped up in tandem, eyes widening as Danika emerged into the yard. Zin let out a wordless squeak, Mikhail shouted, “Nika!” and they both ran full-tilt into Danika’s middle.
“Oof,” Danika grunted. Her rucksack slid off her shoulder onto the grass. She pulled Mikhail into her arms, laying a kiss atop his brown curls. “Zin teaching you to play Liar’s Dice already? The pair of you will make great alkhemists.”
Zin stared up at Danika adoringly through her dark narrow eyes. The wholesome picture of Nadya’s siblings reunited was completed only when the turfhouse door flew open and Elin halted on the threshold.
Elin took one look at Danika’s shorn locks, and said baldly, “You look like a boy.”
Danika’s hand fell from where it had been carding through Zin’s sleek black hair. “You would know,” she said, scowling.
“Difference is, I look like the kind of boy other boys want to fondle,” Elin said, fists poised on her broad hips. It was true, her messy braid was a style both the Kotov boys and girls favored. Dirt marred her face, which was rough and briny underneath — as if she had recently stood on the bow of a fast moving vessel and breathed deep the sea air. The effect was not wholly unpleasant, if a little less refined than their Mama preferred.
Less-than-polite greeting concluded, Elin lurched forward and wedged herself between Zin and Mikhail. Danika let out another groan as Elin squeezed her. Elin was only two years Danika’s junior, but at least a head shorter, and her face nestled directly into Danika’s rather feeble bosom. “We missed you, Nika.”
Tears pricked the corners of Nadya’s eyes. She, Danika, Elin, Zin and Mikhail — home on the Kotov Isles, together, where they belonged.
“I cannot believe Nadya’s dream was right,” Elin added with a coarse laugh and Danika shook her head.
“Even lobsters fly once a Cycle.”
Zin was the first to abandon Danika in favor of rummaging through the discarded rucksack. A moment later, Elin joined her. Privacy was not a concept the Kotov valued much, even discounting sibling nosiness, but Danika had picked up Sivkan habits in her time at Izumgray and Nadya could see the annoyance on her face.
“Tell me you brought back some spices,” Elin said, tossing a bundle of knotgrass carelessly over her shoulder. “Mama is in the kitchen trying to milk flavor out of whitefish without so much as a pinch of salt.”
Danika snatched the bag away, but not before Nadya saw Zin slip some small token into the front pocket of her tunic. “At Izumgray, the Sivkans mock Kotov manners,” Danika said. “You two make me remember why.”
Elin sighed. They made their way into the turfhouse and Nadya smiled to see Danika shove a vial of rosemary into Elin's hand.
***
Danika’s promise to Nadya ate at her all through dinner. She understood that her vow had little to do with her alkhemist coat. It was a promise not to give up. To not relent until the final moments of the Luncycle had ticked away and the last drop of quicksilver in her veins had dulled to mundane. Still, it felt as false as the lie Danika had told Nadya about her unexpected return.
High stakes indeed for someone slurping turnip stew.
Mama’s chill gaze watched Danika choke down every morsel. The warm welcome she had received from her siblings had not extended to their matriarch. Their Mama, tall and fine and beautiful, had merely looked at Danika as she came through the door into the turfhouse. That one glance assessed her in an instant, from her whitefishskin coat to her cut hair to her Sivkan boots — so unsuited for the rocky hillsides of the Von — and said simply, “You are home then? The turnips need boiling.”
Papanik — Papa’s papa, Howlan Bodanson, grandson of Bodan himself — was cheerier in his greeting. He sat at his usual place in the main hall — a rocking chair beside an open fire, silver sparks drifting up toward the vents cut into the raftered ceiling. Another fire crackled at the far end of the hall and a long dining table lay between them. Fragrant mishsmoke and grilled fish mingled in the air. Danika’s stomach rumbled with that particular hunger that only accompanied the end of a long journey.
Papanik rose swiftly for a man of his age, pulling Danika into his chest, smoldering pipe still in hand. He was a bear of a Kotov with a wooden peg leg, and despite Danika’s height, she felt swallowed whole inside his arms. She withdrew only with the greatest reluctance. “Where is Papa?” she asked.
“The Imperator has levied another tax,” Papanik growled, scratching at his raggedy white beard with the long stem of his pipe. “Your papa has scarcely been home the last two tennights — too busy trying to stave off a revolution.”
After the turnip boiling, the family drew to their usual places at the table like alkhemists to the athanor. The threatening storm finally broke as they took their seats. Rain pelted the wattle-and-daub walls, wind gusted through the narrow tunnels in the ceiling, fanning the flames one moment and nearly dousing them the next. But no draft or downpour could put out these fires, for they were ignited from the blood of an alkhemist, and only the blood of a mundane could extinguish them.
Danika took another bitter sip of stew under Mama’s keen stare, feeling sure that, somehow, she already knew the secret Danika was so desperate to keep — that she could read Danika’s failure all over her face.
“What is the matter, Nika?” Mama said in a sharp, clear voice that made Danika jump. “You do not care for my cooking?”
“It is very good,” Danika protested. She sat straighter and gummed another mouthful. Elin snorted beside her.
“Then eat less like a bird and more like a person, if you please.”
At the end of the table, Papanik hid a grin behind his spoon. The stew was tepid — in Izumgray, the plates and bowls would be infused to keep the food at the perfect temperature. But the Kotov believed that it was better to be prepared for the long years without alkhemy than to overindulge in the years with it.
A bang sounded as the front door flew open in the next room. The roar of the storm grew louder, then muffled again. The tread of familiar footsteps followed and, a moment later, Papa stepped into the hall.
Rodin Bondanson towered in the doorway, made twice his usual size with his heavy hide coat tied over his kaftan, a switch at his waistbelt. As he scanned the table, his warm brown eyes landed on Danika. He grinned and the eyes wrinkled. He stretched his arms wide. Danika flew from her seat and raced into them. She buried her face in his chestnut beard. He smelled of leather and rain and safety. He clutched her tight and whispered in her ear, “My little Nika. Back where she belongs.”
For this, Danika thought, she could almost forego Izumgray entirely.
“Very well. You have seen her before, I think, and no doubt you will again,” said Mama. “Sit down and eat.”
Danika pulled away, but not before pressing a kiss to Papa’s warm cheek.
She resumed her place between Elin and Zin as Papa took the wooden armchair at the end of the table. He smiled convincingly down at his lukewarm meal. With alkhemy or without, the whole of the family knew that Mama could not cook. She had not learned such mundane tasks early in life like most Kotov. But Papa had never concerned himself much with needing a wife who could brew stews and conjure casseroles. He found other qualities in Mama to value.
Though what those qualities were, Danika could not begin to guess.
“I hope there is enough. I seem to have grown an extra stomach on the voyage.”
Mama turned her gaze from Danika to Papa, where it softened. “Do not attempt to flatter me in front of the children, Rodin.”
“Yes, dearest.”
“Nika spelled!” Mikhail exclaimed, spoon banging an uneven rhythm on his plate.
Unsmiling, Mama pinched the boy’s cheeks. “Danika, it seems Mikhail is eager to hear more about your time in Sivka.” The tension Papa’s arrival had broken returned. Mama rarely called Danika’s school by its proper name, simply referring to her absence as some long annual sojourn to the north. “We were not expecting you for another three tennights.”
“It was very good,” Danika answered, refocusing her attention on her stew. Even it was better than this line of questioning.
“Very good? Come — do not be so stingy with your tales. Tell us poor, isolated Kotov of the wider world.”
You are no Kotov.
The thought flitted across Danika’s mind unbidden, and she was grateful she had learned enough self-restraint not to voice it. Babbin would be proud. Still, her eyes lifted to Mama with no small amount of resentment.
There was no denying that Mama had the poised, imperial look of a Sivkan — and there was no ignoring why. Even seated over a rough Kotov table, Marisha Bodanson exuded a grace and elegance that, of her children, only Nadya could match. In fact, put next to each other as they were now, it was impossible to deny the similarities between Mama and her eldest daughter — their high cheekbones, sharp chins, long necks and delicate noses.
It was the last Danika envied the most — her own nose had been the source of much ridicule during childhood, large and crooked as it was. Mama’s ebony hair flowed long and black as the night sky at New Moon. Nadya’s, in contrast, shone the palest gold, ever tied in a neat bun at the back of her neck — some halfhearted attempt to conceal its brilliance.
It was just one reason of many that Danika was grateful for her gift, her Fire. Without it, she would be all the more invisible.
“Still nothing to say for yourself?” Mama tsked.
Nadya ducked her head, two pink spots appearing on her cheeks — and Danika was reminded where the real difference between her older sister and Mama lay. They were both starkly beautiful, but Mama possessed none of Nadya’s kindness to soften the edges.
“What news from the Telga?” Mama turned to Papa instead, who seemed as reluctant to share his secrets as Danika. He glanced anxiously at Papanik. In the distraction, Zin slid a piece of parchment across the table to Elin.
“I heard a troubling rumor out of Old Kirov,” said Papa. “I would like to go to the Vienper tomorrow to see if I can dispel it. Perhaps Danika could join me? She knows that isle better than most.”
He looked in her direction. Danika was only too happy to offer her agreement. She feared what other uses Mama would find for her otherwise. “Of course, Papa.”
“Danika spelled!” Mikhail squawked again. Elin slipped the note under the table to Nadya before Danika could get a look.
Mama’s lips pursed. “What rumor is this? What has the Imperator done now?” Like all of them, Mama understood that news from the capital city of Old Kirov truly meant news from Imperator Maksis Lunovna.
“We will discuss it later,” said Papa. “I would rather hear of Danika’s adventures.”
She would have glared at him for turning the attention back on her, but her stomach was too busy twisting itself in knots to muster any expression at all. “I— Adventures? I would not call them—”
Nadya looked down at her lap and gasped. Her wide gaze returned to Danika, who raised an eyebrow. Nadya gave a tiny shake of her head and tucked the note into the folds of her apron.
“Danika spelled! Danika spelled!”
Mama slammed her spoon down. “Mikhail — what are you saying?”
“Danika—” Mikhail swallowed and forced himself to sound out the word in painful, earnest clarity. “Danika ex-spelled.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then—
“You were expelled?” Papa said slowly.
Danika found her expression then, and it was rage.
“Elin!” She turned on her nearest sister, who somehow managed to look both ashamed and proud.
“I didn’t tell them!”
“Them?” Danika shouted, eyes flicking around the table to Zin and Nadya’s guilty faces.
“I meant him — him!” said Elin. Then, seeing it was hopeless — “Oh, what does it matter? Zin stole the letter from your bag. She showed it to me. And I—”
“And you decided to spread the word?” Danika whipped to her other side where Zin slunk low on her bench. Danika knew on some level that her anger would be better directed at the thief, but Zin did not speak, so she could hardly be blamed for spreading gossip.
“I was explaining it to her! Then Mikhail overheard. You know he follows her everywhere,” Elin reasoned. “And it didn’t seem right for only Nadya not to know…”
Zin disappeared entirely under the table. Danika looked to Nadya and found confirmation in her sister’s sky-blue eyes. The chain of betrayal seemed to stop there, and for a moment there was only the crackle of the fire and the sound of Mikhail gumming his spoon.
Then Danika launched herself at Elin.
Knocked her off the bench and tackled her onto the packed earth floor. She landed with a satisfying “oof,” but it was not enough. Danika snatched her tin plate off the table and reared back to hit Elin over her stupid head in the Kotov way — but strong arms encircled her, dragging her backward.
Danika kicked and writhed and wriggled free of Papa’s grasp just as Elin regained her feet. Elin rushed forward to exact her own revenge, but Papa lunged between them, hands outstretched.
“Enough!” he barked. It was a rare thing indeed for Papa to raise his voice under the turf. The resulting silence was like an ice bath thrown into a steaming cauldron. “I will not have bloodshed in these halls! I will have answers or you will both stay out in the rain until you come to an accord. Elin — apologize to your sister.”
Elin’s jaw dropped. “Me? Apologize to her? But she is the one who—”
“You betrayed Danika’s trust. There is no deeper wound between siblings. Make it right.”
“Sorry,” Elin muttered churlishly.
Danika did not think that a sufficient show of remorse, but knew better than to ask for more. She would exact her price later. Papa turned next to Danika.
“Now you will answer for what you have kept hidden,” he said, and it was the betrayal in his voice that cut Danika deepest. “Is what Mikhail says true?”
Danika’s heart pounded, shame cloyed sticky in her throat, gums too tacky to speak. Everyone had come to their feet in the chaos — everyone but Papanik, who still sat eating his whitefish with single-minded intensity, as if this was all some sort of dinner theatre put on for his amusement.
“It is true,” Danika finally answered.
Papa’s arms fell to his sides. She expected his first question to be obvious — why? But he surprised her with an amendment. “Why did you lie?”
“I did not lie. I just did not tell the whole—”
“I do not know what they teach you in Sivka, Nika, but on the Kotov Isles that is a lie by another name. Explain yourself.”
“I am sorry, Papa. I did not know how.”
“I say again — why? Have we ever made you to feel like your alkhemy is the biggest part of you?”
“No.” She had done that to herself.
“And have we ever pressured you into your studies? Into going to Izumgray in the first place?”
“No.” If anything, it had been the opposite. Papa had never expressed his direct opposition, but Mama had. And only Nadya had ever voiced her support. Despite all they knew about her ambitions, her past, her need for alkhemy, they had never offered one word of encouragement.
“I did not want to be the first Kotov to go to Izumgray and fail.”
There was nothing anyone could say. No argument to be brokered. It was simply an unbearable truth that had come to pass.
Eventually, Papanik laid down his fork. He looked directly at Danika from across the long table. “Any school that does not want our Little Nika is not worthy of the name.”
A flush crept up her neck. “Thank you, Papanik.”
Slowly, Zin crawled out from her hiding place. Mama returned Mikhail to the bench and Papa waved a hand. “Everyone sit. The turnips are getting cold.”
***
After dinner, Nadya attended to the Oratorium with Mama. She did not always do so — she was not sure that she held to the practices of the Cyclican religion as Mama did.
As far as Nadya knew, their household was one of the few on the Kotov Isles that even had an Oratorium. Cyclican Celebrants rarely journeyed this far from Sivka for worship and if they did, most Kotov would not attend such services. They preferred a more natural form of worship, spurning idols or officiants, and instead finding peace in the Divine Spark at the root of all things — in nature, at the intersection of the world Above and the world Below.
But the thin vein in Mama’s temple was pulsing wildly and Nadya knew it would only be calmed by a few moments knelt before the altar.
It sat in a darkened corner of the entry hall, lit by the Alkhemical Flame of a single candle. In a year’s time, that candle would go out, and it would not light again for another twenty-five years. As Mama bowed her head, Nadya felt Danika’s eyes on them from the bedloft overhead. Between Mama and Danika, Nadya did not know who to comfort first. But she would focus on Mama for now. Danika would follow.
She stared ahead at the central figure on the small table of the altar. A hemaphroditic Thoth, hewn from pale granite, wielding a moon-tipped spear and sun-adorned sheath. To the right and left of the Thoth figure perched two smaller idols carved from the same rock — a moon-decorated Mother, Lunovna; and a sun-bedecked Father, Solovich. Lastly, on the table by the candle, sat a small book with a cover so green it was almost black. Most households, both on the Kotov Isles and in Sivka, possessed a copy of the Velvet Book, but few were so fine as this one. It was one of the only relics of Mama’s old life that she had chosen to share with her children.
After a suitable amount of time in silent prayer, Mama raised her head and opened her eyes. “As Above,” she said.
“So Below,” Nadya finished.
She climbed the ladder to the bedloft to find Zin already asleep. Danika, unsurprisingly, was not.
“Is she angry with me?” she asked as Nadya slipped beneath the linen sheet.
The stars had begun to break through the cloud cover. A circular shaft of moonlight pierced the warbled glass of a small skylight above the bed, illuminating Zin sprawled out on her stomach atop the blankets between them. The air was unseasonably hot and muggy, even with the storm breaking outside, and Zin had stripped off her nightgown. Her bare bottom shone like twin moons in the dim light.
“I do not think so,” Nadya answered eventually. “She did not say anything.”
“She never does. Not to me.” Danika leaned back against a stack of pillows, knees bent, fiddling with something in her lap. She reminded Nadya of Zin, slouched under the table to avoid a scolding. Often it was easy to forget that Danika — with all her knowledge of alkhemy and the wider world — was Nadya’s junior. But at times like these, the gap seemed to stretch well beyond a mere four years.
“What of you and Taito?” Danika whispered into the dark, clearly eager to change the subject. “Has he made you an offer yet?”
“If he has made one, he has made a dozen.” Him and many others.
“And will you put him out of his misery?”
“I may accept him soon, yes. But whether that is the end of misery or the start of it, I do not know.”
“Oh, Nedeshda,” Danika sighed — as ever, reserving Nadya’s true name for only the most trivial matters. She raised Nadya’s knuckles to her lips and planted a kiss there. “He will be the happiest of men to have you for a wife. How could he not be? The great beauty of the Von.”
Nadya only wondered if she would feel as blissful. “What is that in your hand?”
“Nothing.” Danika’s fist closed on a folded piece of paper.
“More lies, Nika?”
Her face flushed purple in the moonlight. “It is a note. From Babbin.”
Babbin was the Mad Old Alkhemist who lived off the eastern shore. She was something of a legend — feared, revered, and scorned in equal measure. The Kotov visited her only when they had no other choice, desperate for a potion to cure some ailment or flourish a dying crop. As was so often the case, Danika had proved the exception. She had sought Babbin out at a young age — first out of cruel necessity, then out of curiosity — for Babbin was the only person on the Isles who could match her sister for alkhemical skill and, in many ways, exceed it.
“What does she want?”
“She asks me to visit.” But there was some strangeness in Danika’s voice. Nadya studied her profile — the familiar bump in her nose, the heavy, ever-furrowed brow, caught in some deep thought. It was a face more familiar to Nadya than her own, so many nights they had spent in this loft, whispering secrets only the moon and stars could hear. “I suspect she knows the reason I was expelled.”
Zin's even snores peaked into a snort. It astounded Nadya that a creature so silent by day could make such loud exclamations in sleep. “Do you want to tell me?”
“No. Not yet. I am sorry.”
Nadya squelched her disappointment. Whatever the truth was, it would not change things between them. If Danika needed time to come to terms with this, Nadya could grant it, and then, after Danika had confessed her secret, talk her out of her self-pity.
Zin flipped onto her back, stretching out a sticky hand, and gripped the skirt of Nadya’s nightgown. Danika’s smile faded. “I wish you could have joined me at Izumgray. Perhaps you could have saved me from myself.”
Nadya reached across Zin for Danika’s hand, still curled tightly around her note. “I would not have wanted Izumgray for myself, but I would have gone for you if I could.”
It had been one of the saddest days in Nadya’s memory when Danika left — she, twelve years of age; Nadya sixteen. They had bid farewell on the shores of the Von as Zin wept silently into Nadya’s neck. Zin had only just come to them that Spring, during the Aadan’s Day festival — barely more than a toddler, paddling a canoe across the Quicksilver River and pleading, silently, always silently, for asylum.
But Zin had proved difficult. Sullen and mistrustful, eating by herself in the byre, stealing anything small enough to fit in her pocket. Only Danika had been able to break through that quiet shell. In a few short seasons, Zin marked Danika as her favorite. Nadya could not begrudge Zin her loyalty as she felt much the same. And it was clear that Zin also would have gone with Danika to Izumgray if she could.
Nadya, however, was not gifted with Danika or Zin’s ambition. She had no great desire to leave and explore new lands. She loved her home and her people. The salt-air of the Kotov Isles was the breath in her body. But if Danika had gone where Nadya could follow, she would have.
As was the way of things, all of Mama’s natural-born children had inherited her Alkhemical Fire in varying degrees. But Danika alone possessed the silver glow of the Celestial Fire — the highest grade an alkhemist could hope for. Nadya was born with the weakest Fire — the Central Fire — a blue blood that only distinguished itself from mundane when cut. A mundane’s blood would toxify in the air, turn a blazing red. Nadya’s, at least, remained blue.
It was not enough. Izumgray did not take blue bloods.
Time would tell Zin’s own Fire grade — if she possessed it at all. For girls, the Alkhemical Fire showed itself at their first bleeding. For boys, it came later, with the first hint of stubble on the chin. At best estimate, Zin had seen nine or ten years. If her blood came early, her Fire grade would be revealed. But time was not on her side.
For when the Suncycle dawned one year from now, they would all bleed red.
The Spark & The Star by Tess Hunter was very intriguing and something different from the typical fantasy story. Set in the Kotov Isles, two sisters, Danika and Nadya, become entangled in political upheaval, fading magic, and dangerous ambition as the world approaches the end of a 25-year magical cycle. When a man claiming to be the rightful heir to a stolen throne arrives seeking allies, Danika finds herself pulled into a rebellion that could change the future of their world forever.
The beginning was very slow for me—I kept picking it up only to read a page or two once a day. It was a weird slump at the beginning, but I'm glad I stuck with it because WOW. I loved the magic system; it was genuinely fascinating and so unique. The idea that magic disappears and returns in cycles every 25 years added constant urgency and tension to the story, especially because Danika’s chronic illness is directly tied to the fading magic. The Alkhemical system itself felt inventive and thoughtfully developed, with enough scientific logic behind it to feel believable without becoming overly complicated. I also loved all the political aspects throughout the novel. The shifting alliances, family loyalties, and questions surrounding who deserves power gave the story strong epic fantasy vibes, which reminded me a bit of Game of Thrones.
In addition to the epic magic system and worldbuilding, my favourite aspect was the family dynamic. Danika and Nadya, while very different people, have a love for each other that forms the heart of the story, even when other forces threaten to divide them. Their relationship felt so genuine. I loved Danika's character; while she was a little annoying, and I definitely didn’t agree with her choices, I could still understand the emotional reasoning behind them. Her motivations felt layered and emotionally grounded, especially her fear of losing herself alongside her illness.
The background/side characters were also amazing! Each one was so well-fleshed out, leaving a long-lasting impression. Prince Adrik’s revenge-driven arc added weight and tension. And his advisor, Avdotya, was such an interesting character, I felt like his motivations were so layered and elusive, balancing ambition with moments of sincerity. And not to forget, Babbin, the reclusive old alchemist, definitely added this vibe to the story. Her story hints at something much deeper, and I can't wait to read about it.
ne thing that contributed to my slump at the beginning/while reading in general, was the multi-POV. Though I love a good third-person storytelling, the shifting between Danika, Nadya, Adrik, Avdotya, and others was a little hard to process at times. The POV shifts often happened mid-chapter, and I definitely had to reread sections to figure out whose POV I was in.
Overall, I enjoyed the book and I can't wait to see where the story goes next.
If you love a plot-driven fantasy, layered with political conflict, intricate magic systems, morally flawed characters, and strong family dynamics, then you should definitely add this to your TBR!
────── ✧ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ♡ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ✧ ──────
⊹ 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽 ⊹
❥epic magic system
❥political intrigue
❥family dynamics
❥multi-POVs
❥morally gray characters
❥alkhemy magic
❥hidden heir
❥Slavic-inspired
❥rebellion