Sometimes life is better as a lie.
Malakai wanted to protect his kingdom from threats beyond its borders. Instead, stripped of his magic and on the run, he now needs to save it from his brother, the king himself.
Amaryllis wanted to have nothing to do with humans. Instead, stranded in the wrong realm, she now needs to retrieve a lost fae relic with powers no one comprehends.
Una wanted to be a knight in shining armor. Instead, haunted by the memories of a life she never lived, Una now needs to find answers from someone she doesnât remember meeting.
When their paths cross, each must decide what matters to them the most.
Or risk losing everything they hold dear.
In a world where Angels and Shades battle for souls while the Devil sips his tea, the fate of one country, two races, and four realms hangs in the balance when love and loyalties are tested to their limits.
Sometimes life is better as a lie.
Malakai wanted to protect his kingdom from threats beyond its borders. Instead, stripped of his magic and on the run, he now needs to save it from his brother, the king himself.
Amaryllis wanted to have nothing to do with humans. Instead, stranded in the wrong realm, she now needs to retrieve a lost fae relic with powers no one comprehends.
Una wanted to be a knight in shining armor. Instead, haunted by the memories of a life she never lived, Una now needs to find answers from someone she doesnât remember meeting.
When their paths cross, each must decide what matters to them the most.
Or risk losing everything they hold dear.
In a world where Angels and Shades battle for souls while the Devil sips his tea, the fate of one country, two races, and four realms hangs in the balance when love and loyalties are tested to their limits.
The palace was too quiet.
It should have been abuzz with many familiar noises: gardeners tending the plants, cooks clanging the utensils, and servants running errands. Instead, the rhythmic clip-clop of the hooves from Ciaranâs horse was the only sound echoing across the palace courtyard. The perfectly manicured shrubs and flowers blooming during peak summer looked exhausted, having to keep the facade of their expected sunny disposition. In contrast, barricaded in a garden corner, rooted yet lifeless, the prana plants glinted cunningly. With the sunlight bouncing off their amber-colored crystalline form, it was as if they were watching him.
As if they knew something he didnât.
The trained senses of a Kingâs Knight warned him, but Ciaran dismounted, nevertheless. How could he be wary of a place he had called home for so long? After a few moments of deliberation, Ciaran decided to tie his horse to one of the pillars near the doorway, just in case.Â
He had practically grown up at the palace, having arrived there at thirteen to live and train as an apprentice knight. His father, Oswaldâa Bender and the Lord of Korbridgeâhad still been alive then to watch with pride when Ciaran had received the royal crest that declared him a Kingâs Knight five years later. The metal emblem, carved with a golden sun rising from behind a jeweled dagger, was pinned to the chest of Ciaranâs black coat when Oswald passed away a few months after the ceremony. That had been six years ago. Malakai had stayed by his side through the ups and downs, the triumphs and losses. He was a friend, a rival, a comrade, and the closest thing to a family Ciaran had left.
He would gladly walk into a raging fire if it were for Malakai.
Now, Ciaran walked into the decidedly frosty palace.
No one greeted him in the main hall. The throne room, offices, and foyer were all eerily deserted.
He could sense people around, hear their hushed whispers and the echoes of their footsteps, yet it seemed they were deliberately avoiding him. Ignoring the strange stillness in the air, he resolutely walked toward his sleeping chambers in the north wing. Of all the knights in the country, only ten were chosen to be Kingâs Knights, the ones who lived in the palace, attending to the ruling King of Castellon.
Halfway to his destination, he stopped at the edge of the winding stairs. The stairs diverged here: one set of steps went up to the royal residence, and the other went down to the palace dungeons, a place that brought back haunting memories for him. He tried to shake them off and turned to take the stairs going upwards.
âI see youâre back already.â The hostility in the voice of General Atkins standing before him startled Ciaran. The five knights, who had crept up behind him in the meantime, didnât appear any friendlier. Reva, Lucia, Feris, Goran, and Jahir all held weapons. To make things worse, they knew each other too well.
âGeneral, where is he?â Ciaran could not stop panic from rising in his heart. The aging General had gray in his hair, but his height and breadth made him a mountain of a man. The formidable presence of this experienced warrior was enough to make grown men wet themselves (most grown men). Still, Ciaran did not break eye contact with his mentor, his emerald eyes demanding answers.
The General winced almost imperceptibly before replying, âThe king sent him to Lasceraz.â Ciaranâs blood froze in his veins; he was too late for his friend.
âTheyâd such a shouting match that the stewards had to call me from my home in the city,â Atkins said. âI found Malakai unconscious on the floor, and the only thing I got from the king was the order to transport him to the dungeons in Lasceraz. In chains. Ciaran, whatâs going on?â
The General implored him for some explanation.
âHow long ago?â Ciaran ignored the Generalâs question to ask his own.
âNearly three days now. What are you guys keeping from us? Answer me!â
Ciaran didnât reply, his mind already calculating his next steps. Lasceraz, the infamous prison, was in the southernmost corner of the country. It would take several months to reach it on horseback unless he secured the service of a space-Bender mageâlike the General, for sure, had. Fortunately, he knew one who used to work for his father, but Bender Farley lived in Ciaranâs hometown Korbridge, and it would take a few days to reach there from Castle. The longer he delayed, the more time Malakai would rot in Lasceraz.
Just as Ciaran turned around to leave, the knights readied their weapons: two sets of daunting daggers, two shining swords, and one menacing mace pointed straight at him. The General himself did not carry anything, standing with his arms crossed in front of him. Not to mention that Ciaran was not a mage, but two of the knights and the General were. Taking a deep breath, he brushed his sandy hair back with his right hand; a few locks strayed back over his green eyes.
âYou truly believe you can stop me from leaving?â he asked, smiling for the first time since entering the palace grounds.
The knights looked highly uncomfortable, for they were well aware of who they were up against. People in the kingdom might not know his name, but every knight in the country knew of Ciaranâs reputation.
âNo. I donât believe we can manage thatâŚâ The General replied truthfully, âBut I need to say that we tried our best regardless.â
Ciaran gave his mentor a quick nod, steadied his sword, and took his stance. âI understand.â
***
He couldnât understand how he was still alive.
His entire being ached; his muscles and even his bones were sore.
Malakai tried to turn on his bed to find an angle where it would hurt slightly less, and a pained yelp escaped his mouth. The cold iron bit his wrists, sinking its unyielding teeth into his joints. He opened his eyes to find himself chained to the walls.
Lasceraz. A wave of despair overtook him, making it hard to breathe. Was the air always so stale and thick here? Malakai had toured the prison many times but never noticed how dark it was. The cells were made of thick granite, without even a tiny window to allow light to peek through. With some effort, he turned his head upwards and regretted it immediately. Everything swam before his eyes, and a sharp pain made him retch, only to realize he had nothing left to vomit apart from his blood.
After his body stopped shaking from the shock, Malakai felt a strange emptiness inside him; the warmth and comfort of his magic were barely there anymore. The panic that rose through him was worse than the bile he tasted in his mouth. He tried his best to calm himself, to convince himself that it could not be gone, for magic was made of prana: the life energy coursing through every living being. It had to be somewhere if he was here. But the more he searched, the more it became evident that it was dying.
And he was dying with it.
Malakaiâs eyes blurred once more. Were they tears of sadness, knowing he had lost everything he held dear, or tears from the burning torment his body experienced with the slightest movement? He couldnât tell them apart.
As his eyes focused again, Malakai remembered there used to be a window in every cell once upon a time. The first king of Castellon knew light was a beacon of hope; it kept the fight alive in people. His descendant, the current king, also understood what it meant to the prisoners. So, five years ago, he ordered all the windows to be boarded up. Malakai was the one who had supervised the project and seen the dejected looks on their faces, caked with dirt and grime, yet he never fully comprehended. Until now.
Many of them were murderers, kidnappers, and swindlers, but there were others who couldnât pay the ever-increasing taxes; people who had no reason to be in the infamous jail of Lasceraz.
Yet, they were.
So was he.
âGet 'im to eat somethinâ.â The metallic tinkle of keys alerted him as the room door opened. A guard dressed in red and yellow placed a bowl of soup in front of him while another held a lantern in his hand. Malakai wondered how many days had passed since he was sent here and if Ciaran knew his fate yet. It was no coincidence that he was incarcerated when each of his allies within the Kingâs Knights happened to be out of the capital.
âThree days. Youâve eaten nothinâ.â The guard brought a spoon with the soup near his mouth.
âPlease!â the man nearly pleaded and added, âYer Highness.â
The other guard looked equally awkward. Malakai understood how disturbing it must be to treat the second prince of their kingdom as a mere prisonerâtorn between their absolute loyalty to the orders issued by the king and their instinct to protect a member of the royal family. His older brother might be the ruler of Castellon (and he made sure to remind people of that constantly!), but Malakai was a soldier, first and foremost. He had spent time with guards, trained them, and inspected prisons as part of his duties, something the pampered king never bothered himself with.
He opened his mouth to let the guard feed him. Under no circumstance was he allowed to be free of his manacles. Such was the rule in Lasceraz, where every prisoner was kept in maximum-security solitary confinement. Sip by sip, he finished the bowl of soup, and the guards released simultaneous breaths of gratitude, likely because they had half-expected him to protest, or worse. Malakai didnât want to make it any harder on them than necessary, considering they would have a tough enough time when he escaped. His weak stomach rebelled despite his noble intentions not to trouble the guards; a dull ache radiated from his core, spreading out like a volcano spewing lava, and Malakai keeled over in pain.
After they helped him throw up everything he had just ingested in the chamber pot, one of the guards tried to say something but couldnât. Ignoring the grip of fatigue threatening to suffocate him, Malakai smiled and said, âItâs not your fault.â He meant it, but they hung their heads in shame and left the room without checking the chains, forgetting that theyâd loosened the shackles slightly to let him clean up earlier.
He didnât doubt that Ciaran would find a way to get him out of here.
But maybe Malakai could beat him to it.
***
Being beaten in a battle wasnât something Ciaran ever worried about.
However, victory always comes with a price.
As he rode his tired horse away from Castle, the capital city of Castellon, Ciaran had to admit that while heâd managed to get out of the palace in one piece, thankfully without killing any of them, it hadnât been easy. Every hesitation, every indecision from one side was used by the other. It was a wonder heâd made it this far.
He looked down at the crest on his coat, slightly bloody now, and took it off to stash it in one of his pockets. With sadness, he remembered that heâd left his family emblem in his room at the palace. Ruling families of each province were honored with their own crests to recognize their contributions over the centuries; a crescent moon and a saber crossing each other were carved on his. His house badge announced to the world that he belonged to a family of high achievers, while his royal crest demonstrated that heâd achieved something for himself.
He was proud of both.
From this moment on, he could wear neither.
As the horseâs gallop slowed to a trot, he reached the nearest village, hoping the General hadnât recovered enough to send patrols out after him. He could see a cluster of thatched huts interspersed with small vegetable and herb gardens at some distance. Late in the evening, some folks must be finishing up dinner, some getting ready to sleep, and some playing cards with their family (and how wonderful did that sound). People tried not to be out at night, believing the Shades roamed free after the sun went down.
They were not entirely wrong, but they werenât quite right either.
Shades didnât need the darkness; they simply preferred it.
âPoor pony!â A childâs voice floated up, but the gravel path before him was empty; no child was in sight. âAre you a bad man?â The disembodied voice spoke again. Oh, Angels⌠donât ask me that! Before Ciaran could start questioning his sanity, a young boy came into view at the horseâs side. He barely reached up to the belly of the horse, his unruly hair flying with the breeze as he jogged beside the large animal.
âRomy, whereâd you go?â A woman called out from a distance. The village was not as deserted as it initially seemed to be. Damn. Ciaran quietly cursed his bad luck; heâd planned to pass through unnoticed.
Paying no attention to the womanâs (most likely, his mother) shouts to return home, the brown-haired boy admired the majestic animal, however muddy and messy it might be. âDo I look like a bad man?â Ciaran asked. Considering his blood-soaked clothes, the answer seemed obvious.
This time, the boy ignored him and pointed at his horse thoughtfully, âHe looks tired. And sad.â
âRomy!â The woman (definitely, the mother) had caught up to them. She took one arm of the boy in her hand and stepped away from Ciaranâs horse in fear.
âWhoâs there?â Three more village men came out to investigate. Realizing it was too late to run without raising more suspicions, Ciaran dismounted and faced the slowly gathering crowd. Wary of a bleeding stranger, the men looked ready for a fight, making him suppress a peal of hysterical laughter roiling inside him. Everyone seemed to be out for his blood today, from his fellow knights to fellow citizens.
âDonât yâall start poundinâ on the poor man,â an older voice cut through the tense air like a serrated bread knife. âYou were attacked by Reapers, werenât you?â Thatâd make a lot of sense, yes. Ciaran turned around, grateful for the intervention, as an old lady, thin but sturdy, walked closer. Her once pale complexion, characteristic of people living in these northern parts of the country, was tanned by the years of working outdoors.
Lowering his head as a sign of respect, he replied softly, âYes, Maâam. A gang of Reapers outside the capitalâŚbut I got away.â Lies rolled off his tongue so quickly that Ciaran wondered if he could even remember how to speak the truth anymore. The men visibly relaxed with the revelation. While the mother of the horse-enthusiast still had traces of worry in her eyes, Ciaran could tell it had shifted from their safety to his well-being.
âAh, they stole yer stuff too.â The older woman seemed to have created an entire backstory on his behalf. âTake âim to the bath, Travis,â she ordered one of the men. By this time, almost the whole village had gathered at their respective porch or courtyard, trying to ascertain the source of commotion in their rather sleepy habitat.
The middle-aged Travis motioned Ciaran to follow him without argument. âSheâs the chief?â Ciaran surmised. Nodding in assent, the quiet man showed him the communal bath on the outskirts of their village, and steadfastly refusing Ciaranâs help, he carried a few pails of water from the well to fill the tub. Modest accommodations for a noble, yet it felt like heaven to Ciaran, for the dried blood had started to itch in places.
âMa sent a fresh shirt and pair of trousers. She said theyâd fit.â A young woman approached them with a bundle of clothes in her arms, making him suddenly feel awful about taking gifts from the poor villagers.
âItâs okay.â He raised his arms to protest. âI donât needâŚâ
The woman gave him a long appraising look before thrusting the clothes into his hands.
âLetâs go, Livie.â Travis pulled the reluctant girl away, allowing Ciaran to close the bamboo fence behind him. With a hissed sigh, he sank his weary body into the tub of water, wishing that washing the blood off his body and scrubbing the dirt out of his skin could erase this day when heâd lost everything.
It was cold and stung his open wounds, but Ciaran felt rejuvenated, nonetheless. However, the instant his body eased a little, his mind flooded with concern for Malakai. He couldnât waste any more time for rest, let alone for pleasure. Malakai was the person who would flirt with Livie; he was the one who thrived on attention. Ciaran was never very comfortable with these trysts; it felt oddly dishonorable to have brief sexual encounters, even when the women didnât think so or when they were the ones to propose the dalliance.
He let out a humorless chuckle. Considering what he had become nowâhomeless, jobless, hunted by his friends, declared traitor to his nationâthese moral hang-ups seem so meaningless. Once a Kingâs Knight and a Lord of Castellon, Ciaran had nowhere to return, no honor to defend.
Saving Malakai was the best thing he could do for this country and these villagers.
The undefeated knight refused to fail there.
Truth in Blue is a far more complex novel than I was expecting going in. I was prepared for a standard fantasy novel with a run of the mill magic system and political issues that threaten to force our characters into war.
What I got instead were several characters, each with their own distinct personality, plan for the future, and relationship with magic. I got a magic system felt familiar on the surface, but so unique and thought out as it's further explained. I got a world with mages, humans, realms, angels, shades, and the devil himself.
This book is a multi (and I do mean multi) person POV. Every chapter has moments that focus on various characters, including those I wouldn't normally expect to have any time in the "main character" spotlight. Admittedly, at first I wasn't sure I would enjoy that aspect. I've often felt in the past that too many voices crowded the air and made things difficult to follow. But Amell managed to weave these voices together in such as way it was never difficult to tell who we were following through the next leg of the journey. This is honestly one of the best uses of a full cast of characters I've seen in a very long time. Everyone was distinct. Everyone gave you reason to care about them. Even the devil.
I love this magic system the most, I think. Not just because of what it enables our characters to do or the well thought out history of it, but also because of the mystery surrounding it. Magic is fading in the world of our characters and they want it back. Meanwhile, there are secrets trying to come to life and nobody will be unaffected.
This was, easily, one of the more enjoyable books I've read this year. There were times it hurt. Times it made me laugh. Times it made me sit on the edge of my chair while I worried about what was to come for the characters. The world itself was stunning. It's something I think fantasy lovers should certainly read.