They call me…Hero…Mercenary…Dragon Slayer.
But that wasn’t always the case.
There was a time when I thought that dragons were beautiful...
During my childhood, I believed that I was friends with a dragon, except the dragon never knew of this friendship.
Days after my thirteenth birthday, my secret was no longer mine to keep. Soldiers arrived to slay the dragon so that a feudal lord could make his name amongst the nine kingdoms. It ended in abject failure. They were left to soak in a bloodbath of their own making.
In a rage, the dragon destroyed the place that I called home, and killed the people that I called family. She also dismantled a thing that I called love.
Reborn under a mound of ashen corpses, my empty shell vowed vengeance, forging a fiery path of retribution that could not be undone.
Not by my own design, I inadvertently became a slayer of dragons. Curiously, dragon slaying isn’t my next job...
A princess is being held for ransom at a goblin fort. Wearing the stolen armour of a goblin knight, I attempt to rescue her.
When I met her, she was Winter. Now, she is Spring. Does love still exist?
They call me…Hero…Mercenary…Dragon Slayer.
But that wasn’t always the case.
There was a time when I thought that dragons were beautiful...
During my childhood, I believed that I was friends with a dragon, except the dragon never knew of this friendship.
Days after my thirteenth birthday, my secret was no longer mine to keep. Soldiers arrived to slay the dragon so that a feudal lord could make his name amongst the nine kingdoms. It ended in abject failure. They were left to soak in a bloodbath of their own making.
In a rage, the dragon destroyed the place that I called home, and killed the people that I called family. She also dismantled a thing that I called love.
Reborn under a mound of ashen corpses, my empty shell vowed vengeance, forging a fiery path of retribution that could not be undone.
Not by my own design, I inadvertently became a slayer of dragons. Curiously, dragon slaying isn’t my next job...
A princess is being held for ransom at a goblin fort. Wearing the stolen armour of a goblin knight, I attempt to rescue her.
When I met her, she was Winter. Now, she is Spring. Does love still exist?
The moon looms large, dangling like an immense silvery medallion on the chest of the night sky. The cold snap from a couple of days ago has completely vanished, as though it finally understood that it was unbecoming weather for the end of summer. Tonight, its mood is temperate, if not exactly pleasant. The moon is two days away from being full, but from where I’m observing it, I can’t tell the difference. Its ambient tranquillity relaxes me, and for a moment, I forget my worries. I’m glad of its presence, as it lights the landscape with a pale, ghostly luminescence. Without it, I would not be able to see the road up ahead.
I am riding a stolen horse and wearing the stolen armour of a goblin knight. My own horse is tied with a rope and follows behind me dutifully on the dusky trail. My destination is the Black Fort, a fortification carved and fashioned from the side of the Black Mountain itself, on the furthest outskirts of the epic mountainous kingdom of the goblins.
I have visited the Black Fort before, several times over, in fact, but as a patron. A fair amount of coin has passed from my hand into theirs. Human weapon-smiths will disagree, but their goblin counterparts are undoubtedly the best in the business. Blue goblin steel is lighter, stronger, and more durable than anything created by the hand of man. Their blades are also sharper and deadlier. They were already fashioning items out of steel and iron whilst mankind was experimenting with bronze. They have secret ingredients unknown to man. However, this is not a business trip. I must keep my identity a secret. This time, I’m an interloper.
I make it to the outer rim. Once I pass this last ridge, the Black Fort will be fully in my sights. More importantly, the guard in the tower will have a full view of my approach. I stop before I reach the point of no return. The stolen horse is docile and compliant. It needs to be because goblins make for terrible riders, and a nervous rider will always have a preference for a calm steed.
I dismount very carefully in my ill-fitting armour. Height surprisingly isn’t the issue. The goblin knight is freakishly tall for a goblin, so we share a similar stature. Unfortunately, that is where our similarities end. Goblins anatomically have larger heads, longer arms and squatter legs. They also have broader shoulders, being wider at the chest. Those are characteristics I don’t share. Linen sheets and cloth had to be bandaged to my body to pad out my shoulders, arms, midriff, legs, and feet prior to assembly of the steel plates.
Earlier, when I was still in my tunic and breeches, I rubbed and wiped the goblin knight’s undergarments-garmentsagainst my bare skin to mask my weak human scent and to accentuate my newly acquired goblin odour. The strong,pungent aroma of wet stones, recently dug-up soil and a bucket of dead worms is are ever-present, especially after I wedged his undergarments-garments into the oversized codpiece, where they remain.
I jump on the spot a couple of times. The armour is loose and wobbly, but I think if I walk stiffly, I won’t arouse suspicion. This startles my horse somewhat, which betrays her usually laidback-back manner. She doesn’t seem to recognise me in my new get-up. I take out a morral from my saddlebag, attaching it to her eager head with my inept fingers. She munches away at the fodder in contentment as I tie her lead-rope around the branch of a dead tree. I will have to leave her here. Patting her head and stroking her mane with my overlarge-large gauntlet pleases her.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back for you soon.” She will be a big help when I make my escape. I can already imagine myself, with the freed hostage embracing my waist, as we gallop back to civilisation. And I can already feel the weight of the box containing the remainder of the five hundred minted gold sovereigns in my hands. Final checks. My preparations are as complete as they ever will be.
Almost forgot . I open my visor and rummage through my saddlebag with as much delicacy as my limited dexterity will allow. The gauntlets are becoming a major problem. My fingers aren’t exactly short, but the knight’s goblin fingers are a couple of inches longer, and the tips of my digits barely reach past the knuckle of the outlying joint. The gauntlet overlaps the vambrace, creating an exquisite, almost musical, screeching sound every time I twist my wrists.
I find what I am looking for, untie the pouch string and lift out a cylindrical section of a plant root. It has the colour of midnight and the consistency of dried tar. A babuit root. I grimace, take a deep breath, and pop it into my mouth. As I bite into it, the acrid bitterness oozes on to my once-white teeth and once-pink tongue. With the texture of rubber, the black strands try to glue my jaws together. I swallow some of the viscose sap to ensure my throat is coated. Time for a test.
“Ko ho niatto.” I am a knight. My voice becomes low and gravelly. It is guttural and inhuman. I sound like a goblin. I lower my visor. “Alaga peka.” Stand aside. The effect is even more pronounced as the rumbling tones reverberate within the confines of the helmet. I chuckle with the exuberance of a child at play, which makes me cough and splutter. I make a note not to laugh.
I need to get a move on. The buckles and straps hold the armour in place as I wobble and rattle my way on to the knight’s saddle. I like to mount horses from the left side, but the knight’s sheathed long sword that hangs from my belt impedes my progress. When I reach the main gates, to counter the problem, I will need to dismount from the right. I shudder when I think that this immaculate, almost ceremonial sword will be the only weapon I have to defend myself, if it ever comes to that. Even unsheathing it will be problematic, let alone fighting with it.
Before I know it, I am past the ridge. A vast wasteland presents itself. Several hundred yards further on stands the imposing southern face of the Black Fort. Hundreds of dark slots are cut into the vertical mountain-face in neat rows, murder holes for goblin archers to rain death in defence of the fort. However, they are remnants from a forgotten time, and the wars had long since ceased after the ratification of the many truces of old.
Nearer the ground is an overhanging outcrop that juts out like a clenched fist. Above that is the tower, where an immense fire -pit spews flames into the night sky. In the distance, the guard stands upright, immediately spotting my presence. On previous occasions, when I was in the form of a human, there was always commotion, with guards pouring out of the main door in case of trouble. As a goblin knight, in my exquisite and easily recognisable blue armour, there is no fuss or movement.
I scan the area from right to left. There are three ways into and out of the fort. The first and only official route, on the right side of the southern face, is the main gate. This is where I will make my entry, but I will have no hope of leaving through the same door with a hostage in tow. No matter the knight’s clout, the goblins will not allow a five thousand gold sovereign ransom to be lost. Also, to make matters clear, to them, this is a trade, not a ransom.
A hundred yards left of the main gate, and obscured under the massive overhanging rock formation, is a cave. It is completely hidden from the view of the tower, and also from the guards at the main gate. I made rudimentary surveys of this area when I was here before, on in an official capacity.
There is an artificially created chute on the first floor of the fort, near the kitchen and mess hall. It drops around thirty feet by way of a one in one slope to the cave below. As a secret entrance, it is impractical. The chute is man-sized,and sliding down it, controlling your descent with outstretched arms and legs, is entirely plausible. Comfortable, in fact. But climbing the perfectly cylindrical tube with its smooth and slippery surface would be time-consuming and possibly fruitless. The goblins call this a “lana haddi-os plas kopiel,” a bone and pelt chute.
Goblins have live animals like boars, giant voles and rats transported and delivered to the fort on a daily basis, except for on their day of rest, “ra ko dina.” They are brought to the kitchen in wooden cages. The cooks will skin them and roast their naked corpses. The pelts are gathered together. The kitchen-hands will collect the leftover bones after meals and pick off the remaining flesh to be boiled in a soup. The picked-clean bones are also gathered. Both these items are then taken to the chute and discarded into the cave below. A bone and pelt trader will visit the cave, also on a daily basis, placing all the pelts and bones into an empty cart, taking the goods to be sold in a market in the mountainous goblin domain. The pelts are turned into clothes, and the bones into jewellery and ornaments.
The third entry point is another two hundred yards to the left of the bone and pelt cave, and is the outlet for a violent, raging underground river. Even now, from such a great distance, I can hear its ferocity, spewing anger from the deep, cold heart of the mountain. At the mouth of the cave, there is a narrow ascending trail that can be climbed. I havehad looked down and observed this trail when I was a human guest…
***
After I enter through the main gate, there is a stone stairway that leads up to the first floor, where there is a long, ascending hallway, lit dimly with torches. As I pass by, on my right is an entrance to a huge hall, filled with aged tables and benches. The ceiling is so high it fades into the darkness. Goblin guards laugh and chat as they line their stomachs with meat and soup. On the far side of this mess hall, there is a far grander entrance where more goblin guards appear from. Walking a bit further along the musty hallway, on the left, I see the bone and pelt chute.
Another fifty feet, the hallway splits into two. I turn right, where there are six doors, three on each side. The goblins call this the “human quarters,” the only place where humans are permitted to wait and stay. Actually, that was a lie. I call it the human quarters. The goblins’ words are far more disparaging, and unrepeatable. The room itself is rudimentary, with a high bed carved from stone, and a pallet thrown on top. Large slow-burning wax candles adorn cubicles in the walls. There is water in a clay jug, with two clay cups, and a clay bowl topped with yammie fruits on a small wooden bedside-side table. The goblin fruit is pear-shaped and pear-sized, with a bright yellow jacket and a star-shaped stem. It is packed with sugary sweetness, but it leaves my mouth dry, and aches my back teeth. A guard is posted on the door at all times.
Curiously, there is no chamber pot in the room. I ask the guard. He doesn’t understand. I don’t have the words to describe my specific request. Garak never thought to teach me, so with a finger by my crotch, I point repeatedlyrepeatedly point in a downwards position. He grumbles and walks off. I think he knows what I’m talking about, so I follow him to the end of the hallway, and we make a right turn. The passageway curves gently to the right. The sound of raging torrents becomes louder with each step. As I walk, the air becomes moist and cold, and there is condensation on the walls. Finally, the guard ushers me into a large hollow cave-like structure.
We are on a narrow ledge, high above the intense eruption of flowing water below. Up ahead, are several circles carved into the ground. I inspect more closely, and the circles are actually foot-wide holes that drop straight down into the river. The edge of each hole is covered with traces of faeces. An associated rank smell attacks my nostrils. Nearby is a rock with a series of metal loops fastened to the surface. They look like they are for manacles or chains. The guard points repeatedlyrepeatedly points to the holes. I stand there or thereabouts, wondering if I should pull down my pantaloons. The guard’s stares are unflinching and unblinking. I motion with my finger to ask him to kindly turn around, but he pretends not to understand me.
“Notto,” I say to the guard, with a shake of my head, and make my way back to my freezing larder of a room. I remind myself to refrain from drinking prior to a visit to the Black Fort in the future. As I leave, I take a look at the powerful flow of water below. On the left is a narrow, descending trail that leads out of the cave. It is barely visible as the sunlight from the cave exit is subdued and weak. It is an escape route, nonetheless. Another option would be to dive into the river, but with the jagged rocks below and the turbulent current, a plunge into that maelstrom would mean certain death.
***
I guide the goblin knight’s horse as it traverses the wasteland, avoiding the broken ground and random lumps of rock. The journey towards the main gate is taking an age. There is something about goblin culture that is very grating, but it will help me tonight.
The goblin caste system is heavily structured and unbreakable. The goblin knight is probably a prince, a lord, or the son of a lord. As such, he has the run of the roost at the Black Fort. The goblin soldiers, on the other hand, are the lowest of the low to be stationed in an outpost at the furthest reaches of goblin society. I am gambling everything on the other goblins’ subservience to the knight.
With all this time on my hands, I begin to think about all the things that can go wrong. Suddenly the ground that this plan is built on is beginning to shake at its very foundations. My trepidation is palpable under my visor. It’s too late to turn back now. I’m already here. Two guards at the door mark my arrival with a respectful bow. I dismount from the right side. With my small feet inside the overlarge sabatons, I almost slip but correct myself just in time. My anxiety mounts as my mind races with the fear of discovery. The buckles and straps on my armour no longer seem tight. If a gauntlet falls off or my helmet topples, what am I to do?
One of the guards grasps and tugs impatiently at the reins. I grab my goblin whip from the saddle before he leads the horse away. My quick action startles the both of them, as they have very good memories of the goblin whip.
***
The last time I was here, I was further into the complex near the trading post where Garak proudly revealed to me my finished short swords. As I marvelled at the perfect weight distribution and the lightness of the blades, the goblin knight entered through the main door. He was in a foul mood, or so it seemed. The goblin guards were clearly fearful and reticent to approach the knight. This made him even angrier. He did not say a single word, but he raised his whip and furiously lashed at every guard close enough to be assaulted. Instead of standing up to him, every single guard grovelled, apologising profusely for their mistakes, of which there were none. Garak shook his head, quickly ushering me into a room where the knight’s regular pastime would not trouble me.
***
I grip the whip weakly in my gauntleted right hand, with only my thumb and forefinger retaining a reasonable level of strength and deftness. I examine the whip’s foot-long hard leather handle, which has a loop on one end. Placing the loop over my wrist straight away means that at least it won’t fly out of my hand when I must swing it in anger. The other end resembles a two-foot-long horse tail, but with strands that have been replaced with a multitude of metallic threads fitted with hundreds of short, sharp, silvery blades. It doesn’t even look like a whip, more like a deadlier version of a flywhisk. If my bare skin is flailed with this, it would will become a painful and bloody mess, but with the goblin’s thick hide, the effect will be far less pronounced.
Cut from the finest wood that existed over a thousand years ago, the main door is colossal in size. I have seen it many times before, but it is still truly intimidating, as though a terrible ancient beast hides behind it. However, this door is closed, as it always is. There are two much smaller doors framed within the main door. The guard welcomes me and asks me to follow him through the smallest one, which is made from a darker, less weathered wood, cut from comparative saplings.
Meanwhile, the horse is being led through the larger door, carved from the same new wood, on the far side. My paranoia eases. They don’t suspect anything. Not even a whiff of human scent. The guard tries to lighten the mood by jabbering incessantly. I do not understand a single word, his accent completely incomprehensible. He ends by laughing nervously whilst displaying his huge underbite embedded with curling tusk-like teeth. He looks over his shoulder and notices that I do not look impressed with his joke. His eyes wander apprehensively, and he cracks his head against the unsighted door arch. Rubbing his scalp, he invites me inside.
I stoop and stride through the arch in one smooth motion. I’m immediately surprised by a group of children playing some kind of game with a ball made exquisitely from bones. I never saw a single child on my previous visits during the daytime. It never even occurred to me that these goblins on the frontier had families. I have never even seen a female goblin before, and I still haven’t. I smile under my visor. The children play like human children. Maybe we are more alike than we think. A chill comes over me, and I feel pity. Not for them exactly, but their children, or their children’s children. There will come a time when man will no longer honour the truce of old.
Mankind is greedy and selfish. In ancient times, when the lands were formed by the gods, it was shared equally between the humanoid forms of man, lizard, troglodytes, and mer. Man banded together and fought their enemies. They drove the lizards back to the swamps. They drove the troglodytes back into the mountains. And they drove the mer back into the sea. When the lands were finally won by man, they did not rest on their laurels. They fought each other almost eternally until a century ago, when the Great King, Solemaine, united the west. That led to the formation of the Nine Kingdoms we see today, and it ushered in a hundred years of peace.
I’m losing my focus. I have to reach the first floor unopposed. Looking to the stairs on the left, I advance towards the stone staircase. The guard tries to dissuade me by pointing down the long hallway, as if to tell me the direction of my quarters is past the trading post. I ignore him as best I can. As I place a foot on the first step, he calls out frantically. My anxiety rises as the other goblins glare curiously in my direction. They draw closer to observe the commotion. I hear my throat gulp dryly. I’m in trouble.
I’m relieved when the guard throws me a lifeline. In his frenetic haste, he forgets who he is, and more importantly, he forgets who I am. He places a hand on my arm. No low-caste scum is allowed to touch me. He realises his mistake, but it is a moment too late. His large grey eyelids close over his large yellowing eyeballs as he comes to terms with his blunder. I raise the whip and unleash lash upon lash, flail upon flail. He backs off with his hands over his head, all the time whimpering, “why, master, why?” He drops to his knees and scampers away as merciless jagged blows land furiously against his back. The other goblins reel back in fear, pretending not to see anything. I have to be seen to be in control, so I stand triumphantly, but my heart is saddened as I observe the scared children running for cover.
The moment doesn’t last long, as I quickly bustle up the devilishly steep staircase. Forty steps later, I reach the top, but I hear footsteps behind me. The whipped guard trails ten steps behind. I can’t believe this. He’s still following me. I turn and raise the whip again. Ten steps become twelve but backing off is not the same as leaving. I march heatedly up the sloping passage, past the mess hall, and then past the bone and pelt chute. I turn around, and he is still there, ten steps behind me. Speaking is a last resort, and I don’t want to do it. It might give me away. Maybe I don’t have a choice.
“Alaga peka,” I boom with a rasping croak. No, that means stand aside. Leave me! “Choda ho!” I let out a loud flustered roar to cover my error. Each syllable ricochets against the narrow walls, escaping through passageway after passageway. The entire fort probably heard that. The guard peels away. This time ten steps becomes twenty, but he is still here. What will it take to get rid of you? I decide to keep walking, my armour clinking and clanking.
I pass the junction to the human quarters, training my eyes upon the six doors. I spy one standing guard dressed in what looks like rat’s fur in front of the door closest to me on the right. His eyes immediately avert down to his feet when he sees my armoured head pointed towards him. That’s good. That means there is a guest, or prisoner, behind that door. I keep walking, heading towards the latrine cave. If my “new friend” Whippy follows, I will have to deal with him. I turn around one final time and attempt to drive him away. His face is at first perplexed, but then it discovers illumination. He figures out, all by himself, that I need to use the latrine above the raging torrent. He nods his head with pride, acting as though he has won a prize. I nod in tandem with him before waving him away. I watch as his silhouette drops out of sight. I hear echoes of footsteps trudging down steps one at a time. Ten becomes twenty, thirty, forty. Whippy has finally gone. I sigh in relief.
There is still the pressing matter of the guard-in-furs, but I have the exact tool for the job. The north forest dark nightshade plant contains poison in its leaves, stems and especially in its berries. If ingested or allowed into the bloodstream, it is deadly to humans and animals alike, with the exception of troglodytic species, which includes the goblin. In fact, they have been seen scavenging nightshade berries at dusk in the north forest. They grind the berries into a juice and then mix it with goblin ale for the purpose of merriment and intoxication. However, the part of the plant where the poison is most concentrated is in the root. It is at least ten times more potent than the berry. The root mixed with berries can be ground into a dark goo, which I have managed to do.
Many hours ago, I fired a sharp wood-tipped arrow coated in the goo into the shoulder of the goblin knight, who dropped down unconscious on a short count of five. He should still be fast asleep until tomorrow afternoon. The situation is different with the guard-in-furs. Because the goblin knight does not carry a bow or any other projectile weapon, I cannot utilise these items either. I have no means to force the guard-in-furs to ingest the poison either willingly or with trickery.
This is where my two watchwords come in. Planning and organisation. Hidden in my belt are three sharp wooden stakes designed to pierce the hide of a goblin. Each has been dipped in the nightshade concoction. I carefully remove one of the stakes and unwrap the thick leather sheath shielding me from the sharp poisoned tip. I open my visor and bring the tip of the stake to my nose. A sweet and delicate woody scent masks its poisonous nature. I just need to get close enough to jab him on the shoulder. I’m not much for acting, but I have to try. I hope this works.
I draw deep breaths through my nostrils. Dropping my visor, I lurch past the threshold of the corner. Walking slowly, my left hand clings to the wall, and my right hand is by my side, hiding the pointed stake from the guard’s view. I am stooped, my gait staggered. The guard looks on with puzzlement at my feigned illness.
“Kaho madda koe, mastara?” Can I help you, master? Guard-in-fur’s annunciation is clear and concise compared to Whippy’s fast and unintelligible chatter. He is clearly from a different region and of a higher standing.
“Hoa…ukopo…” I reply weakly. My head. I stumble towards him. He takes a few steps forwards but stops short of helping me, as he struggles with the instinct not to place a hand on a knight. “Hinai…ho…” Help me. This is practically an open invitation. He takes the bait, raising his hands to my shoulders to steady my failing balance. In my hunched position, we are the same height. My eyes are trained on his open shoulder.
I measure the target and strike! My right arm flashes up and plunges the tip of the stake into his flesh. It lodges behind his collarbone. Earlier today, the goblin knight swayed and wobbled before dropping peacefully to the ground, but guard-in-fur’s reaction is not the same.
He growls in agony, wrapping his long, muscular arms around my waist. The armour protects me, but I grimace under the pain of constriction. I feel my feet leave the ground as he hoists me up, and with his entire weight behind him, he launches me into the wall behind. I crash to the sound of metallic thunder, and it knocks the wind out of me. My head rattles inside the helmet. He uses his superior strength to pin me against the wall. The back of my armour screeches and squeals in distress as it scrapes against the rock face repeatedly. I rain blows to his neck and his head to no avail. The count of five has long since passed. His constitution and endurance are impressive. With my blurred vision, and in the dark, I cannot see his wound, but I smell the strong scent of salty goblin blood. I have to let the nightshade perform its magic.
Finally, the guard’s grip weakens, and I knock him to the ground. I jump on top, placing him in a headlock from behind. Even against the floor, he struggles with attempts to buck me from his back. I grit my teeth, applying more pressure. His body stops moving before going limp. I listen for signs of breathing. Picking myself up, I hear his light snores, and see a white foam bubbling from his mouth. Good. He’s still alive.
My breathing is ragged from the exertion, and the babuit root supplies me with the sound of a wolf growling in the darkness. I suddenly have this inane idea that if I make no noise now, it will make up for all the ruckus that had gone on before. My shoulders and arms ache as I quietly tiptoe towards the main passageway. Peeking past the corner, the bone and pelt chute is right there, within walking distance to liberation. I was half -expecting dozens of goblins to be pouring out of the mess hall to investigate. Luckily, there is nothing but the sound of flowing water in the distant background.
Turning back to the scene of the crime, a battle-axe leans against the wall next to the door, unused. Above the weapon, at goblin eye -level, hangs a set of hefty iron keys. I grab them, selecting the largest key to unlock the door. Before the key finds the hole, I stop, as I notice a small window-like grate. Carefully stooping and peering inside, the faint light offers no insight, but right in the far corner, a lonely figure sits atop a stone bed. I cannot discern any details in the dim candlelight except for a golden crown of hair, shining brightly like a halo. My thoughts turn to the paintings of angels hanging in the hallways of nobles. I gasp at this moment of divinity. Her face is shrouded under the embrace of night, but I imagine a picture of beauty. The large key does its job. The lock snaps open, and the door swings away from me slowly. She sits up regally, tilting her head to one side, speaking huskily, “Who are you?”
Under an Azure Sky - Elysia Dayne: Book 1 stars Elysia Dayne, a young woman turned dragon slayer after a tragedy turned her from a naïve and innocent child into a hardened hero with whom 'love' has lost all meaning. Until she meets Princess Isabella after being tasked with rescuing her from goblins. At first, Isabella is cold towards her, being the typical image of a spoiled princess at ease with the idea of marrying a prince and becoming a queen. Without spoiling certain events, over time they warm to each other as they face increasingly dangerous threats to their safety.
Elysia as a hero (she states in the book she isn't fond of the term 'heroine' as it 'sounds lesser' than hero) is an interesting depiction of the usual heroic type. She isn't perfect by any means, but she's far from inept. She laughs off the legends that surround her, and even the princess is disappointed when they finally meet and Elysia confirms her identity. The blend of being skilled but not invincible makes her feel more human, and that kind of characterization applies to a lot of the characters in the book. It intrigued me how even characters who are killed off as quickly as they're introduced get moments with bits of background information or an idea of their personalities. The book also gives nonhuman characters and antagonists sympathetic traits, so that very few seem one-note. That being said, I feel like some scenes feel drawn out, though that may be a personal issue. It may put off anyone weary of long, heavily descriptive scenes, but I'm aware many people like detailed descriptions.
The primary draw of the story is the romance between Elysia and Isabella, which is incredibly well-done. As someone who's usually not a fan of slow burn, it was entertaining to watch their relationship develop. Their personalities clashed in a way that was believable and any arguments they had felt realistic, never feeling like they had an argument quota to fill before they could start truly liking each other. The way their relationship gradually mends itself feels real and not at all forced.
I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys fantastical worlds, meaningful relationships, and great care given to even the most minor characters.