Sneak Peek: Sovereign of Clans, Chapter 1
Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope you’ve had a wonderful day, wherever you are in the world. As a thank-you for being part of this journey, I wanted to share an all-new sneak peek of Sovereign of Clans (The Witness Tree Chronicles, Book 4) with you!
If you’re a member of The Inner Chamber, then you’ve seen bits and pieces of the Sovereign draft via email. This story has been a slow build for me, for many reasons—one being that I paused drafting in 2023 to write Ruse of Heirs (A Tales of Rodhlan Novel), which was essential to moving forward with this story. I’m back in full swing with book 4 now, and super excited to share more with you as we go!
You might have seen previous snippets from this book as part of my newsletter. Much of that material remains in the current draft, but this is a new Chapter 1. I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. This book begins from Caitir’s POV, since we saw her wreaking a special kind of havoc at the end of Vow of Magic. ;)
As always, early excerpts are subject to editorial changes. Enjoy!
Warning; Spoilers ahead!! If you haven’t read through the series yet, you will be majorly spoiled if you read this excerpt.
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Chapter 1
Caitir Tarlach | Kingdom of Sov’is, Iteloria
“Wake up, my lady.”
Caitir cracked one eye open, squinting against the morning sunlight that illuminated her lavish chamber. Before her bed stood Toryn, a gentle hand braced against Caitir’s shoulder. The midwife gave her a light shake.
“I thought you were dead.” Caitir gripped Toryn’s sleeve, her eyes pricking with unshed tears. Her friend’s face was the first she had seen since her mother and King La’hiran had locked her in here a week ago.
“You need to sit up now.” Toryn took a step back, her expression drawn. “Your mother won’t be far behind.”
A knot formed in Caitir’s stomach as she pushed herself up to sit. Despite her solitude, she had been relieved at Aila’s extended absence. Caitir had destroyed Lira’s pendant the day she’d arrived here, her mother’s only means of magical travel to and from Rodhlan. Although the king had seemed vaguely amused by Caitir’s defiance, her mother had been livid. The fact that Aila coveted Caitir’s unborn child was the only thing that had kept her alive for this long.
“What’s happening?” Caitir asked, shrugging on her dressing gown and stepping down from the high bed.
Toryn’s eyes widened slightly, and she shook her head.
Panic rose within Caitir. Being reunited with Toryn was a good thing, was it not?
She lowered her voice, and tried again. “Why won’t you answer me?”
Aila burst through the chamber doors dressed in a silver gown, her black hair arranged in the elaborate braids characteristic of Itelorian fashion. The piercing silver of her eyes was still unnerving to Caitir; all her life, Aila had concealed their color with magic. They were a dead giveaway to her immortality, a fact she’d carefully kept hidden.
“Toryn has been instructed not to engage in conversation with you. No communication beyond daily necessity,” Aila answered, surveying her daughter. Her lip curled. “You recall she has a husband and four daughters in Rodhlan, one of them still a small child. She has agreed to comply with my wishes in exchange for their protection.”
“I see.” A lump rose in Caitir’s throat, but she willed it away. “As I also wish for their safety, I won’t try to engage her.”
“Ah.” Aila sighed, her lips stretching into a smile. “Submission isn’t so hard now, is it?”
Caitir pinched the dressing gown fabric that hung at her sides in an attempt to remain impassive. “Indeed, it is not.”
“Toryn is here to examine the child,” Aila said. “See to necessities if you haven’t already, then return to us.”
Caitir couldn’t help but shrink, placing a protective hand over her belly, her heart pounding. “Pardon?”
Aila sneered. “I gave you a week’s respite. Now, you will give me this. I need to see how the child fares. Most importantly, I need assurance you will carry to term—minimize any possible complications.”
Not for my sake. Caitir fought to appear unfazed. Aila had engaged in magical experiments over lifetimes, blending a mixture of powers through bloodlines and unions in an attempt to produce an immortal child. While Caitir was not immortal herself, it appeared that the babe in her womb was. She could scarcely understand how it was possible, but she wholeheartedly believed Thorne—the first person who had understood the child’s power.
On shaky legs, Caitir walked to the bathing chamber and shut the door behind her. Her chin wobbled as she tried to draw a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm. This unwelcome reunion with her mother was still painful and fresh, like tender skin flayed open by a jagged blade. Caitir had gone from being complicit in Aila’s schemes to outright defying her in the months leading up to today. Now that she was once again under lock and key, being in her mother’s presence was intolerable, and her overwhelming grief had taken on a life of its own.
Her vision blurred with tears, though she blinked them back furiously. Leaning against the far wall, she lowered herself to the floor, sitting on the plush rug and drawing her knees up. The thought of Aila being present during the midwife’s examination made her feel lightheaded and nauseous.
Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back and rested it against the wall, placing a hand on her belly.
“I’m sorry, love,” she murmured. “I wanted to shield you from her. I failed.”
Grief dragged Caitir into its depths. She thought about how little time she had left. About how she would never truly know the child in her womb. As a mortal goddess, Caitir was a bargaining chip between Aila and Iteloria’s king—a guarantee for her mother’s political immunity, and a sacrifice to this continent once her child was born.
Centuries ago, Rodhlan’s ancient rulers had agreed to sacrifice all its mortal deities on Itelorian soil. But Toryn, who had attended Eremon’s birth, had helped his father hide the true nature of his magic. He had survived into young adulthood as a mortal god before his death. His resurrection as an immortal had denied Iteloria its magical sacrifice.
Longing coursed through Caitir’s body. The memory of Eremon’s beautiful face was as sharp and clear as the day she had left him. She would never forget the way her betrayal had slowly dawned on him as the glass cuffs extinguished his magic. His expression had shifted so many times in those moments—from desperation and grief to shock, and finally to an agonizing, primal rage that was palpable in her memory, even now.
He had told her he would never forgive her, and he’d meant it. That had been a risk she’d knowingly taken. But Caitir had spent most of her life being selfish; she couldn’t bear the thought of letting Eremon’s allies die. Her allies too, she supposed—Lira, Aidryn, Oda, Thorne. She had made the right decision to give herself up to Aila, even if Eremon hated her for eternity.
“Mortal gods, I miss you, Eremon.” The words ghosted from her lips with barely a sound. “Please don’t hate me forever. Please.”
It didn’t matter; she would probably never see him again.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting against the wall, weeping in silence, when there was a loud rapping at the door.
“Caitir!” Aila barked. “Come out. You’ve had plenty of time.”
The sound of that voice was all it took to shift Caitir’s grief into searing hatred. She took a few ragged breaths, focusing all her vitriol on that door before she finally stood again. Cradling her belly, she focused every ounce of her courage, willing herself not to fear—for her own sake, and for her child’s.
Did Caitir’s decision to come here have to lead to inevitable death? Did it have to mean Aila had won? Or had Caitir simply given up hope after leaving Eremon behind?
Caitir had told Eremon she was buying them time. But she had only been thinking of everyone else. She hadn’t considered that this move bought her time, too.
This child wouldn’t be born for months yet. Caitir could wait to be led to slaughter, or she could become a destructive force all her own. After all, she had learned from the best.
If there is a way to destroy Aila, she silently vowed, I will find it before this is over.
As if in agreement, the child kicked. A slow smile spread across Caitir’s lips, and she gathered herself, heading for the door. She jerked it open with more force than necessary, startling Aila, who had pressed herself against it.
“How dare you,” her mother hissed.
“How dare I what?” Caitir shot back. “I’m being obedient, Mother.”
Aila snarled, snatching Caitir’s upper arm and pinching hard. Caitir hissed, her cheeks burning with rage.
“You think you’re immune to my wrath because of the child,” Aila said with a hollow laugh, as though the realization had never occurred to her.
“That baby cannot feel its incubator’s superficial pain or mental anguish. My only concern is an intact womb and a successful birth. To that end, I will keep you alive. But the moment she is born—” Aila cast a sharp glance toward Caitir’s belly— “I will sacrifice you myself, in the most agonizing way possible. I will have the final word, and all you will know in death is its endless, eternal echo.”
As Aila bore down, her threats faded into muffled noise. Nothing she said mattered to Caitir, except for one word.
She.
A daughter.
This child in her womb was her daughter.
She bit back a gasp, forcing her expression into neutrality.
The entirety of Caitir’s life flashed before her, solidifying her vow. She felt her own intense childhood love for Aila, her longing for approval, the desperation to please her mother by any means necessary. Visions of her own suffering, self-abandonment, and all the years of doing Aila’s bidding rose to the surface. All Caitir’s pain, and the pain she’d inflicted on others, would be multiplied for this immortal child, who would be bound to Aila forever—unless someone could break the cycle.
It seemed an impossibility, but she was unwilling to consider alternatives. Caitir had already tasted the bitterness of inevitable defeat, and that was simply unacceptable.
She will never lay a hand on you, Caitir thought, taking a steadying breath and willing the words to reach her daughter’s spirit.
The word together drifted past her right ear as though on a breeze, and Caitir turned ever so slightly, seeking out its origin.
“You dare look away from me?” Aila shrieked, yanking Caitir’s arm to seize her attention again.
As Caitir met her mother’s eyes, Aila’s palm met her cheek with a loud, stinging crack. Momentary shock seized her body as the pain registered. Then, as though governed by some outside force, Caitir raised her own hand, shouting with rage as she charged Aila, and striking so hard she knocked the immortal woman to the floor. From across the chamber, Toryn cried out, then fled, slamming the heavy door behind her.
Caitir stumbled backward, horrified, her wide eyes fixed on Aila, who remained down for an agonizingly long moment. Aila raised trembling fingers to her cheek. She pushed herself up to sit on her knees, her back turned to Caitir, as though contemplating her next movements. With each slow breath, her body visibly shuddered.
Heart pounding, Caitir considered whether to flee like Toryn had, or remain frozen. Striking her mother was the ultimate test of her limits in this place. Were it not for the child in her womb, Caitir would likely face her own death within moments.
Rather than fear, glee shivered through her body like winter air caressing her skin. This was what she’d hoped for: the ability to wreak complete havoc for as long as she was held prisoner here. If Aila didn’t strike her down for this, then the possibilities were endless.
She bit back a smile just as Aila finally turned to face her, then rose to her feet.
And then Caitir’s lips parted in surprise—because Aila’s cheek glowed cobalt where she had struck.
Their gazes locked. Caitir felt the overwhelming urge to look at the floor, but she forced herself to hold firm. If she truly meant to challenge her mother, then she must not be the first to look away.
It was impossible to read what flashed in Aila’s silver eyes next, because Caitir had never seen it before. Was it fear? Vulnerability? Or simply resolve to kill Caitir where she stood?
The sound of Caitir’s heart pounded in her ears. She curled her fingers into fists to stop their trembling. Took one steadying breath, then two.
Without another word, Aila turned and fled the chamber, leaving an astonished Caitir in her wake.
//end
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