A stunning reimagining of Tristan and Isolde set in a dystopian world woven with magic. An addictive debut YA enemies-to-lovers romantasy—perfect for fans of Rebecca Ross and Sarah Underwood as well as books like Curious Tides, The Hurricane Wars, and Belladonna.
It’s been thirty-seven years since the Republic was destroyed. Now two settlements—the five clans and the Kingsland—fight for control of the untainted land. Though the five clans are outnumbered, they’ve finally struck, killing Kingsland’s brutal leader.
In the war that follows, Isadora, an eighteen-year-old healer, risks her life to help injured soldiers. But when she stops an attack from Tristan, a Kingsland assassin, his soldiers shoot her with a poisoned arrow. As Isadora lies dying, Tristan does the unimaginable: He offers to save her life using a rare magic.
In choosing to live, Isadora is unknowingly bound to the mysterious Tristan. Worse, even acknowledging the attraction between them allows him to glean fragments of her memories and the very knowledge he needs to destroy the five clans. But their magical connection works both ways. So to save her people, Isadora will have to open her heart to her most cunning enemy. Because in a race for ultimate survival, she’ll need to destroy Tristan and his people first.
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IF THERE’S A BETTER WAY to wait for Farron Banks to
be murdered, I haven’t found it. All I know is that this feels wrong.
There’s a shake to my hands as I adjust the heavy, old-world text-
book on my thighs. The candle flickers, giving me barely enough
light to see the words. Cardiac arrest happens when the heart can no
longer produce a sufficient pulse and blood circulation. The cause may
be from an electrical event, as when the heart rate is too fast . . .
The text blurs. If I weren’t on the verge of crying, I’d laugh. Of
course, the page I flipped to in an attempt to distract myself from
death . . . would be about death.
Although to be fair, it’s about natural death. Not the kind that
involves an arrow to the heart. Or a hatchet. Or a blade.
The kind of death one of our clan leaders is about to carry out.
There’ll be nothing natural about the way Farron—leader of our
enemy, the Kingsland—dies.
Bleeding skies. I sigh and slam the deteriorating book closed.
The old springs of the blanket-covered couch cry out as I heave my
most prized possession onto the cushion beside me. “I need a new
distraction,” I mutter.
No, what I need is to call this off.
Not only Father’s contest to assassinate Farron, but making mar-
riage to me the winner’s lucky prize.
Only I can’t say that without being disloyal. Ungrateful.
Punished.
Mum pauses her task of tying feversley leaves to the clotheslines
strung above the crackling woodstove. The log ceiling is covered
with strands of them, since she gives supplies to all the women heal-
ers in the five clans. “Calm yourself, Isadora.” Her words are quiet
but no less a command.
I nod and inhale slowly, but the hint of smoke mixed with the
earthy scent of the herbs makes me feel like I can’t catch my breath.
Mum’s thin lips tighten. “Come. Keep your hands busy and
help me stack this yarkow. You shouldn’t be reading that anyway.
You know those books are dangerous and—”
I jump to my feet. Fresh air—that’s what I need. Room to move.
Not another lecture on how the old-world ways led to the mass
bombing of the Republic, our home. “It’s just a reference book,”
I mumble on my way to the door. “No different from the ones we
keep to help us fix a well or teach us the name of a plant.”
But that’s a lie. This textbook is so much more than the basics.
It’s a window into a time that stopped existing thirty-seven years ago.
And although I’d argue that we need to study the old world to save
lives, these books also hint at a different way of thinking, something
that could be considered a slippery slope into the perversions and
corruption that led to our continent’s demise. Or at least that was the
reason given when a good portion of our books were burned.
Father suddenly storms into the room, his boots scuffing the
wooden planks.
My breath catches as his hard gaze lands on the textbook. I
remain still, knowing it was a foolish risk to take it out from under
my bed.
Mercifully, he doesn’t break stride. “Scouts are back.”
They’re back.
He disappears out the front door, inviting in a gust of wind that
rattles the herbs and makes the candles flicker within their glass
globes.
Mum smooths down the hairs that have come loose from her
long braid, then gives me a steady look. “It’s going to be okay. The
Saraf will ensure it.”
My father, the Saraf, may be the ultimate authority over the five
clans as their founder and leader, but that’s not a promise either of
my parents can make. Not if this contest succeeds. My eyes shut,
and when I open them again, they’re filled with angry tears. “Are
you really at peace with your eighteen-year-old daughter marrying
a thirty-four-year-old executioner?” Unwanted, my mind conjures a
picture of Gerald, leader of the Maska clan, and revulsion wrenches
my stomach. I could marry any of the other clan leaders competing
to be the next Saraf. But not the head of our guards. Gerald reeks of
death. I see it in the small bone dangling around his neck. I hear it
in the prisoners’ screams that leak from the walls when he tortures
them, retaliating against the Kingsland for all they’ve done to us.
He’s our best fighter but absolutely cruel, which means his chances
of winning are—
She swallows. “It might be Liam.”
Yes, it might be my friend, the young clan leader of Cohdor.
He’s never stopped me from rambling on about the things I find in
the textbooks he secretly brings to me. By the span of entire coun-
tries, he’s the best choice out of the five clan leaders competing for
my hand. But although he’s strong and capable, Liam comes from
a clan of woodworkers, not warriors. “He’s not ruthless enough for
this,” I say quietly.
No other clan leader is. I huff as I think of the rest of the com-
petitors, all of them widowers with kids. The clan leader of our
crop farmers is the most capable man among us, but only in regard
to farming. The leader of our ranchers is physically strong and an
expert in animals but knows nothing when it comes to fighting and
killing our enemy. The same goes for the fifth and final contender,
who will be Father’s proxy, representing Hanook, my clan—an
insufferable man whose expertise is unknown to me. I only wish
he’d put the same effort into bathing as he does talking.
The truth that Gerald will likely be my future tangles around
my heart like a vine of thorns. But instead of speaking more com-
fort, Mum curtly gestures for me to follow her outside and take our
place beside Father on the porch.
Beyond the stairs, Denver dismounts his horse. As a scout and
one of the many clansmen missing an arm due to an infection, his
weapons are merely a couple of knives strapped to his thigh.
“Blazing bull nuts, we’ve got a winner.” He sports a toothy grin
as he climbs the steps leading to our log home. “Somebody crank
that siren. It’s done.”
Father smiles. He looks breathless. Euphoric. To him, we’ve
finally cut off the head of the beast that has haunted us for decades.
But I don’t think it’s that simple. We haven’t stopped them.
We’ve only kicked the hornets’ nest.
What’s coming now is war. Real war. Their raids in the middle
of the night and their attacks to scare us from our small portion
of untainted land will feel like nothing compared to what’s com-
ing. Now they’ll burn our homes down with us still inside. They’ll
take all our animals and supplies. We will need every able-bodied
clansman to stand united against their numbers.
Which is where I come in, by bringing unity back to the clans.
I grip the handrail tight as devastation sweeps over me that Father’s
barbaric contest didn’t fail. I’m getting married. But to who?
The faint sound of hoofbeats draws our attention to the trees. I
move along the wraparound porch, straining to see past the torches
that mark the edge of our yard.
My brother, Percy, appears first, riding up on his black mare. He
jerks her abruptly to a stop. His overgrown blond hair is blown back
and tangled by the wind.
“Who’s our winner?” Father demands, crossing his arms over his
broad chest.
Percy jumps off his horse and tosses the reins to one of the many
neighboring children gathering. “How about ‘Are you injured? Did
everyone make it back okay?’” He shakes his head as he stomps
away.
“Percy!” Father shouts. “Get back here.”
I force myself not to react as Father flies down the steps, chas-
ing after him, his towering height eclipsing my brother from view.
“Answer me,” he growls.
Percy whirls on him. “You want an answer? Here’s your answer.
You should have chosen me, a proper contender, to compete as your
proxy for the Hanook clan. Instead, you chose Harris, whose horse
can handle a weapon better than he does.”
“The winner marries your sister. That disqualifies you.”
“And you disqualified our clan from remaining in power with
the Saraf as its leader. But I guess it didn’t serve you. Who cares
what happens to the clans after you die, right?”
Blazing fates. Does that mean Gerald won? A strangled sound
escapes my throat, and I have the sudden urge to run.
Mum’s bony shoulder presses hard into mine. “Remember your
duty,” she whispers. “This marriage is the promise.”
Promise. Or rather, contract. I’m the guarantee that the winner
of the contest will be the next Saraf after Father dies.
My eyes close. Which is worse? An unwanted marriage? Or the
clans breaking apart over succession while the Kingsland swoops in
and slaughters us all?
The answer is easy. It’s why my feet haven’t moved from these
planks of wood. We need to unite as one community with five
strengths. There is no other way for the clans to survive what’s
coming. Still, my chest burns with dread, so I picture the lives this
marriage will protect: my best friend, Freia; our neighbors and their
young children; my parents; my brother. Is this not the very reason
I became a healer? To help—to save—people?
Father speaks into Percy’s ear, then shoves him in the direction
of his log house, a couple of hundred feet from ours.
More hoofbeats rise from the forest. Another figure on a horse
trots out of the darkness. There’s something—someone—strapped
to the horse’s back behind the rider. Numbness descends over me
until the light of the torches finally brushes the rider’s face.
Liam.
A sob of relief knots in my throat.
He scans the people gathered and pauses briefly on Father before
locking eyes with me. I grip the wooden railing harder. How is this
possible?
“Crank the siren,” Father says to Denver gruffly, then he raises his
voice to the dozen or so neighbors who have gathered, awaiting news.
“Our tormentors have been defeated. The contest has a champion.”
Liam comes to a stop in the middle of the yard as another arm-
less scout brings up the rear. “My horse is injured. Took an arrow,”
Liam calls to Father. “I need to attend to him in the barn first.”
“Drop Farron’s body,” Father says.
Liam shakes his head in unusual defiance. “No. He’s dead. My
horse isn’t. We’ll deal with the body after.” With a soft bump of his
heels, he urges Hemlock forward.
My stomach tumbles as Father’s face tenses. But before he can
command otherwise, the attack siren begins to whine, building
louder and louder the faster it’s cranked, announcing that the con-
test is over.
Liam’s gaze meets mine again, and something flashes in his eyes
before he disappears around the corner. It looks like panic. Maybe
a plea.
His horse must be seriously injured.
“I’ll go and help him,” I mutter, though horses are far from my
expertise. I turn back to grab my travel bag of bandages and herbs
hanging by the door, then rush down the stairs. The trails leading
to each house are filling with people eager for news after hearing
the siren. Tears sting my eyes as I slide past my neighbors. I can’t
believe this is happening. I don’t have to marry Gerald.
By the time I reach the barn, Liam has Hemlock inside and
stands waiting for me by the double doors. He’s lit two torches, giv-
ing us a bit of light. As I walk in, I’m hit with the scent of sweaty
leather and the distinct, sweet smell of horse.
“Where is he injur—”
Liam slams the doors shut, cutting off my words, then wedges a
beam behind the door handles, barring us inside.
“Farron’s not dead.”
“What?” I spin to look at the body—the man—strapped belly-
down on the horse.
Liam hurries over and works the rope holding Farron in place.
Red-black blood slicks down Hemlock’s rump.
He shoves a hand through his black hair. “I—I couldn’t do it.
Your brother knocked Farron off his horse and handed me the
knife, but I froze. So Percy stabbed him, then left me with the body.
But Farron’s still alive. Or at least he was the last time I checked.”
Stars. If he’s still alive, then Liam isn’t my—
My gaze returns to the blood. The man. Did Liam bring me
here to help him finish what Percy started?
Waiting for Farron to be murdered is one thing, but killing . . .
I could never.
The body before me looks no different from the scores of clans-
men I’ve mended before, and my thoughts scream to help him.
Letting people die isn’t what I’ve spent my whole life studying how
to do.
What if I can save him and prevent an all-out war with the Kings-
land?
“Untie him.” I throw down my medical bag and push up my
sleeves. “Help me get him off the horse.”
Watch your tone. Mum’s reprimand from countless times in my
childhood snaps like a rubber band against my mind. A reminder
that Liam isn’t Freia or my sibling. Liam is a man.
His jaw flexes, but he nods.
We slide Farron into Liam’s arms, then lower him onto the hay-
and dirt-covered ground. A soft moan leaks from the man’s lips.
“I shouldn’t let you do this,” Liam says, rubbing a palm over his
square jaw. His dark hair curls boyishly over his forehead, making
him look younger than his twenty years. I reach for Farron’s shirt—
I have to stop the bleeding—but Liam’s hand slaps over mine and
holds tight. “Did you hear me? He’s a terrorist. He needs to die.”
I’ve never heard a more fitting word for Farron. This man has
commanded his army to descend on us like wraiths in the night to
steal or behead our animals. He’s trained his soldiers to be so savage
that the few clan members who’ve survived their torture come back
blinded and missing thumbs and forefingers, injuries that prevent
them from ever holding a weapon again.
They want what we have and where we live, and they use fear
to get it. But their terror doesn’t end with us. Like those under any
tyrannical leader, it’s the powerless, mostly women, who are treated
no better than slaves. Unquestionably, the world would be a better
place without Farron in it. Yet I can’t kill him any more than Liam
can. “Liam,” I say, holding his distressed gaze, “open his shirt.”
His nostrils flare and he mutters a curse. Then he lifts his hand
from mine, and the sound of fabric tearing fills the air.
For half a heartbeat, I scrutinize the face of our enemy.
Farron’s not what I expected—not by a mile. With his pleasant,
even handsome features and hair peppered with gray, he looks
normal. Human.
It’s unsettling.
Air wheezes from his mouth, snapping me out of my stupor. I
drop my ear to his chest to listen.
“There’s so much blood,” Liam says.
It’s true. A two-inch stab wound gapes just above his heart. Bub-
bles emerge from the pool of blood—his lung is punctured.
“My bag.” I gesture to where I dropped it.
The barn doors rattle, then a fist pounds.
“Why are these doors locked?” Father’s muffled voice demands.
With wide eyes, I look to Liam.
“Ignore him,” he hisses.
That’s a terrible idea, but okay. Unfortunately, Farron takes
that moment to cough. Blood flows from his mouth as his upper
body convulses, causing a surge to gush from the wound. My hand
reaches to stop the bleeding, but as I do, Farron’s eyes open. I freeze
as his unfocused gaze fills with confusion. He blinks at the rafters,
the log walls, then at me.
“Be calm,” I whisper. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“Liam! Isadora!” Father yells. “Open this door before I break it
down.”
Raging heat floods my cheeks.
Farron’s eyes flick to the noise, then close again. His breaths
become quick. Blue tinges his lips. I bet his lung has collapsed,
among other things . . . all of which are beyond my ability to help.
“Come here and take my place,” I whisper to Liam.
He obeys, and I guide his hand to where mine was over the
wound. With my blood-covered fingers free, I dump out the con-
tents of my small medical bag. Rolls of cloth bandages hit my leg.
Stars. He needs a vein infusion. Blood. A life-extenuating machine.
A team of doctors and nurses to operate on him and drain the blood
from his chest. All things I’ve only read about. Dreamed about. But
there’s nothing I can do, except—
My eyes catch on the small white bag of poppy extract. We’re
nearly out. It’s been a long time since the traders have found any
more to sell. “Keep the pressure on,” I say to Liam as I open Far-
ron’s mouth and sprinkle just enough powder under his tongue to
alleviate the pain. It takes a moment, but his breathing changes,
slows, and his face relaxes, but not the tension in his eyes. He looks
so vulnerable that I grab his hand. No one deserves to die alone.
Not even the leader of the Kingsland.
Then, after a couple of half breaths, his chest ceases to move.
Liam sits back on his heels, his hands falling from Farron’s body.
He watches me, but I can’t move. Farron’s blood runs between our
clasped hands. The only thing I have in common with this man is
that despite the size of the Federated States of the Republic, we’ve
been forced to share the same small, unpolluted section of land.
And yet something about this moment feels binding between us.
It’s as if his death is a mark on my soul.
Father’s fist pounds against the wood once more. He yells for
someone to grab an ax.
Liam bites his lip. Sucks in a breath. Then rises to remove the
beam holding the barn doors shut. He waits for my approval.
I nod even though I’m not ready. Now that Farron’s dead, the
men have to prepare for the inevitable—the coming war.
***
Melissa Poett majored in music composition, first telling stories with instruments (and one small symphony) before switching her medium to words. She’s now a Canadian writer who dreams of visiting warm places, being able to eat gluten again, and publishing many more YA books. The Enemy’s Daughter is her debut novel.
The Enemy’s Daughter will be released on May 6, 2025 and can be pre-ordered here.
You can learn more about Melissa here.
