Three Months Later
Isiilde was huddled against the side of a shop watching a building across the road, or rather those coming out of it. Isadora's Closet was the only pleasure house on the East side of Coven. Day and night, it was always busy.
Despite her concealing cloak, people stared at her as they passed. Her red hair attracted notice, even under a hood. Or maybe it was the cloak itself? It was warm and fine, and therefore expensive—a gift from Marsais after she'd burned down the cottage.
It seemed a lifetime ago. But at other times, she still felt the flame roiling over her body.
Isiilde pushed it from her mind, focusing on her current troubles. She touched a rune-etched flagon concealed beneath her cloak.
There was no going back now.
But by the Jack of Fools, what could be taking him so long?
Doubt wiggled its way into her thoughts. She'd watched Marsais enter the pleasure house while she was tinkering with a Gnomish Crystal in the Spine. But maybe he'd slipped out of the building?
The sun was high behind the clouds; she couldn't wait any longer. Tightening her grip on the empty flagon, she strode across the muddy street to Isadora's Closet, and charged the doors.
* * *
Once inside, her resolve faltered. The common room was choked with patrons and she was jostled away from the door like a twig caught in a river.
The air was thick with pipe smoke; the floor covered in nutshells, and the tavern pulsed with the beat of bawdy songs.
Isiilde froze in midstep. A pale woman stood on a table. She wore strands of silk over a body that glowed with ethereal light. Men elbowed each other to get near her. One caught the woman's eye, and he eagerly opened his mouth. She put her toes between his lips and poured a shimmering red liquor down her leg. The man drank eagerly, licking every last drop from her skin.
Two brawling sailors careened into Isiilde, knocking her over. She scrambled to her feet and ducked through the crowd, searching for a way out. But no door was in sight.
A press of bodies pushed her towards the long bar. Then the crowd shifted, and a gap opened up. She darted through and stumbled through an archway.
A haze of smoke hung in this new room, and moaning shapes moved in the murky air. Gradually, her eyes adjusted. Patrons lay on cushions in a tangle of limbs and bodies.
"Pull your hood up and get out of here, girl," a voice hissed in her ear.
Isiilde jerked in surprise. A massive shape with two pale blue eyes filled her vision. For a startling moment she feared it was Oenghus, but where her protector was dark and stormy, this man was fair and calm with a shock of blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
"This is no place for you. If you're lookin' for work, then take my advice and find another profession."
Isiilde took a hasty step back. His words registered, and she quickly did as he suggested, tugging her hood up.
"I'm looking for a man," she said, glancing uneasily at the men in the room. A few had surfaced from their pleasures and were staring at her.
An iron hand locked on her shoulder, but before she could squirm away, the hand steered her down an empty hallway. A memory surfaced. Oenghus had mentioned a Nuthaanian who worked as a guard in Coven. His name was Breeman.
"It's not a place to find a man, either. Trust me."
A man came to leer at her from a doorway, but Breeman growled him away.
"No—" Her mind felt muddled. "I need Marsais." It was all she could manage to say.
"Don't know him." Breeman produced a vial from his trouser pocket and waved it under her nose. Her head instantly cleared.
"I need to speak with the Archlord. I know he's here."
"The Archlord doesn't entertain visitors, not even women. So scat, before you get yourself into trouble."
"But—"
"No one disturbs the Archlord," Breeman rumbled.
"—I'm his apprentice," she finished.
Breeman rubbed his chin. "You're his apprentice?"
She nodded in answer.
"Lucky bastard," he muttered.
"It's important that I see him at once," she said. Her eyes were wide and pleading.
Nuthaanians were ever susceptible to a woman in distress. "Fine, but if he doesn't know you, you'll pay, girl."
Isiilde recognized an empty threat when she heard one.
"Come on, then."
Breeman led her down a narrow stairwell. It led to a chamber with curtained alcoves and a tall apparatus bubbling in the center. Tubes snaked out from it, each leading to an alcove.
Candles flickered in the darkness, and the air was heavy with exotic scents. She could see bodies moving sluggishly through the threadbare curtains. Soft cries and low groans throbbed in the air.
Isiilde glanced nervously towards her guide, feeling a sudden urge to bolt. But Breeman paid her no mind as he stopped in front of an alcove.
"Marsais," he murmured, pulling the edge of the curtain back and making sure to block her view. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's a young woman to see you—"
"I do not, have not, nor will I ever require company, Breeman," a familiar voice cut in. It was definitely Marsais, only... distant sounding.
"—says she's your apprentice," Breeman finished.
A stretch of silence followed as she stood by, nervously wringing the neck of the flagon. Perhaps she should leave—
"And what does this apprentice of mine look like?" Marsais finally asked.
"Scared out of her wits, with a shock of red hair and eyes like a gem-filled sea."
Isiilde froze.
"Send her in," Marsais ordered.
Breeman stepped aside, sweeping the curtain open for her. "You lucked out, girl," he murmured as she ducked inside.
A faint Rune of Light glowed on the stone wall. Isiilde waited for her eyes to adjust, and as they did, she spotted Marsais. He sprawled on a bed of cushions, wearing nothing but his small clothes. He was murmuring in the dark, his voice soft and troubled. His white hair glowed beneath the light, spilling over the faded cushions. He held a pipe of sorts in his right hand—a sleek wooden mouthpiece connected to the tube from the bubbling contraption in the center of the room.
Marsais took a long draught from the pipe. When he exhaled, a stream of flowery smoke swirled from his lips, and his hand fell to his side.
Isiilde sucked in a sharp breath. A raw scar marred his flesh. It was wide and jagged, slashing across his torso from shoulder to rib. Was this what he was always rubbing at beneath his shirt? Although he'd done that for as long as she could remember, the injury was fresh—a terrible wound barely healed.
She'd always thought it was a habit born from irritation. But then she'd never seen him disrobed before. He was long and lean, and muscular. Small wonder he was so quick.
His sharp features twisted with pain, the pipe rolled from his fingers, and his eyes snapped open. But they were not his own. Eyes white as a snowstorm stared blindly into the darkness. He gripped the cushions, fingers clawing at the fabric. Every muscle in his body tensed as if he were fighting an unseen foe. Then a painful moan tore from his throat.
The sound twisted her heart. Impulsively, she leaned in close to touch the scar on his chest. His skin was warm, and she savored the life beating beneath her fingertips. Her touch drifted down his chest, tracing the hard lines of wiry muscle, and then to the thin line of hair below his navel that plunged beneath his cotton drawers.
Marsais bolted upright.
She jumped back, but he paid her no mind as he continued forward, doubling over to clutch his head. He strained to catch his breath like a man who'd been running for hours. He was shivering and covered in cold sweat.
It was an intimate thing to witness. Unsure what to do, she stood her ground, neither moving towards him nor away.
When the tremors eased, Marsais studied her through a tangle of white hair. His eyes had returned to their normal grey.
"Hmm." He swept his hair back, then eased against the wall for support. "Sit down and give me a moment."
Isiilde sat on the edge of the lumpy bed, studying the forgotten pipe on the floor. Silence stretched between them. But the chamber was far from quiet—moans and hushed voices echoed in the dim.
She did not look at him. As lenient and relaxed as Marsais was, Isiilde realized she'd just overstepped some unknown boundary.
Perhaps caressing his naked flesh had been a bad idea. But not much thought had been involved. She sighed. As Morigan was fond of saying, what's done is done.
Isiilde untied her cloak, and let it slide off her shoulders, careful to keep the flagon concealed beneath the folds in her lap. She sniffed curiously at the air. Beneath the sweat, salt, and sickly sweet aroma of pipe smoke lay a kind of heavy musk that she could not place. It made her uncomfortable. A sudden desire to leave this place prompted her to breach the silence.
"Are you all right, Marsais?" she asked, turning towards him.
He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. His eyes were closed, his head supported by the stone at his back.
Isiilde watched the prominent Adam's apple of his throat move as he swallowed. Her gaze lingered there. She ached to touch him again, to trace her fingers down his throat. But before her desire gave way to impulse, Marsais took a deep, steadying breath, and opened his eyes.
"Now then, my dear, you may speak, though I'm not sure my muddled brain is prepared. Hmm, perhaps it's better off muddled," he mused, gazing wistfully at the discarded pipe.
"Why would a man want a woman to put her foot in his mouth?" This was not what she'd meant to say, nor perhaps the best way to start a conversation.
"By the gods," Marsais groaned, reaching up to massage his temples. "Would you hand me that pipe?"
Isiilde did as he requested and tried to sniff it when it passed through her hands, but he deftly snatched it away before she could inhale. He stuck the mouthpiece between his lips, sucking in a bubbling draught. The tension in his neck and shoulders faded.
"You'll have to ask Oenghus, and if he tells you to ask me, then, and only then will I answer." He sounded intoxicated, or maybe drugged.
"If I ask Oen, he'll know I was here."
"Which brings us to an excellent point. If Oenghus finds out you're here with me, he'll have my head," he said calmly, pausing to suck on his pipe. "So I ask, though I am loath to hear the answer, why have you come?"
"I don't know why he'd have your head. It's not as if you brought me here. What is in the pipe?" she asked, reaching for it.
Marsais clutched the pipe protectively to his chest. "Actually, I have brought you here, for it is I who am here, and I whom you seek." His words hung heavy in the air with the weight of his gaze. "And this, my dear, is no place for a lady, most especially for a young lady of innocence, and even more so for a nymph."
Marsais leaned forward, the muscles of his jaw clenching as his eyes pierced her.
Isiilde casually looked elsewhere, avoiding his gaze.
"It's fortunate you ran into Breeman. He's a good man—a rare thing—which brings me back to my original question from which you so delicately steered us." He did not smoke his pipe, but waited, pinning her with steely eyes.
Most found his gaze unnerving, but she knew him well enough to know if she waited long enough, he might become sidetracked. Unfortunately, he seemed to be in one of his more lucid moods.
Isiilde took a deep breath, then produced the flagon, yanking the cork out with a dramatic flair.
Marsais jumped to his feet, fingers poised to begin a weave. After a few tense heartbeats, he relaxed and snatched the flagon from her hand to study its markings. Whatever he was searching for, he must have found it, because he shuddered with relief.
"Let me piece this together," he said, plucking the cork from her fingers and jamming it back into the top. "You opened it!" He gave a sharp bark of laughter. "My genius amazes me."
He favored her with a lopsided grin, tossed the flagon up in the air, sending it end over end, and deftly caught it by the narrow neck. "And since you are still here and I don't hear any screams of terror, I'd wager the flagon you opened was the one on the left?"
Isiilde nodded.
"I thought I asked you not to open the flagons stored in my vault?"
"You said it'd be unwise," she corrected.
"Hah! A loophole akin to a gaping hole to a faerie."
"I'm sorry, Marsais. I couldn't resist. Honestly, I tried, but I couldn't stop thinking about what was inside. And then when I opened it, something sprang out—an ugly creature that looked like a monkey with bat wings, a barbed tail, and a large mouth. It got away before I could catch it."
"Sounds like an Imp. A rather devilish Imp."
"I didn't know what else to do, so I thought it best to find you, but you were in here for so long." This last confession pushed her over the brink.
"Oh, don't start crying. You'll chase all the customers away. Everything will be fine, my dear."
Marsais reached towards her cheek, but caught himself at the last moment, lowering his hand. He bent to open his rucksack on the floor.
Isiilde hadn't noticed the awkward gesture. She wiped her eyes on a sleeve and blinked at his back as he searched through his pack. A myriad of violent scars crisscrossed the skin. They were old lashings, faded compared to the wound on his chest.
Sympathy overwhelmed her. She touched his scarred flesh with a soft, trailing caress.
Marsais tensed, then shot to his feet, breaking contact.
"Forgive me, I—" she began, thinking she'd angered him, but when he turned his head to gaze at her, she couldn't read the look in his eyes.
Marsais clenched his jaw. "Why don't you wait outside the curtain and let me get dressed, hmm?" His voice was hoarse with control.
More confused than ever, she nodded and did as he asked. Clothing rustled, and then he emerged, wearing tailored trousers and a simple shirt beneath his grey cloak. Marsais produced two vials from his pack, holding them out for her inspection.
"Choose one."
Isiilde uncorked each in turn, sniffing warily at the contents. The first smelled of wood, and the other of ash. She chose the ashy one. He nodded in satisfaction and guzzled the first vial—the one she hadn't chosen.
He shivered as if he'd been doused with cold water. "Good thing you chose correctly." The other vial vanished inside his pack.
"But I didn't—"
"Did I say I'd drink the one you picked?" He arched a brow to emphasize his point, and she clicked her mouth shut.
* * *
Marsais led her up and out a back door, which spilled them into an empty alleyway behind the pleasure house. She took his offered arm, biting back a swell of questions as they wound their way through the midday bustle.
Although she attracted stares, no one noticed the Archlord of the Isle without his crimson robes. There were benefits to being a recluse.
A question was on the tip of her tongue when he froze in midstep.
"The cottage," he realized.
Fire spouted from her ears in surprise.
Marsais absently patted out the flames on his shirt. "That's why you burned it down. You came of age and were frightened."
How could he know?
"Did Morigan tell you?" she whispered, numb with shock. And then a sudden, irrational thought burst into her mind. "Has the emperor already sold me?"
"No, my dear, not to my knowledge," Marsais said gently, but her tears continued to fall, and he felt just as helpless.
He said no more until they reached the edge of town, where he stopped beneath the limbs of a twisted old oak—away from prying eyes and curious ears.
"Isiilde," he said, offering her a pristine handkerchief. "You're nearly eighteen, but I'm sure we can fool Caitlyn Whitehand into believing you're not of age for another few years. Some nymphs don't come of age until they're nearly a hundred."
"Really?"
Marsais shrugged. "I don't know. I can't remember. But it seems reasonable considering your age—humans come of age much earlier, which is why they breed like rabbits." He grimaced, but she wasn't sure if his distaste was due to the infestation of humans or rabbits. "Besides, I was alive before the Shattering; people generally believe whatever story I weave."
"I think you overestimate your influence."
"It's still worth a try. I can be persuasive."
"When you remember what you're arguing about," she pointed out.
"But this would be an argument of the heart rather than the mind. My heart doesn't forget."
"That you remember."
He gave her a look. "I'm writing you up for that."
Isiilde snorted. "Please do, master. If you remember."
"Har, har," Marsais said dryly, then paused. "What were we talking about?"
"You lying about me coming of age."
"Right. Hmm, it helps that you're so..." He gestured towards her, searching for the proper word. "...slight," he settled uncomfortably.
Isiilde seethed at him.
Marsais pretended not to notice. But as she was forming a scathing retort, he turned away, distracted by a rustle in the leaves of the tree.
Isiilde sighed, following his gaze. There was nothing of interest at all in the branches.
"How odd—of course not!" Marsais snapped at the tree. "Do you mind, old one? I'm speaking with my apprentice."
Isiilde forgot her irritation, glancing from Marsais to the tree, and back again.
"We're terribly sorry. She's under quite a strain, you see—" He cut off mid-sentence as if the tree had made a rude remark. With a click, he shut his mouth and motioned her to follow, turning his back on the oak.
Isiilde twisted around to look at the tree.
"Don't provoke him," he hissed.
"Provoke who?"
"That rude old fellow."
Marsais launched himself up the steep road leading to the Wise One's stronghold. His legs were long, with a stride to match. She was forced to run, and then, halfway up the hillside, he stopped so suddenly that she ran into him.
"Marsais?"
"Ah, my dear," he said in greeting. "Why are you out in this foul weather?"
"We were talking about..." she hesitated, gesturing helplessly. "Coming of age," she finally managed.
"Oh." Marsais frowned in thought. "We should talk about that."
"I know how the female body works," she defended. "Morigan told me."
"Did she tell you about a nymph's Awakening?"
"Erm... no."
"Did Oenghus?" he asked hopefully.
"Just tell me."
He sighed. "Nymphs don't come of age like humans—they Awaken. It happened three months ago, didn't it?"
"I didn't burn down the cottage on purpose. I swear, I just panicked. Oenghus gave his word that he'd return me to Kambe. I couldn't tell anyone."
"I do understand," he said, gently.
She looked up into his grey eyes, soft with kindness, and felt the burden of her secret lifting at long last.
"Now, on to other matters, which require a blunt tongue, as wary as I am to delve into this subject."
"Which is?"
"I knew you came of age the moment you touched my back."
"I touched more than your back," she admitted.
"Ah."
"You're as fit as a duelist, Marsais."
He paused, his lips parted, mind seeming to go blank. "Thank you," he finally said.
"I didn't mean to anger you—"
"Anger is far, far, far from the word I would use." He waited until realization dawned in her eyes. "You must be careful. A single touch from an Awakened nymph has the same effect as drinking an entire bottle of Primrose wine."
Isiilde crossed her arms. "Have you drunk an entire bottle of Primrose wine before?"
That couldn't be healthy.
"When you touched my back, it certainly felt like that."
"Really?"
"Hmm."
Isiilde shivered, feeling exposed on the hillside.
"I don't mean to scare you, but a loss of innocence can be a brutal thing—far more brutal than the knowledge of it. You shouldn't have gone in there. I don't have much faith in human males—they're bad enough when they're cloaked in lies."
"But Marsais," she said, softly. "I wouldn't have gone inside for any other man."
He looked into her eyes. And for a moment, time seemed to stop, and she felt like she was falling upwards.
Marsais took a hasty step back. "It was unwise of you to go into town alone—let alone a pleasure house. Your safety is far more important than anything contained in a flagon. Please promise me you won't leave the castle grounds unescorted by myself or Oenghus, for any reason."
Isiilde pursed her lips. "I can't promise."
"And why is that?"
"I'm going to leave the Isle. I don't want to be sold."
"Neither would I. Where are you planning to go?"
"I haven't quite worked out the details," she admitted, feeling her cheeks heat. "I, erm, was in your vault..."
He arched a brow.
"Stealing, I suppose. Well, more like borrowing, really. I'll need coin to leave the Isle, to find passage on a ship. But I'll pay you back one day."
Marsais sighed, turning to the sea. He seemed at a loss, and some minutes passed before he spoke again. "I've always been an ardent supporter of running away from most situations. But Isiilde... Fyrsta is a brutal place. This Isle is sheltered in comparison. I'd hoped that teaching you to use the Gift would give you the means to defend yourself, but we've run out of time. There are few options left to you."
"I hate being a nymph, Marsais."
His only reply was to offer his arm, and they headed towards the looming castle.
"You do realize that if any other novice, apprentice, or Wise One had broken into my vault and opened a warded flagon, then she would have been ousted from the Isle without question."
Isiilde clicked her mouth shut.
"Which brings up an interesting point. If you weren't a faerie, you would not, I hope, be foolish enough to open it in the first place."
Isiilde frowned at the back-handed compliment.
"Besides, have you ever considered that being human, or even stuck in my boots, might be a worse fate? I'm a firm believer in taking what you get, and praying you don't get any more of it."
His gaze snapped towards the wind-bent grass, past the smoking chimneys of Coven, and out to sea. Isiilde followed his gaze.
A gust of wind nearly knocked her over. She moved to the other side of Marsais, letting his body buffer the wind. Sea mist settled on his face as he pointed his nose like a weather vane towards the horizon.
As far as she could tell, there wasn't anything out there.
"As the seas churn, its turmoil has spread," he murmured.
She had no idea what that meant.
"Blast it!" Marsais ran towards the castle.
Isiilde gawked for a moment. Stifling her irritation, she bolted after him. He was tall and quick, and she was having trouble keeping up. But eventually he slowed. When she reached him, she doubled over, panting.
"Hmm?"
"What is it?" she wheezed.
"What is what?"
"You were saying something about the sea, and then you saw something—"
"Did I?" He seemed intrigued.
"Didn't you?"
"I don't know. You say I did, and I dare not argue with a nymph."
"But—"
"Never mind." He waved an impatient hand. "If we linger in this cold any longer, the tips of your ears will freeze and crack off."
Isiilde snorted so loudly that a spout of flame shot out of her ears.
* * *
A group of Wise Ones bickered in front of the Storm Gate—the main entrance into the keep. The massive doors were made of witchwood, bound with Kilnish steel, and covered in warding runes.
Isiilde loved unraveling wards of protection. The more complex, the more tempting. But Oenghus had forbidden her to touch the gate.
Four guardian statues flanked the wide stone steps. Carved from obsidian, they were statues of champions long dead. Their shadows stretched across the courtyard.
To avoid the arguing Wise Ones, Marsais took the long way around to the Spine. He stopped by an overgrown hedge at its base, and Isiilde was on the verge of telling him he was in the wrong spot, when she recognized the posture of a man about to empty his bladder.
Marsais would piss on a legendary tower.
She looked up to its top, and swayed, feeling dizzy. The pinnacle was so high she felt like she was falling.
Hengist Heartfang, first Archlord of the Isle, had raised the spire straight from the seabed. It was a solid, twisting stretch of pale grey. Harsh winds had polished the rock to a glassy sheen, and veins of quartz swirled up its length, pulsing with light as the sun touched them.
Every Archlord in the Isle's history had lived in the Spine. Oenghus had said it was to make up for other shortcomings. Marsais only laughed. Three years later, she'd finally understood the crude jest.
Brooding clouds swirled overhead, and a single drop of rain hit her face. It was followed by a deluge. Isiilde sneezed. And by the time she'd stopped spouting flame, her hair was soaked and her teeth were chattering.
"Don't stand there glaring," Marsais said, brushing past her. "You didn't have to wait for me." He placed a hand on a hidden rune and activated its power.
After years spent on the Isle, using Runes of Teleportation was a familiar routine, but she still marveled. When Marsais removed his hand, he stepped to the side, motioning her through.
A single step took her from the Spine's base to the floor below the tower's peak. Isiilde ducked under the ever-present cobwebs, and tore off her soaked cloak.
"I hate the rain." It always made her sneeze. And she did so again.
Marsais strode down the empty corridor. But he didn't go to his study; he went to a library. Dusty tomes lined the walls like skulls in a catacomb, with only a single, round window to light the eerie crypt.
Isiilde stood in the doorway as Marsais searched the shelves. The other Wise Ones didn't like the combustible nymph around their books.
"Are you looking for the Imp in here?" she finally asked.
"Imp!" His face appeared from behind a shelf. "Where?"
"Perhaps not here, but certainly somewhere."
"Everything is somewhere, and that could be anywhere."
Isiilde tilted her head.
Marsais tracked a muddy trail across a rug to the center of the room. He turned in a circle, then stopped to stare out the window. "The Shadows of Dawn," he breathed. "We stand at a crossroads."
Isiilde edged into the forbidden library. As she passed the threshold, she half expected to trip off a Ward of Alarm or alert a squad of guards. Nothing happened.
Bolstered by her anticlimactic entrance, she ventured in farther. The window seemed to captivate him.
"What do you see?" she whispered.
He jerked in alarm. "Ah, Isiilde. What brings you here?"
"You."
"Then what am I doing here?"
"Don't you remember the warded flagon I opened? You were looking for the Imp."
"That was ages ago," he murmured.
"No, Marsais. It was today."
He stared, confused. Then his gaze traveled back to the window.
Marsais could be absentminded, but this was something more. Worried, she took his hand. He looked down at her, startled. But his confusion cleared.
"Oh, yes, of course," he whispered. "How foolish of me." He delicately extracted his hand from hers. "Now then, where am I... Aha, yes, I remember!"
Marsais launched himself at a sliding ladder attached to the shelves. Momentum carried him to the end of the bookshelf. He climbed to its top, ran a questing finger along spines, then plucked a book from the shelves.
Marsais dropped to the floor, landed lightly, and dumped a heavy tome in her arms. Then he hurried out, leaving her to stumble after him with her burden.
Isek Beirnuckle rounded a corner, and Marsais drew up short. He cast about for a place to hide in the barren corridor. But Isek had already spotted him.
Isek took a patient breath. "Marsais, the Circle of Nine need to speak with you." And his eyes said he'd wasted half the day looking for him.
"Here are the reports from the outlying scouts and a message with the emperor's seal." Isek placed a slim cylinder on top of the stack he'd handed Marsais. "And this is something I think you should read before you meet with the Circle."
"Hmm." Marsais tucked the cylinder into a pocket, and the two walked down the hallway.
"Marsais?" She felt foolish for bothering him.
He turned at her call.
"What about the... monkey?" she stressed.
"Everything you need is in that book. I'm sure you'll have no problem trapping him again." He turned to go, but caught himself. "A moment, Isek."
Marsais drew her away from his impatient assistant, and leaned in close. "Think about what we discussed. And by the gods, let me know when you plan to run away."
"It's not really running away if I tell you beforehand," she whispered.
"No, it isn't," he agreed. "But I should like to say goodbye."
"I promise then. But swear to do the same for me."
"Upon my honor," he said, placing a hand over his heart.
"Good."
Thanks for reading the first few chapters of Spark of Chaos. The series is available worldwide at all online stores and libraries. If money is an issue, I'm happy to provide an ebook in exchange for an honest review.
Keep reading at https://www.sabrinaflynn.com/spark-of-chaos