The Instruments of Revival

Jesamin: Only the desperate would depend on a vampire.

As an Artificer, no machinery is beyond me—except that of flesh and blood. The one thing my instruments can't mend is my own wounded heart. But when every soul in a small town vanishes overnight, we find mysterious Fae artifacts left behind. The tracks of the humans that used them lead Below, into the nightmare world of the long-dead Fae. Only one fiend can get us down there, and bring us back alive. Wroth's ruinous temper is legendary. There's something broken beneath his beastly skin, a fracture in his soul that seeps rage and shadows. But as the darkness of the Below forces us together, a light begins to shine through those cracks. His hope is delicate, as fragile as clockwork, easily crushed. But I've already put my faith in a vampire once. Never again.

Wroth: Only a fool would trust in a human.

After fifty years of hell, the shackles of unholy matrimony have finally loosened—and freed me to lick my wounds and bury the pain. Never again will I subject myself to the loathing of a woman, even if it costs my throne. Until a bespectacled, half-Forian noblewoman bursts into my castle, demanding I hunt down traitorous loyalists. In the dark Below, where unbreakable bonds are forged, Jesamin guards my back as I guard hers. There's something compelling in her grit and determination. Her trust is a fragile, precious thing, a butterfly cradled in my brutish hands. I will be her shield against these shadows. I might even grow somewhat fond of her. But love her? It'll never happen.

Contains mature themes.

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Lydbog: 20. oktober 2026