#Review - Of Venom and Vengeance by Mikayla Bridge #YA #Fantasy #Romance

Series: Standalone
Format: 432 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: July 7, 2026
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Source: Publisher
Genre: YA, Fantasy, Romance

A deliciously dark standalone follow-up to the highly-anticipated YA romantic fantasy Of Flame and Fury, where star-crossed enemies gamble with their hearts, empires, and the fate of a lost god.

On an island marred by pageantry and pain, power comes at an impossible price. Inna is the perfect heiress to the Pallo crime family: poised, cunning, untouchable. Behind this glamorous facade, she hunts for the sinister truth of her sister’s death. Despite the cover-up she’s been led to believe, Inna can feel an enemy lurking in the shadows.

Rylan has sculpted himself into a talented thief for one reason: retribution for his family, who were murdered by Inna’s mother. Armed with illusion magic, Rylan plans to steal an ancient riddle from the Pallo vault, one that leads to a sleeping god. Whoever wakes the Serpent King will be granted any wish they desire. Rylan means to claim this power, and with it, Inna’s ruin.

But when Inna catches Rylan sneaking past her family’s security, they enter into a perilous alliance that neither intends to keep —even as bitter attraction ignites into something more.

Though some hearts aren’t meant to be stolen, and love knows nothing of blood-red revenge…

Of Venom and Vengeance by Mikayla Bridge is a dark YA romantasy standalone (companion novel) set in the same world as Of Flame and Fury. It follows dual protagonists navigating crime-family intrigue, illusion magic, a high-stakes heist, and a quest involving a sleeping serpent god. Inna Pallo is the poised, cunning heiress to a powerful crime family on an island defined by pageantry, pain, and power struggles. Behind her glamorous facade, she quietly investigates the suspicious death of her older sister, sensing a cover-up and an enemy closer than the official story suggests. 

Rylan is a skilled thief driven by retribution: Inna’s mother was responsible for his family’s murder. Armed with illusion magic, he targets an ancient riddle locked in the Pallo vault—one that leads to the sleeping Serpent King, a lost god who grants any wish to whoever wakes him. Rylan intends to claim that power and use it to destroy Inna’s world. When Inna catches Rylan infiltrating her family’s security, the two form a perilous, reluctant alliance that neither fully intends to honor. 

As they navigate family secrets, gambling dens, exploited magical sprites, and mounting dangers, bitter attraction complicates their mutual distrust and competing agendas. The story expands the existing world with new elements (particularly sprite lore and a different regional flavor of magic and society) while functioning effectively as a standalone, with only light Easter eggs or references for readers of the prior book. Inna is calculating, trained in the political and physical demands of her family’s world, and motivated by grief and a need for truth. 

Rylan is guarded, witty, determined, and shaped by loss—morally gray in a way that fits the crime-underworld setting. Their enemies-to-lovers / forced-alliance dynamic is built on genuine conflict, distrust, banter, and the tension of knowing the other may betray them at any moment. Supporting figures (including family members and Inna’s former partner/bodyguard Celesse) add layers of complication, loyalty tests, and moral ambiguity. 

A standout strength is the atmospheric setting: a glamorous yet sinister island of crime families, clubs, gambling, and spectacle with 1920s-adjacent vibes mixed with dark fantasy. The sprite lore receives particular praise—creatures with varied appearances, personalities, magics, and a darker reality involving exploitation and blood that contrasts with more surface-level perceptions. Illusion magic enables deception and thievery in compelling ways, while the Serpent King myth raises the stakes to something mythic and potentially costly. 

The narrative blends murder mystery, family secrets, heist planning and execution, revenge, and a treasure-hunt-style quest. Themes of grief, betrayal, trust, the cost of power, and how pain is “repurposed” rather than simply healed run through the dual perspectives. This is classic YA enemies-to-lovers with forced proximity, reluctant allies who keep plotting against each other, slow-burn tension, and high personal stakes. The attraction is charged and dangerous rather than soft. 

The story can be compared to works with crime underworlds, heists, and star-crossed tension (think elements of Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows, Chloe Gong’s style, Amanda Foody’s Ace of Shades, or These Violent Delights dynamics). If you are a reader who enjoys dark YA fantasy with revenge plots, reluctant alliances, illusion/heist magic, and complicated found (or forced) partnerships. Content notes commonly include violence, murder, family trauma/abuse, animal cruelty involving sprites, gambling, and related darker themes.

ONE. INNA

YEAR 1510 OF THE ALCHEMY AGE

Beneath charcoal clouds, sprites glowed a merciless sapphire, turning the shadows Inna crept through into a spotlight. Stealth was a lost cause as she tiptoed across tide-lashed docks in pink platforms. The shoes weren’t made for sneaking, but her mother’s rushed orders hadn’t left her with time to change.

The silk sprites summoned a lukewarm breeze, lifting Inna’s hair and swinging nearby bracket lanterns. Wooden piers creaked and battled the masculine voices up ahead. Illyre’s city lights and tourist crowds were distant memories out here among the small, discreet boats of poachers, smugglers, fishers. Inna had long since passed the sturdier, registered boats; decadent tourist ships painted silver and plum, her mother’s crest splashed across each stern.

Inna blinked through the salt mist and hurried toward the bobbing ship at the pier’s end. She wasn’t worried about being spotted. Anyone sailing this late wasn’t interested in ferrying guests around Ascira’s glittering skirts, watching sprites flit by while sipping from champagne flutes. They were here because they’d rather risk sea-monster-infested oceans than declare their goods on legal airships.

Even if Inna’s mother hadn’t described the ship she was to seek out, the smell soon gave it away: sharp and saccharine, like boiled sweets, contrasting the docks’ rusted iron and wet timber.

Inna bit down on her tongue, steeling her spine. Sprites’ odor was strongest when they were hungry. She’d have to be careful to keep any captured sprites locked away.

Behind Inna, a tall shadow sniffed. “How many sprites do they have down there? It smells like someone drowned in honey.”

“Hush.” Inna paused at the boat’s edge, turning to Celesse, her backup for tonight’s assignment. “Adelia said there’s only two poachers. It should be a quick retrieval.”

Inna ignored Celesse’s arched brow and reached into the satchel at her waist. She retrieved a slim glass vial, glowing dandelion-yellow with a liquid dose of sprite magic. With a too-tight grip, she uncorked the vial and lifted it to her lips.

The magic trickled down her throat like warm syrup. It fizzled through her limbs, pressing beneath her skin, eager to be expelled. She hoped to not have to use the warm weather magic: one stray spark could shatter a jar and free the sprites. The siphoned magic would only last a few minutes, anyway. Just long enough to offer backup in case the poachers caused trouble.

Inna reached inside her satchel for a second vial—her uncle always ensured she had a steady supply—and offered it to Celesse. She held it pinched between her nails so Celesse’s touch wouldn’t brush hers. But Celesse merely kept her brow raised and offered a minute shake of her head, leaving Inna’s arm outstretched.

“It’s a small ship,” Celesse cautioned. “The last thing we need is me sneezing sunshine and breaking out a starved sprite.”

A soft current—unrelated to the magic—hummed beneath Inna’s skin: the petty satisfaction of wielding what Celesse couldn’t. Despite whatever else her mother thought of her, Inna knew, at least when it came to shaping magic, she could do what was needed.

Inna slid over the boat’s lip. “Suit yourself. Keep watch up here.”

She crept across the deck, hands gliding over the worn railing, breath shallow. Light glowed from a narrow staircase leading to a cabin. The poachers’ laughter cut through the hush, floating up from belowdecks. Inna crouched behind a stack of crates and peered between slats of rotted wood. The magic in her veins encouraged her to move faster, warming her muscles against the evening chill.

At the bottom of the deck’s staircase, Inna spotted two sets of feet. In their shadows, three glimmering jars lined the floor. Tiny, shifting colors flickered within: sprites. Their wings pulsed, crystal shells clinking against the glass, searching for an escape.

How many poachers had died to seal them inside jars? To most, sprites were harmless, pretty things, capable only of dizzying lights and weak weather magic—until you stuffed them in cages and starved them. But to any underground buyers who knew the truth of sprite power? The thumb-sized weapons would fetch a hefty price.

These poachers were likely oblivious to the danger they’d trapped.

Inna’s heartbeat matched the rhythm of Celesse’s tapping foot. She steadied her breath, and raced down the staircase.

Inna rammed into the first poacher before he could turn toward her. The second, shorter poacher fumbled for a weapon as Inna ducked his flailing arms. She twisted his elbow until there was a sharp crack that sent his knife clattering to the floor. He yelped, eyes wide, as she lifted her own blade to his throat.

The poacher she’d thrown against the wall recovered quicker than expected, straightening to race for the stairs. She was tempted to fling her current captive to the floor—but a quick glance at his belt kept her still. The bastard had another two bottled sprites dangling from his leather belt. She couldn’t risk them breaking. Not without knowing how long it had been since they’d fed.

Inna opened her mouth to shout as a lean shadow flew down the steps, greeting the fleeing man with a swift kick to his torso.

“Too slow,” Celesse sighed, facing Inna. “I thought you were going to hover on the deck for a few more years.”

The taller man tumbled back from Celesse, coughing. His veined eyes darted between Inna and Celesse, eventually settling on Inna.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he sneered. “Get off my ship!”

Inna tightened her grip on her struggling poacher. The fizzing magic in her veins pressed at the insides of her fingertips, begging to heat her blade.

She glared at Celesse. “I told you to stay on the docks.”

Celesse narrowed her dark eyes and shrugged, rustling her steel shirt. Soft, crimson chain mail danced across her entire body in a protective jumpsuit. “And I told you to move quicker this time. I’ve booked a seat at a card game in forty-five minutes.”

Inna swallowed a sour, too-familiar frustration. She removed her blade from the poacher’s throat and, slowly, spun him to face her. “Untie the sprite jars from your belt, please.”

At some point, Celesse had withdrawn her own blade to press against the second poacher’s chest. Though he scowled, Inna’s poacher—with sprites tied to him like glitter-bound grenades—watched her with wide-eyed fear. Good.

Trembling, her poacher reached down and unclasped a sprite vial from a carabiner at his waist. He unclipped the other and held the two caged, glowing sprites toward her. The warmth and sweat from his hands fogged the glass, dimming the sprites’ soft, changing colors. They eventually settled on a cherry-pink shade, likely their natural hue.

Celesse swore. “Are those posy sprites? I haven’t seen any for months.” She turned to her pinned poacher. “How long have you had these little monsters trapped down here?”

Inna gnawed at the inside of her cheek. Posy sprites were usually only seen in the Molten Season, when the sky softened and warmth flowered across fields. Their season had ended months ago.

Inna pressed her blade back to her poacher’s throat. “Answer her.”

“A few weeks?” her poacher squeaked.

Guilt ghosted through Inna, easy to ignore. These two didn’t seem experienced. They’d probably heard rumors of sprites’ illegal value and taken their chances. Their accents were too sharp and clipped to be Asciran. They were likely from the nearby continent, Velande.

“Place the sprites on the ground with the others, and we’ll let you sail off,” Inna said. “You don’t want to be here any more than we want you here.”

Overhead, a dim lantern swung. The ocean lapped at the hull. The poacher beneath her blade glanced to Celesse, to his partner. His fingers twitched toward the thin lids keeping the sprites contained.

“Don’t try anything.” Inna pressed her knife deeper into the man’s throat, drawing a bead of blood just as sweat beaded down her back.

“Release the sprites,” the other poacher growled. “She just wants the damn things to sell for herself. We can at least make it harder for her.”

Inna grinned. “Want to test that theory? We don’t need any more posies for our supply this year. Go on. Open a vial.”

“Inna,” Celesse warned, inching back, toward the staircase.

The poachers exchanged frowns. Inna understood their confusion. To the world, sprites were harmless, floating baubles. Their siphoned magic could offer people no more than a few minutes of weather-infused party tricks. Through as many industries as they could sink their claws into, her family had ensured that sprites seemed a fickle tourist attraction. Not a magical, murderous gold mine.

“You’ve had those sprites in vials for weeks, right?” Inna asked. “They’ll die before you can smuggle them into Velande. Hand them over, and maybe I can find you something better to sell for us.”

Inna extended a hand toward her poacher’s caged sprites. The pink creatures pressed against the glass, as if reaching for her, for the magic humming through her. Slowly, carefully, she cupped the jars and—

A sharp creak sounded. Then, hurried footsteps.

A new figure flashed through the narrow cabin space, hurtling toward Inna.

She cursed and ducked in the same breath, releasing her trembling poacher. The new figure had too much momentum for the small space and collided with the opposite wall. A rusted weapon glinted in her grip.

Inna raised her knife and turned toward her attacker, a dark-browed woman with an impressive scowl. She must have been stowed away in the head of the ship. Steel whistled toward Inna’s ribs and she jumped back. She felt Celesse move behind her, keeping one poacher subdued.

“You didn’t even check the rest of the ship?” Celesse snapped.

Inna ignored Celesse and pivoted, catching her new opponent by the wrist. The woman twisted, her arm shooting out to press her knife to Inna’s neck. Breath short, Inna summoned forth the sprite magic in her veins, willing the golden warmth into the woman’s white-knuckled grip around the knife. She bit down on her tongue and pushed, wringing every drop of magic from that measly vial, focusing on the poacher’s grip against her neck.

A moment later, the poacher hissed, flinching back as her hand glowed blister-red. Inna drove her shoulder into the poacher’s ribs before knocking the heated weapon to the floor. The woman gasped, bending over. Inna felt a moment’s triumph before new hands gripped her neck from behind.

Lurching, Inna stomped down on her second attacker’s foot and shoved him into a wall as the last of the magic fizzled from her blood. Both poachers wheezed, and as the man behind her fell, so did a vial.

Inna heard glass shatter a half second before sprite light lit the cabin, color scattering like stars.

Two ravenous sprites burst free.

“Shit!” Celesse screamed, scampering back, abandoning her dazed poacher.

The freed sprites flew to the center of the cabin and the two standing poachers paused their attacks. Inna lunged in front of Celesse. Old, reflexive fear moved Inna’s limbs, keeping Celesse safe, and the sprites quickly chose the standing poachers as their prey.

The female poacher sucked in a sharp, startled breath as a sprite darted toward her.

Her mistake was opening her mouth.

The sprite shifted from pink to gold to crimson before dulling itself, like heat off stone, hiding behind illusion magic, bending light around its form. Dread crept down Inna’s spine. She knew what would come next.

The sprite slipped inside the poacher’s open mouth and down her throat.

The woman coughed. The other sprite hid itself, too, though this monster didn’t bother with an orifice, diving toward the shorter poacher’s left arm, the vein at his elbow’s crook. Almost too fast to follow, the sprite punched through skin and burrowed deep inside the poacher’s blood.

“Where did they…” the female poacher began, before a cough wracked her body. Blood trickled from her nose, reaching her upper lip before she crumpled to the ground.

“Farrah?” The younger, shorter poacher stepped toward his fallen colleague, oblivious to the blood trickling down his own arm—and then, from his nose.

Farrah’s fingers twitched, scarlet pooling from her fingernails. The young poacher managed another wobbly step before his knees gave way. His brown, bleeding eyes locked on Inna as he slumped beside Farrah.

Almost a minute passed in silence. The two poachers lay sprawled with the third curled, trembling, in a corner, when the sprites finally reappeared. Farrah jerked. A gargle escaped her throat. Blood bubbled from her lips, spilling down her chin, as the sprite—brighter, rounder—slid free. The other sprite, now a merry yellow, shot out of the younger poacher’s chest cavity and joined its friend in the air. One drifted leisurely toward Inna, its tiny body pulsing. Newly fed, it was near blinding to look at, even with the tinted, protective contacts Inna wore.

Inna felt Celesse stiffen as the sprite neared. It shifted to a bright orange, slow and sated.

“You’re safe,” Inna said to Celesse. “They’ve eaten their fill.”

Inna lifted a hand, pointer finger extended. The sprite hesitated, then landed on Inna’s finger, delicate as gossamer. So long as Inna wore the pendant around her neck, thrumming with a dozen sprites’ worth of magic, no sprite would attack her. It was an invaluable trinket, marking her as kin in the sprites’ eyes.

Celesse huffed. “Can you put it back in a cage, please?”

“Fine.” Inna nodded toward the remaining poacher. “Restrain him.”

The remaining poacher fought Celesse’s grip for an impressive few seconds before she knotted rope around his wrists.

“What … What did you do to them?” the man spat.

Slowly, Inna reached into her silver satchel and retrieved a small, empty vial. She lifted the vial and let its subtle glimmer reflect through the air, mimicking the sprites’ light.

She popped the lid open and shook it. Both sprites drifted toward the new cage, shedding petal-like crystals.

They inspected the bottle, tempted by curiosity; tiny stars caught in the wrong orbit.

Into the vial, out of the ship, Inna repeated to herself, a mantra. Another mission completed. Another step closer to what she needed, beyond her mother’s absurd tests.

Inna pressed down on the vial’s base, activating a small vacuum. Both sprites flew inside and Inna clicked the lid shut.

Triumph, a small, momentary rush not unlike the magic she’d drank, brushed through her. Neither Celesse’s jabs nor Adelia’s expectations could take this victory away. Missions like this gave her a shape, a worth in a world already drowning in magical importance.

Celesse ran a hand through her sleek ponytail. “You could’ve tried harder to stop the murder bugs getting out of the jars.”

“And you could’ve shot them down if you were that scared.”

Celesse worked security for Inna’s family most nights. The guard could hold her own in a fight. Even so, the real reason Inna kept her on missions—despite their prickly romantic history—was that Celesse was the best shot Inna had ever seen. Inna could see Celesse’s slinger—a mechanical slingshot rifle—tucked at her hip, surely loaded with pearls, ready to strike down any rogue sprites.

Ignoring Celesse’s glare, Inna pulled out her tele-comm. Thumbing the digital screen, she texted their address to the head of her mother’s cleanup crew. Pocketing the device, Inna bent to retrieve the other caged sprites along the ground and tucked them inside her satchel.

“What are we to do with him?” Celesse thrust a thumb toward the cowering poacher.

Before Inna could respond, a cool breeze descended the stairs, heralding a new presence. Her stomach lifted as a short figure glided toward the center of the blood-soaked cabin.

Her mother didn’t look at her, not at first. Instead, Adelia Pallo dipped her chin toward the remaining poacher. His breath hitched as he met Adelia’s gaze. Fresh fear lit his features like a struck match.

Finally, Adelia’s blue eyes turned to Inna, and the massacre at her feet.

“Sloppy,” Adelia noted, the single word plunging and twisting a knife into Inna’s gut.

Adelia’s black heels clicked as she strode toward the still-breathing poacher, and yanked him up by his dark hair. The man—likely still dazed from Celesse’s strikes—barely fought her grip.

Inna swallowed a lump, pulse drumming.

“Do we keep him alive for information and risk him escaping, running his mouth about sprite appetites?” Adelia’s pale eyes turned to steel. “Or do we kill him and lose potential knowledge?”

“Keep him alive,” Inna said, forcing her voice to stay flat, even. “We can keep him hidden.”

She’d found the poachers, hadn’t she? She’d recovered the sprites. She’d remained exactly what her mother had required.

Adelia paused. Trembling, the man tried to rise from his knees. He managed one foot beneath him when Adelia—faster than any sprite, Alchemist or god—retrieved the rusted blade from the ground, and slashed the man’s throat.

Inna didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t. But she couldn’t help her stomach’s churning as the poacher slumped beside his fallen friends. Blood seeped from his neck as he stilled.

Whether by steel or sprite, their deaths were on Inna’s hands. They were far from the first.

She shoved her knife—her sister’s old knife—back in her satchel and, just for a moment, a quick flicker, the ghost of Erika appeared beside the poachers, her body strewn, bleeding, broken.

Adelia wiped her blade on her silver trousers. “Wrong answer.”

Inna’s fists clenched. Her mother had told her there were two poachers on the ship, not three. But she held her tongue; she had a better chance of surviving an argument with Salta’s serpent god.

As Adelia turned back toward the stairs, she said, “You did well, Celesse.”

Celesse’s chest puffed, and Inna fought a sneer. Then, back to Inna, Adelia instructed, “Get these poachers to the nearest coroner on payroll. We don’t need curious sailors searching their bodies and seeing crystallized organs.”

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#Review - Witch Season by Julia Blanco #Fantasy #Romance

Series: The Broken Coven # 1
Format: 320 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: June 30, 2026
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Katherine Barnes is an enforcer, charged with upholding the rules of the notorious Los Angeles-based Aestas coven. It’s her job to maintain order and bring unsettled witches–people who aren’t aware they have magic until it explodes out of them in a catastrophic burst–into the coven’s fold. As a former unsettled witch, Katherine owes her life to Sylvia Page, coven leader and silver-haired rebel who founded Aestas years ago.

When Silas Khatri, heir to Noctis, the most powerful coven in the world, arrives to take Aestas to task for some of their more unconventional practices, Katherine’s dislike for him reaches blistering levels. She hates his money, his good looks, his coven’s dangerous attitude towards unsettled witches. She can absolutely overlook that he sets her off in more ways than one.

But a powerful threat is about to rise. Stronger than any one coven. More insidious than the decades-long power struggle that exists in the hidden witch world. One that will pull Katherine and Silas together despite their differences. And one that will lead to an all-out war.

Julia Blanco's Witch Season is the first installment in a new series, as well as the author's debut novel. The book is an urban fantasy story in a world of fantasy/romance novels that blends high-stakes coven politics, visceral magic, and fierce loyalty into a fast-paced, cinematic read set in modern Los Angeles. Katherine Barnes serves as an enforcer (or executor) for the Aestas coven, a notorious Los Angeles group. Her role involves maintaining order and guiding “unsettled” witches—people whose latent magic erupts catastrophically if not controlled—into the coven. 

As a former unsettled witch herself, Katherine owes everything to Sylvia Page, the coven’s silver-haired, rebellious leader. The magic system stands out as one of the book’s strongest elements. Magic demands a heavy price—not just blood, but real pain and sacrifice. It feels raw, dangerous, and grounded, avoiding the “sparkly effortless power” trope common in some fantasy. This cost shapes every character’s choices and adds tension to action scenes. 

When Silas Khatri, heir to the powerful Noctis coven (the most influential in the witch world), arrives for an audit of Aestas’s unconventional practices, sparks fly immediately. Katherine resents his privilege, good looks, and his coven’s stricter attitudes toward unsettled witches. Their initial antagonism crackles with tension, but a larger, insidious threat—stronger than inter-coven rivalries—forces them to collaborate. Murders, betrayals, and a rising war pull the story toward an explosive climax. 

Katherine Barnes is tough, loyal, and driven by her traumatic past. She pushes herself relentlessly to protect others, especially vulnerable, unsettled witches, because she sees herself in them. Her growth, moral compass, and vulnerability make her deeply relatable and root-worthy. Silas Khatri brings complexity as a privileged heir caught between family duty and personal desires. He’s charming and instantly smitten in a “she hates him, he’s hooked” dynamic. 

Sylvia Page steals scenes as a layered mentor figure with secrets that drive major twists. Supporting characters, including Katherine’s best friend and other coven members, add depth to the found-family and political elements. The romance is fiercely romantic and steamy. It moves quickly from antagonism to intense attraction. Expect tension, banter, and passionate moments amid the danger. 

The relationship evolves in ways that set up intriguing conflict for future books. If you are a fan of books like A Discovery of Witches, then you should read this book as well. If you enjoy witchy books that are political, bloody, unhinged in the best way, and packed with heart-pounding romance and betrayal, this one is for you.

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#Review - The Sea Spinner by Julie Johnson #Fantasy #Romance

Series: Reign of Remnants # 2
Format: 544 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: April 28, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Bursting with reawakened magic, a young woman challenges the tides of fate in this highly anticipated installment of Julie Johnson’s romantasy series.

Rhya Fleetwood is tired of being a pawn in other people’s wargames.

The fledgling wind weaver wants—needs—to master her magic before anything else is taken from her. She’s already lost her friends, her newfound home… will she lose Penn, too? There’s no denying the scorching heat between them, but in the aftermath of battle, the Remnant of Fire burns more than anything to rebuild his kingdom and sate his inextinguishable need for revenge.

And he’s not the only one whispering to Rhya across the wind. From the distant island city of Hylios, another voice calls. Another bond pulls.

King Soren, Remnant of Water, is as different from Penn as sparks are from mist. The more insight he offers into the magic that binds them together, the more confused Rhya feels—about her future as a Remnant, about her deepest desires, and about her role in the coming war.

Torn between fire and sea, between the king who could break her heart and the king who understands her potential, Rhya will have to finally step into her power…or risk losing it altogether.

The Sea Spinner is the second installment in author Julie Johnson's Reign of Remnants series. The story is set in a place called Anwyvn and focuses on a young woman named Rhya Fleetwood, who recently learned that she is the Remnant of Wind, one of four reincarnations of elemental magic prophesied to restore balance to war-torn Anwyvn. The story moves from the realm of Fire lead by Pendefyre, to the realm of Water, led by Soren.

The story picks up in the devastating aftermath of the Battle of Fyremas. Caeldera, the Fire Court’s capital, lies in ruins. Rhya Fleetwood, the fledgling wind weaver and Air Remnant, grapples with heavy grief, volatile rage, and the loss of friends and stability. Pendefyre (Penn), the Remnant of Fire and newly crowned king, has shut her out. He channels his energy into rebuilding his kingdom and pursuing revenge, leaving their once-scorching connection strained and distant. 

Rhya, tired of being a pawn, desperately needs to master her unpredictable powers. A twist of fate (or perhaps destiny) propels her to the Water Court in the island city of Hylios. There, she encounters King Soren of Llŷr, the enigmatic Remnant of Water. Their interactions force Rhya to confront the limits of her magic, her shifting desires, and her role in the escalating war. Enemies close in, ancient threats stir, and Rhya must decide where her true loyalties—and heart—lie amid fire, sea, and fate. 

Rhya's journey from grief-stricken novice to a woman embracing her autonomy and power feels authentic and empowering. She evolves significantly, questioning relationships, her magic, and her place in the world. Penn starts strong but becomes more complex (and frustrating) in his repression and grief. Soren emerges as a standout—charismatic, supportive, cunning, and refreshingly communicative. The middle builds through character-focused moments and training, then accelerates with kidnappings, battles, and revelations. 

The final act delivers gut punches and a devastating cliffhanger that sets up book three perfectly. Penn’s emotional unavailability can frustrate, especially early on. The love triangle (or evolution) may not appeal to everyone who shipped Rhya/Penn heavily in book one. The novel blends high-stakes fantasy action, court politics, magical training, and an evolving romantic triangle (or shift) while expanding the world with new locations, lore, and secondary characters.

Chapter
ONE

The metal handle sears my palm, a withering harbinger.

One I ignore.

I step into the throne room and nearly double over. It's hot as a furnace, the heat a shock to the system after the chill of the corridor. At my chest, my Remnant mark burns with contradictory cold, stirring awake in response to the maegic shimmering in the air. It is thick as syrup, a vermilion haze that suffuses the entire space.

The doors close behind me with a resolute click. The sound makes me want to bolt straight back the way I came. I don't want to be here. In truth, I would rather be almost anywhere else, given the fiery reception I am no doubt about to receive, but the memory of Mabon's deep voice rumbles in my head, imploring me to try.

Maybe this time you can get through to him.

If anyone can make the man see sense, it's you.

Please, Rhya. You know I would not put you in this position without good reason. You know I would not ask this of you unless . . .

I take a deep breath, struggling to fill my lungs, tasting the distinct tinge of elemental power on my tongue. Flame and ash, pressing in from all sides. My knees threaten to buckle as I make my way down a short flight of stone steps onto the gleaming floor.

Set deep in the earth, the cavernous chamber was spared the wrath of the ice giants that ravaged Caeldera two months ago. While the rest of the city is an unrecognizable ruin of glass and debris-roofs caved in from massive boulders that rained down, storefront windows shattered with axe hilts, facade columns crumbled into dust-the throne room looks just as I remember it. Dark stone of pure, petrified lava, veined with red. Massive columns with bases of caged fire holding up a distant ceiling. Trenches of flame lining the perimeter floors, extending up the back wall.

But no people.

On the night of Fyremas, spectators packed inside, shoulder to shoulder, angling for the best view of the ward-charging ceremony. Now it is even emptier than the once bustling shops on High Street. My boot falls echo loud as cannon fire as I make my way down the polished aisle that halves the room.

On the lofted dais, the steward's seat Queen Vanora occupied during her reign is vacant. For one who ruled so long, and with such spectacle, her departure from this world was decidedly commonplace. Crushed to pulp in her gilded ballroom like so many others, then reduced to cinders alongside her most common of subjects on the mass pyre erected outside the city walls a week after the battle.

Were she there to witness it, she would have seethed at the indignity of sharing her last rites with the masses. No mournful bugles or waxing eulogies on her behalf. No rare flowers laid or grand portraits commissioned. But these days no one is inclined toward fanfare.

Not even for a dead queen.

My eyes move to the king's heavy metal throne at the center of the dais. It, too, sits empty. Though I hardly expected to find him there. I doubt Dyved's new sovereign has spent more than a handful of minutes sitting down these past weeks-and certainly not in a stuffy ceremonial chair.

I skirt the platform and approach the back wall of the cavern. It is even hotter here, so near to the trenches of fire that leap high and hungry, so near to the source of the maegic that thrums unabated. One section of the wall juts slightly outward, concealing an old mine shaft that functions as a lift. I lay my palm against the warm stone where a peculiar pattern of gouges marks the surface-a glyph, carved there by some ancient ancestor. One short pulse of maegic is enough to activate it. A fiery glow filters between my fingers as the floor panel beneath me begins to rise swiftly upward.

I've grown somewhat more accustomed to using Caeldera's network of lifts over the past few months, but it is still never an entirely pleasant sensation. My innate predisposition toward claustrophobia are triggered anytime I find myself ensconced by earth. Even now, as I rise upward through the mine shaft, I'm itching for escape. The craving for fresh air, for sunlight and open sky, claws at my throat with razor-sharp talons.

The lift comes to a halt with a jolt that shakes my bones. I step out into a semi-enclosed chamber that overlooks the throne room far below and feel every hair on my body rise in response. This is a place of potent natural power, where the deep enchantment of Anwyvn's very core bubbles to the surface. Tears sting at my eyes, an irrepressible reaction to the thick cloud of maegic.

Around me, the curved walls and low-hanging ceiling are carved with countless glyphs. They are aglow, as though lit from within by pure power-the origin of which is crouched at the center of the chamber with his hands pressed flat to the floor of hardened lava, expelling pulse after pulse.

"Pendefyre," I call softly.

He does not look up.

"Pendefyre," I say again, louder. His head jerks, but he still does not look at me. In fact, he seems to redouble his focus, pressing even more firmly against the red-veined stone. Every knuckle of his strong, tanned hands is white from lack of circulation. Flames lick out between his fingers, burn twin paths up his arms, ignite a trail down his bare chest to where a dark design of whorls and spirals mars the flesh.

The Fire Remnant.

It is no less mesmerizing in this moment than it was the first time I saw it, furling outward across his right pectoral in a triangular pattern. But my awe is now laced with alarm as I watch Penn giving more and more of himself to the wards that shield his city from harm. For several long seconds I stand there, paralyzed, my vision consumed by the hungry flames that furl across his skin.

How much more can he give before he burns out completely? How much further can he push himself without causing permanent damage?

No wonder Mabon came for me. No wonder the Ember Guild is so concerned about their leader. The previous Fire Remnant, King Vorath, died here in this very room, doing this very thing. He reached for too much power, pushed himself too hard. And he lost his life because of it.

Angry as I may be at Penn for his attitude of late, I cannot stand idly by while he kills himself in his obsessive quest to make Caeldera safe.

Whether my efforts will be successful is another matter entirely. My teeth grit as recollections of the last time I found myself standing at this threshold-the result of Jac's relentless wheedling to accompany him a fortnight ago-sweep over me. Penn made his position clear that day. Incontrovertibly so, seeing as he bellowed loudly enough to bring what remains of this keep down around our ears about how we should both mind our godsdamned business and keep our noses out of his affairs.

All hail King Pendefyre, the Pigheaded.

Swallowing down the irritation that lingers bitterly on the back of my tongue, I take another faltering step. "Pendefyre. Look at me."

But Penn is unreachable. He is entirely engrossed by his task, pouring every bit of his power into the wards. My heart pangs as I watch him draining himself dry. His expression is savage-a mix of determination and agonized desperation. His face is white as parchment. An overgrown curl of burnished chestnut hair falls over his forehead, concealing his eyes from view, but I know without seeing that they are alive with maegic, the irises burning like hot coals.

The steadying breath I pull into my lungs has the opposite effect. It shimmies through me with intoxicating provocation. Penn's maegic is affecting me more than I want to admit. The Remnant at my chest prickles relentlessly, awake and alert, eager to come out and play. I steadfastly ignore it. Adding air maegic to this scenario will likely have the same effect as dashing a cup of spirits on an open flame while attempting to put it out.

Combustion.

A fresh pulse of power rolls through the chamber. I watch it ripple through his body, the muscles of his bare back flexing, the tendons of his arms going taut as raw maegic transfers from him into the stone. The wards around us throb bright as starlight. My legs buckle as it hits me, stealing the breath from my lungs and sending me to my knees. I land with a bruising thud.

Blinking away the pain, I bring Penn back into view. A sharp blade of panic sluices through me. The fire snaking up his arms and coiling around his chest has grown. It now surrounds his entire form in a thick cloak of flames. He crouches there, within a blazing ball of heat, immolating as I watch. Through the white-hot flickers, I see blood beginning to pour from his pointed ears, dripping down the broad column of his throat, pooling in the rigid indentation of his clavicles.

"Penn!" I cry, a ragged plea. "Pendefyre!"

This time, he does not react at all to the sound of my voice. He is lost in the throes of his power.

I have to put a stop to this. Now. Before it's too late.

Before I lose him.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself forward inch by inch, half crawling across the floor toward him. It is like crawling into the midday sun. Sweat pours down my spine, slicks down my neck. The heat on my face is an unrelenting scorch. Any trace of the tears glossing my eyes evaporates in an instant. They are dry as desert sand, each blink of my lids an unpleasant scrape. My lashes feel like tinder, ripe for catching.

I wonder at what temperature my tunic will ignite as I drag myself across the blistering floor. The petrified lava is so hot beneath my fingertips, I think it might turn molten as it was a millennium ago, the last time this volcano erupted. I push past the pain, forcing myself to continue forward. Closing the gap between us, one excruciating sliver at a time.

It is not only physical pain that thwarts my progress. My very soul seems to sear, fueled by the Remnant bond that links me irrevocably to Penn. Usually I find our connection calming. Comforting. An unconscious tether in the back of my mind, letting me know where he is and, in rarer times of great emotion, what he is feeling. Like the scent of burning leaves on an autumn wind, I can sense him from afar and find my way to him if necessary.

There is nothing calming about our bond in this moment. Nothing remotely comforting. It is a charred current of unadulterated energy that scorches a path from his heart to mine. Within my own reserves of maegic, deep within the wild storm that swirls inside, I feel the placid waters of my power beginning to simmer beneath Penn's heat. All that is cold and controlled at the core of my being seems suddenly in danger of sparking. By the time I reach him at the center of the chamber, I am struggling to keep my own destructive abilities in check.

"Penn, you have to stop this." I lift a hand toward him but jerk it back from the flame as pain bites at me, a stinging lash across my fingers. Blisters bloom on my skin. "Please, Penn. Please listen to me."

The fire is so bright, so hot, it is hard to see and even harder to breathe. I try three more times to reach him through the ball of flame that surrounds his body, telling myself it is only pain, that any burns I receive will heal quickly, but I never manage to touch him before snatching my hand back, my singed flesh smarting in agony.

More blood is pouring from his ears, dripping down his chest in rivulets. Within the ball of fire, his skin is stark white. Corpse white.

Please, a small voice cries out from somewhere deep within me. Please, Pendefyre. Hear me. Stop this.

But he does not.

I cannot use my power to help him any more than I can use my hands. In desperation, I reach within to the bond that burns between us. I grab hold of that invisible tether that connects my heart to his, connects fire to air, and begin to tug on it, a spool of yarn without end, unraveling his psyche into mine.

I am not certain it will work. Not until I see the flames consuming Penn starting to disperse, weakening as I absorb some of the damage he is inflicting upon himself. I nearly bite through my lip as my nerve endings bake, as the marrow in my bones crackles with heat.

Skies, how much pain he is in, if this is but a shade of his power.

I cannot handle much more without doing myself serious harm. But there is no choice. Blood pours from his eyes as well as his ears now, trickling down his cheeks, dripping off his sharp jawline. And so, I take more. I pull his fire toward me, into me, until I think the blood will boil in my veins, until I feel my limbs turn to kindling, until each breath burns like my lungs are full of embers.

I channel every bit of heat and flame into the deepest recesses of my own power, where the air currents within me blow hard enough to extinguish them. Candles in the wind, no match for my storm. The flames around Penn weaken further, growing faint and translucent as they lick across his flesh.

More.

The heat is unbearable. I think my body will crack apart, think my mind will cleave beneath the force of it. The world fades around me, blackness closing in at my peripherals. I am losing the battle against unconsciousness. Just before my final shred of strength falters, my inner voice cries out one last time-a pained and broken prayer to the man crouched beside me.

If you die here, you take me with you.

He hears me. Somehow, someway, he hears me. The flames splutter out with a whooshing sound that echoes off the walls. The relentless wave of heat subsides so fast, I am certain I must be hallucinating. In a blink, I can breathe again. Ragged, desperate gulps of superheated air-but at least I am breathing. I stare down at the veined lava floor of the chamber where my hands and knees are planted. My arms and legs tremble with the effort to keep from collapsing entirely. The sleeves of the plain uniform I wear to treat patients at the infirmary are scorched beyond repair, the skin beneath flushed the angry scarlet shade of a fresh burn. My fingers are a mess of char, the tips blackened. I stare at the damage for a moment before my arms and legs do finally give out and, in an exhausted heap, I fall.

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