Bride of the Shadow King

The viral TikTok fantasy romance, now in a special print edition with exclusive bonus material!

An outcast princess makes a political marriage with a reluctant king to save both their kingdoms in this first book in the viral Bride of the Shadow King series.

Though she is the oldest daughter, Princess Faraine lives in the background, shunned from court and kept out of sight. She's told her gods-gift makes her a liability to the crown, and has learned to give place to her beautiful, favored younger sister in all things.

When the handsome and enigmatic Shadow King comes seeking a bride, Faraine is not surprised that her sister is his choice.

King Vor is not eager to take a human bride, but he is willing to do what is necessary for the sake of his people. When he meets the lively Princess Ilsevel, he quickly agrees to a marriage arrangement.

So why can’t he get the haunting eyes of her older sister out of his head?“Sylvia Mercedes hits every note that romantasy readers want in a novel!”—New York Times bestselling author Danielle L. Jensen

“Utterly swoonworthy!”—USA Today bestselling author Elise Kova

“Really enjoyable!”—USA Today bestselling author Ruby Dixon

"Bride of the Shadow King is one of my favourite romantasy reads. This wonderfully immersive and emotionally mesmerising book is a real treasure. It had me completely bespelled by its gorgeous, rich worldbuilding and by the slow, heart-stirring relationship that develops between Faraine and Vor. Sylvia Mercedes writes both cleverly and beautifully, and I hope everyone who loves fantasy romance will discover the magic of her worlds."—USA Today bestselling author India Holton

“The thrilling first in a romantasy trilogy from Mercedes layers plentiful intrigue and action with delicate worldbuilding and vibrant characters... By turns tender and tense, this addictive beginning will leave readers excited to find out what happens next.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)Sylvia Mercedes makes her home in the idyllic North Carolina countryside with her handsome husband, numerous small children, and the feline duo affectionately known as The Fluffy Brothers. When she’s not writing she’s . . . okay, let’s be honest. When she’s not writing, she’s running around after her littles, cleaning up glitter, trying to plan healthy-ish meals, and wondering where she left her phone. In between, she reads a steady diet of fantasy novels.
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But mostly she’s writing.1

Faraine

If you'd managed to snare the crown prince of Cornaith for a husband, we wouldn't be in this situation, now would we?"

I close my eyes, trying to still the shiver running down my spine. My brother's words hit me like slaps. They fall from his lips so casually, one would think he remarked on the weather or the cut of his tunic. But the bitter and unspoken emotion behind the words makes me wince and wish I could somehow sink into the cushions of my carriage seat and vanish.

I draw a long breath before raising my lashes and peering at Theodre seated across from me. He's resplendent in a fur-trimmed travel cloak and a plumed hat that takes up far too much room in this small space. A purely decorative sword is propped by his knees, the jeweled hilt wrought to correspond with his belt. Six fat rings, large enough to fit over his velvet-gloved fingers, flash at every move of his hands. He polishes one of them now, blowing on the faceted stone and rubbing it against his sleeve.

"War is such a fright, you know," he says, as though the thought would never have occurred to me. "Hard for the average man to go about his business, what with having to drop everything and turn out to fight. Crops are left to spoil with only the women to do what needs to be done. And such ugly scarecrows they are! All hollow eyed and bony hipped. It quite turns the stomach to look at them. Out there with their plows and their scythes, and a gaggle of ragged brats trailing behind. It's like they have no pride in king or country."

He looks up at me, his dark eyes flashing in the dimness of the carriage. "Nothing an alliance with Cornaith wouldn't have fixed. Their cavalry would have made our enemies take to their heels! Instead, we've got those gods-damned fae crawling all over the countryside, running raids, burning crops, stealing livestock, all like it's good sport. So the people come crying to Father's gates, wailing and holding up their starving children like there's anything he can do about it. Other than send more of them out to fight."

And it's your fault.

He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. I feel the accusation underscoring every word, every gesture, every glance. I feel it so profoundly, I begin to believe it.

My fault.

Burned crops. Displaced people. Starving children.

My fault.

I should have done better. I should have been better. When Prince Orsan of Cornaith came courting, I should have smiled and flirted and danced and teased. I should not have sat quietly off to one side, keeping to the shadowed edges of the room, striving to find places where the light and the noise and the laughter and the tremendous press of people wouldn't break through all my defenses and leave me gasping with pain. I should have pushed that pain into the farthest recesses of my awareness-it's mostly in my head anyway, isn't it?-and pretended not to feel it. Pretended to be what I ought to be; what I was born to be as the eldest daughter of the King of Gavaria.

But I couldn't.

Even so, Prince Orsan might have taken me. Negotiations were well advanced, all the offers and promises between his kingdom and mine nearing culmination. Perhaps I wasn't the bride he'd always dreamed of. Perhaps every time he looked at me, I felt nothing but disappointment and resignation emanating from his sharp hazel eyes. But he knew the value of a good alliance as well as the next man. He knew the wisdom of uniting Cornaith and Gavaria against the threat of fae invasion. Plus, there was my substantial dowry to consider. Yes, in light of these temptations, he would have gone through with it.

Until he tried to kiss me in the garden.

Oh, gods! I close my eyes again, trying not to remember that terrible moment. We'd been strolling in the moonlight, to all appearances the perfect picture of a courting couple if one were to ignore the careful way I kept a good three feet of distance between us. He was quite handsome in a silver-embroidered tunic, his fair hair swept back from his forehead, a jeweled circlet ringing his brow. I wore a romantic, off-shoulder gown of delicate pink, my hair adorned with pearls. Music trailed after us, played by musicians hidden behind a screen of blooming flowers. I'd turned to the prince, intending to make some remark on their playing.

To my utmost surprise, Orsan had taken two swift steps, caught me by my shoulders, his fingers digging hard into my bare flesh, and pulled me against him. His lips crashed into mine. The abruptness of that contact was too much. Everything he was feeling washed over me in a wave-frustration, determination, fear, anger, embarrassment, inadequacy. All of it. All hitting me in one painful collision of lips and teeth and tongue.

My body surged in reaction. And I vomited. Right down the front of his pretty embroidered tunic.

The party from Cornaith left my father's house the next morning, all negotiations abruptly ended. The day after, Father sent me to the Convent of Nornala. He didn't speak to me, not even to tell me how deeply I'd disappointed him. It was as though he wanted to forget I existed entirely.

That was nearly two years ago. I'd heard nothing from home since then, not even a letter from my sisters. Theodre's arrival shocked me three days ago, when he strode unannounced into my private room, filling the doorway with his big, plumed hat.

"I've come to fetch you home, Faraine," he declared without preamble. "The Shadow King is looking for a bride, and you're needed at once."

I'm still not entirely certain why Father sent for me. Whoever this ominously titled Shadow King might be, I'm quite certain I am not the bride he's looking for. But apparently, my younger sister, Ilsevel, declared she would not be bartered off in marriage. She'd thrown an enormous fit and locked herself in the east tower, dropping bits of crockery on the heads of anyone who tried to approach.

"Father seems to think you can talk some sense into the foolish girl," Theodre had said as he looked sneeringly around my small, sparse room at the convent. "No one else can, gods help us. But you've always had a way with Ilsie. Get her to recognize her duty to the crown and all that. Make yourself useful."

Suppressing a sigh, I turn to the carriage window and lift the curtain, peering out at the countryside. We are on a decline, descending the mountain pass. My view extends over miles of lowland beneath a twilit sky. I spy what looks like the remains of a village not far from here: a caved-in hall, smoke still rising from its collapsed roof. Burnt-out cottages, blackened walls. Ruin. Devastation. And what became of those who had once called that village home? Are they dead now, run down and slaughtered? Or do they wander the countryside, homeless, helpless, even as early spring storms batter the land?

The whole world seems to exhale despair.

I sit back, letting the curtain fall. Though it's bitterly cold, I pull the glove off my right hand and slip it under my cloak, feeling for the crystal pendant hanging from a chain around my neck. My fingers close around it, squeezing so that its sharp edges dig into the flesh of my palm. At first, it feels cold and lifeless. Slowly, however, it warms in my grip. I detect the faintest vibrating thrum deep inside. Closing my eyes again, I try to synchronize my breathing to that pulse. Pain recedes; the roiling in my gut diminishes. I let out a sigh.

Feeling Theodre's gaze upon me, I open my eyes and look back at him. He raises an eyebrow. "Not a pretty view, eh?"

I shake my head. "I'd not realized just how bad things have gotten." My tongue feels thick and heavy when I speak.

My brother snorts. "You've been hidden away in that convent too long."

Hidden away. Not married and producing babies. Not ensuring the military support of our nearest neighbors. Useless. Disappointment. It's all there. Hanging in the air between us. Unspoken but real.

I drop my chin. Perhaps I'm not being fair to Theodre. After all, I don't know him very well. He's several years my senior and spent most of his childhood away from Beldroth Castle, where my sisters and I were raised. I saw him for state occasions and a precious few family gatherings, nothing more. This journey from the convent is the most time we've spent in each other's company. I doubt we'll seek each other out in the future.

"Ah well," Theodre sighs, twisting yet another of his rings as though it's pinching him. "If Ilsie can snag this Shadow King for her groom, it'll all be made right. From what I understand, he's got quite the impressive army at his beck and call, and no love for our enemies. Never thought I'd see the day when Father bargained with trolls, but hey! Desperate times and all that. Ilsevel's not at all keen on the idea, but Father says you can use your gods-gift and make her see reason. I hope you can, for all our sakes! Though I can't say I blame poor Ilsie when I think about it. I mean . . . trolls."

He makes a face at the last word, a wave of disgust flowing out from him. I grip my crystal a little harder, breathing in time to its faint pulse. I've heard tell of trolls, of course: stories from the caravan merchants who stop at the convent for shelter on their way over the Ettrian Mountains. They tell of hideous stone-hide monsters towering seven feet tall and more, with fists like boulders and teeth of shining gemstones. Man-eaters. Bone-crushers. Brutes without brains or conscience.

I struggle to imagine such creatures having a king. I struggle still more to imagine my father bargaining with such a king for Ilsevel's hand. Whatever he may think of me, Father has always loved my sister, with her ready laugh and sharp temper, her recklessness and courage. Of all his children, Ilsevel is the most like him-and many's the time I've heard him sigh that she should have been born a boy.

How bad have things become that he would wed her to a monster?

The carriage lurches to a stop. It's so abrupt, I nearly fall from my seat. My brother curses and flings out both hands to brace against the walls. "What in the seven secret names is going on?" he growls, grabbing his sword and using the hilt to hit the ceiling with three sharp taps. "Oi! Fantar! What's the holdup?"

A muffled shout. Followed by a thunk on the roof of the carriage.

My heart begins to race. "Theodre?"

My brother, heedless of me, mutters another curse and flings back the curtain over the window, sticking his head outside. "Fantar! It's gods-spitting cold, man. Don't leave us sitting around all-argh!"

A burst of shock ripples out from Theodre. I just have wherewithal enough to reach out with both hands, grab hold of his jeweled belt, and haul him back into the carriage. There's a flash of fire on the other side of the window, the gleam of a sword edge slicing down where his neck had been a moment before.

Theodre falls back in his seat. "Spitting heavens!" he gasps, blood draining from his cheeks. "It's those gods-damned unicorns!"

I don't have the words to question him. All hell has broken loose just outside the carriage door. Men are shouting, horses screaming in terror. Through a crack in the curtain, I see flashes of red heat, flickering flame. And in my head-explosions of terror. Terror not my own. Hitting me with the force of a battering ram.

I sink from my seat onto the floor of the carriage, gripping my crystal pendant. My brother stares down at me. His fear is the worst of the assault. It pounds me with brutal intensity. He blinks once. Then, grabbing hold of his decorative sword with one hand, he fumbles with the door on the other side of the carriage, pushes it open, and falls out. For a moment, I'm overwhelmed with relief as he takes his terror with him.

Another scream bursts in my ears. Theodre? One of our men? I cannot tell, cannot guess. What should I do? Crouch in here like a mouse in a trap, waiting to be found and dragged out by my hair? Surely that must be worse than facing whatever waits outside.

Setting my jaw, I work my way to the half-open carriage door and ease the gap wider. A mistake. Utter mayhem meets my eyes. Riders streak past on creatures shaped like horses with monstrous, flaming horns protruding from their skulls. They're beautiful, terrible, glorious creatures ridden by beings equally beautiful, terrible, and glorious. Long hair streaming, shining faces alight with bloodthirsty joy, they wield swords that flame as bright as their mounts' horns. They wear no armor-in fact, they seem to wear next to nothing at all-their muscled, godlike bodies fully displayed as they circle their prey and cut them down.

I spy the silver helmets of my brother's guards. They fight valiantly from horseback, struggling to defend the carriage. One by one, they're pulled from their steeds. Blood, terror, and death assault my senses. I am frozen in place, paralyzed.

Once again, my gods-gift proves to be a curse.

A rider turns suddenly, violet eyes alight in a face of such heart-breaking beauty, it takes my breath away. He sees me and smiles, flashing sharp canines. Digging his heels into his unicorn's flanks, he urges the beast straight toward me. My vision is full of flames and laughter and the edge of an upraised sword.

Acting on survival impulse, I fall out of the carriage, hit the ground hard, and roll underneath. My skirts drag and catch, but I manage to get myself fully concealed just before cloven hooves skid to a stop at my eye level.

The next moment, a pair of bare feet land on the road. My pursuer drops to his hands and knees, turning his head to smile at me where I'm hiding. "Hullo, pretty thing," he says in a language I do not know, but which somehow communicates perfect meaning as it reaches my ears. "Come out and play?"

He reaches his hand under the carriage, long nails snatching at my face. His savage lust hits me like a knife in the head. I scramble backwards. The horses squeal with fright, and the carriage lurches. I narrowly miss being crushed under a rolling wheel that catches my skirt and cloak, trapping me in place. Choking on a scream, I release the catch of my cloak, then grip my skirt with both hands and wrench free. The fabric rips in a long slash all the way up to my thigh. I stagger back from the carriage, struggling to find my balance.