Legends claimed that Eilibir was a fishing village without any fish.

If that were the case, then the Realm of the Fae was a faery land without any faeries.

Where were those winged little bastards?

Of course, Abel knew the Fae were not actually winged, not like the Aerie who remained tucked behind the Gates of Elaerien, but the humorous thought of those hunky faery warriors with tattooed butterfly's wings kept Abel company as she ran.

And she did run. As if wind's threads boosted her feet and sent her soaring across Rainier's mountainous borders. Well, technically, she supposed the credit truly went to the magnificent white stallion she had stolen from the Halorian stables as those war drums had thrummed. At least Astrid hadn't lied about her horses' speedy ability. One point to Princess Bitch on that front. Because the horse Abel currently rode upon had been the male with the most muscular, portrait-perfect legs, snorting and biting at his bit to be let out of his stall.

Naturally, she had felt it best to oblige the strong, caged creature.

So, to be fair about such matters, Abel supposed the wind bolstered the stallion's hooves and not her own feet. Regardless, she was the one who steered him—she had taken to calling him Sleet—and he carried her through the snow-covered ground of the Serac Mountains until it eventually blurred into slushy, muddy grass and into the rolling hills of Belsynen. The Fae Realm. Clumps of dirt flew up around the horse's legs and stuck wetly to her neck as she urged Sleet into a faster gallop.

Perhaps stealing a purebred white horse hadn't been Abel's brightest idea. Sure, with that white coat of his, he must have blended in perfectly in a place like Mount Halum, offering camouflage against the constant snowfall and icy cliffs. But, as the horse flew into the first round of thick trees, Abel realized, though Sleet's coloring was beautiful, it wasn't the most ideal for running through the absurd lush green foliage of Belsynen. The two of them would surely stick out as sorely as a sword in a battle with arrows.

She clucked her tongue against Sleet's sweaty neck, urging him somehow faster.

And as the sun began to set on their first day of riding, Abel had not come across a single soul or spirit. Neither fae or elf nor fox or squirrel.

It unnerved her.

Even eerier was that Abel had been able to sense the exact moment she and Sleet had crossed over Rainier's border and into the Realm of the Fae. Norham's map lay spread out across her lap, crunched between her stomach and thighs, but she hadn't needed it. Because when they had entered Belsynen, Abel's lungs had expanded, the oxygen in the air smelling richer, sweeter; the blood in her veins thrummed as it extended from her very soul and dove into the damp scent of soil that permeated from the earth.

The malachite stone, which she clutched in her right hand, had even flared, warming against her palm hot enough that it had left a red, circular mark on her flesh.

Elf, it seemed to claim her. You are of us.

She gripped it tightly nonetheless.

"Keep it," Matthias had insisted before they had separated: him to the portal with Sebastian and Astrid. Her, back to the fortress only to escape it on horseback. "Remember, it can offer protection. Concealment. You felt it in Lambert's office. Feel for it again when needed."

Abel had nodded, curling her fingers back over the magical stone. "It concealed you, didn't it? Hid your true self? Whatever it may be. Manticore or dragon, perhaps?"

"Why do you both suspect I'm a dragon-shifter? A female breed?" Matthias had huffed and then had bowed his head to the stone. "It must be touching you. To work. Preferably contact with your blood. Keep it close."

Surprisingly, she found she heeded his advice, especially now as Sleet rushed them across the bright, beautiful landscape of Belsynen.

Another afternoon turned to evening, and Abel spent it in solitude once more. Sleet's pure, white coat had morphed into a dark brown, dirt-spotted mess. Better, Abel supposed, to disguise the two of them amongst all the bark, wood, and branches. The trees that surrounded them grew denser and wetter, their broad leaves dotted with thick drops of dew, which reflected the light of the sun even as it began to set below the horizon. Sleet was forced to slow so his hooves did not trip on the many exposed roots and vines tangled over the ground. Even Abel had to duck her head so often to avoid branches that she eventually just looped her exhausted arms over Sleet's neck and laid her cheek against his silver mane.

Her bow and sachet of arrows bounced against her spine comfortingly, Pavel's Scribal book thumping against her weary hip from its pocket inside her cloak. The constant swaying of the horse's gait and the sound of Sleet's lungs whooshing with great bursts of breath lulled her. Her eyes drifted shut—

Snap!

Abel startled from her slumber so abruptly she nearly flipped over Sleet's head. She grabbed a fistful of his mane to steady herself, which caused him to snort indignantly before his ears twitched and then perked.

The horse paused mid-step.

He had heard it, too.

Her heart jumped to her throat; she stilled in Sleet's saddle, shallowing her breaths. There! It was a sound so nearly silent that her previously human ears would never have discerned it from the general noises of the forest. Even if that forest was eerily silent.

Crack.

Sleet pawed the ground with one of his front hooves.

She patted the side of his corded neck before sliding from Sleet's back as silently as her half-Elven feet allowed.

Thankfully, not even a leaf crunched beneath her boots.

But she heard another soft crackle, and, with it, she caught a subtle scent of burning smoke.

A fire.

Bash!

Or not, warned her instincts. After all, she was in the Fae's realm, now. The same realm that had infiltrated Halorium twice since Abel had been there. Not that Abel could really blame them for that, but still! The warriors of Avylon were infamous in all the legends and stories. Even being half-elven, Abel had enough sense for self-preservation to know she would not come out of a battle with one unmarred.

Probably not even alive.

Definitely with at least one missing appendage.

Then again, warriors would know better than to burn a fire out in open spaces.

Even Astrid would know that.

Fisting the malachite in her hand so tightly that she wondered if it would draw blood from her chapped skin, Abel stepped away from Sleet. She loped over a rather large mound of leaves that could have concealed a hunter's trap and slipped around a decaying tree trunk to use it as a shield; she peered around it and towards the crackling noise of the fire.

She barely swallowed her scream when soft fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Her back slammed against the rotting trunk, her bow and arrows clacking in the abrupt motion, but when she yanked her wrist to her face, she only found a thin wisp of—well, something. There, on her skin! Trailing along the back of her knuckles and looping up her forearm. It brought such a strong, horrible scent of musty soil that Abel's nose rebelled, scrunching away from it.

"Death," it whispered against her skin, "Help. Heal."

It was Earth's thread; the decaying tree called to her.

Abel shivered and tried to shake off the thread, heart hammering almost as loudly as her arrows that had clanged against the tree's trunk—

"Earthen blood," said a low, lilting voice. The tone of the realm's greatest baritone singer.

"Nay. Mortal blood, as well," replied another, words just as smooth and velvety.

Neither one Sebastian, then.

Could they smell her? Were there such things as talking wolves in this mystical realm? Talking wolf trackers, perhaps. Dammit. Did those exist? Curse the Purge all its memory loss!

The homey scent of fire drifted towards her, stronger now, closer even though she had not moved from her feeble hiding place. It caused her eyes to water as if there were a cloud of smoke hovering above her head. Abel held her breath, stinging eyes scanning her surroundings for a way out, a better place to conceal herself—Aha!

That would work.

Across from her stood the most perfect tree her childhood-self would have sold her soul to climb.

Goddess Elayn, spare her.

Keeping her eyes on its staircase-like branches, she reached over her shoulder and withdrew one of her arrows. Mentally, she calculated how far away the voices sounded from where she hid behind the trunk; far enough to not be directly behind her, she figured wryly. She swiped the tip of the arrow across her palm.

Abel had just replaced the arrow to its sheath when the shallow cut she had made began to bleed all over the malachite stone clutched in her opposite hand. Her fingers curled over the stone tighter and clenched.

Soil wafted around her.

Conceal. Hide.

Go!

Abel sprinted to the tree, limbs lighter than they had ever felt. Before she needed to draw another breath, Abel had already hurled herself onto the first branch and began to climb. She didn't dare look to see if the malachite had worked, if it had somehow disguised herself like it had hidden Lambert's blade in his office; she would bet she didn't have time to waste. As for the noise she made—well, she just hoped whoever was down there discussing the scent of her blood would think it nothing more than a particularly large squirrel.

Especially if they were unable to see her.

Besides, though the Fae were strong, no stories had ever made mention of their intelligence.

"Malachite, Nairol," the baritone purred. "I feel its threads. Follow it."

Blast it all to the Abyss. Were they Elves? They had felt Earth's threads.

Elves had Elders. Elders were perhaps smarter than Bash.

Abel froze. She had made it at least five meters high; a feat she would have been proud of under different circumstances. The malachite burned in her grasp—Curse the Skies! How had Captain Stick-Arse handled it all those years? It had even been sewn inside his bleeding arm! Perhaps that explained why he had always acted like a flaming branch was shoved up his arse.

She perched against the wide trunk of the tree, hidden within the thick branches. Her spine melded to the bark, willing the stone to turn her into wood. Turn her skin into the leathery green of the leaves. Her toes braced themselves on one of the tree's thicker arms, curling into her boots. Beneath her, through the red, yellow and orange leaves, she spotted a clearing, a small, crackling fire at its center. And beside the fire was one of them. The baritone, she guessed, based on his low, sensual humming as he formed a chair from the roots of the ground, twisting them to his will with flicks of his wrist.

He manipulated Earth's threads.

Kin of Goddess Elayn. The Elvish Folk.

Had she somehow already made it to Galandreal?

Abel shook her head to push that thought aside for the moment. Because where was the other voice she had heard? She analyzed the view of the ground from this higher vantage point, looking for footprints, any signs of how many more there were, fingering the short, sharp knife strapped to her waist beneath her cloak. She was part-elf, half of them, so perhaps they would see her as kin. Yet, Pavel's Monverta weighed in her pocket, and if all the lore was correct, the Elvish Folk despised Authors—

"Hello, female halfling."

Abel shrieked, an ungodly sound that would have embarrassed her if she hadn't almost face-planted out of a tree. Thankfully, her fate of splattering to her untimely death was diverted. A large hand caught her under the arm, long fingers circling it entirely before it yanked her back against the trunk.

Her breath stuck in her throat when she turned to face her saviour—more likely her foe—knife out.

Holy Hel!

She stilled.

Dammit it if this man was not the most beautiful male she had ever laid eyes on. Which sounded incredibly disgusting and mushy, but it was the absolute truth. There were no other words for him. A magnificent specimen, made of long lines and carved angles, tall and honed as if from Goddess Elayn herself, which was more than likely considering Elves were children of the Earth.

It was an act of magnificent feat against her female hormones when she regained her voice. "How did you get up here?"

Stupid question from a stupid girl. In her defense, the male had made no noise whatsoever. Not so much as a swish of his silky hair. No. He had appeared as if Air had formed him from molecules of oxygen and hydrogen and whatever-the-Hel other gasses Sebastian always rattled on about. Picked them out, arranged them, and breathed life into Air's masterpiece of a specimen right there for her.

Good gods and goddesses.

Abel desperately wanted to scowl at herself. Maybe she did. It was hard to feel her face right now.

He must have found her ridiculous—join the club, arsehole—because he lifted a single, perfectly arched brow, as light in color as his shoulder-length hair tied in a knot at his nape. She met his stare, the malachite practically pulsing against her skin. Aw, not so perfect, then. His left eye was so blue that it could nearly be considered black; his other, however, shone so light that it was nearly as iced over as Astrid's.

But warmer.

It sent her shivering especially when he crooned, "How did I get up here?" One corner of his lips clipped upwards. "I am one with the Earth and Wind."

"Oh."

She hated herself.

"You could learn our ways, too, it seems."

The male looked her over from head to toe, his strange, alluring eyes brushing over every line of her. When he finished his intimidating perusal, he offered her a gallant hand.

"If you only come with me, Abel Venande of Eilibir." 

- - -

ACK!!!! WE ARE DONE, Y'ALL!!! Actually, here's a fun secret for you: book 1 originally was MUCH longer than this. Like almost 50,000 words longer. YIKES! So, we had to find a way to cut it in half, which means--good news--the beginning part of book 2 is already written! We'll probably start posting it sometime at the end of August as both of us are going to be a bit busy in the next month with Hawaii vacations and baby showers!

Thank you so much for being on this journey with us! We would not have made it here without each and every one of you!