Lark Witwillow is a potion prodigy, a practiced liar, and a reluctant fugitive with a reputation for vanishing before the pitchforks come out. She didn’t mean to kill the Dreadlord Daltharion, but when he grabbed the wrong vial and drank it without reading the label, she didn’t exactly stop him either.
Now presumed dead herself, Lark slips into Kindlebrook, a heavily warded village where dragons nap in courtyards, retired villains trade recipes, and the shrubbery has a bad habit of catching fire. It’s the perfect place to keep a low profile… provided no one asks about the glamour on her face, the twitchy hatchling at her heels, or the cursed garden that keeps trying to bite her.
But secrets have a way of surfacing in Kindlebrook, and magic has a long memory. And when both start asking for more than she’s willing to give, Lark will have to decide whether she’s ready to stop running—or vanish for good.
Magic in Emberlinth:
What it is:
Magic here is relational, rooted in grief, memory, and care. It isn’t claimed, it’s offered. Dragons may grant it. The land may answer. It’s threaded through lullabies, planted in gardens, stirred into tea, and whispered in the dark to someone you hope still hears you. Everything it gives, it remembers.
What it isn’t:
It’s not elemental, inherited, academic, or flashy. You can’t take it, study your way into it, or command it on a whim. Magic taken without permission unravels—fraying, hollowing, and leaving a mark you can’t undo.
The Threadbound live by one truth:
You don’t command magic. You earn it—sometimes with care, sometimes with grief, always with choice.