The Wind Weaver (Reign of remnants, 1) - Softcover

Johnson, Julie

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593820002 ISBN 13: 9780593820001

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

The instant #1 Sunday Times bestseller!

Discover a world where magic isn’t learned. It’s survived. A gritty and intoxicating epic fantasy romance.

Rhya Fleetwood is a healer, an outcast, and like the realm itself—about to die. Or so she thought.

When the ruthless Commander Scythe plucks her from the vile clutches of her executioner there’s no time to feel relief. Her new captor wants Rhya for his own secret ends and they all lead back to the mysterious birthmark which brands her as a Remnant. One of four souls capable of calling forth inconceivable elemental power.

Rhya knows she must master the wind that whispers within her and make an escape. But as she is dragged across treacherous terrain with Scythe’s formidable band of soldiers, something keeps her at his side.

Inside her, a tempest roars—terror and desire. Soon, she knows she must choose.
Follow her magic, or her heart…

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Julie Johnson is the #1 Sunday Times bestselling author of The Wind Weaver. When she's not writing, Julie can most often be found sitting on the beach near her home in her native Massachusetts, adding stamps to her passport, drinking too much coffee, and avoiding reality by disappearing between the pages of a book. She published her debut novel on a lark, just before her senior year of college, and she's never looked back. Since, she has published twenty other novels, which have been translated into more than a dozen different languages and appeared on bestseller lists all over the world.

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Chapter
ONE

The noose chafes, a necklace of death.

I feel my pulse-steady, staccato-thudding away beneath the fragile skin at my throat. There's no fear. Not anymore. That came earlier, with the bruising hands and snarling hounds that tracked me through the wild marshland. And it fled with the sun, slipping over the horizon into crushing darkness.

What is it Eli always said?

Fear only means you have something left to lose.

I have nothing left now. Nothing but my life, and that isn't worth much of anything to anyone.

Certainly not to my captors.

"Wily little bitch, isn't she?" A gruff voice barks out a laugh somewhere to my left. "Took half our unit to track her down. A dozen men. Three days we spent in that damned bog with wasps and snakes and spiders. Knee-deep in mud and moss and all manner of shit. She nearly slipped our net when we lost the light yesterday." A gob of spit lands on my cheek. "Faery scum."

Another voice answers-this one younger, and slightly wavering. A new recruit, perhaps, not yet worn-out by this endless, bloody game of war the mortal men seem intent on playing. "She's just-she's so young."

"Don't let your eyes fool you, boy. Faery trickery, that is. They mask their true nature with pretty faces and sweet smiles, same as a poisonous flower. In the olden days, they say some of them cast such a glamour, could make you see anything they wanted. March you straight off a cliff, thinking you were skipping through a field of daisies."

The younger soldier sucks in an audible breath. His terror is palpable even through my blindfold.

"Don't worry, son. Maegic like that hasn't been seen in these parts in nigh on two centuries." The gruff voice chuckles. "The ones we hunt down, like this runt here, are halflings mostly. Leftovers from before the Cull, back when bloodline mixing wasn't outlawed. They're no more enchanted than you or me."

There's a marked pause. A cave of silence yawning wide between the two men.

"'Course, that don't make 'em helpless," the older soldier tacks on, almost defensively. "She'd gut us in our sleep given half the chance. Never doubt that."

"How did you finally catch her?"

"Ran her to ground by the Red Chasm. The ore in those rocks is enough to confuse 'em. Clouds their sense of direction, muddies their minds." He exhales a sharp breath. "No foe is invincible-not even a damned point."

I tense at the slur, binds going tight across my chest despite my attempts to keep still. Point. The soldiers who've taken me prisoner use the insult often, hissing it at me under their breath when they change watches, tossing it around in casual campfire conversation. As if reducing an entire race to our most notable physical trait-the pointed tip of an ear-somehow makes their barbarity easier to stomach. Every time I hear it, something within me snarls in silent rage. A broken beast, itching for retribution that will never be mine.

Gods above, grant me vengeance in my next life.

"Ain't so hard to kill 'em, actually. Just a matter of finding the right weapon," the older soldier boasts, brimming with sage wisdom. "Iron's best, of course. But, gods' truth, stick 'em with anything sharp and the job's done. Points bleed, same as any other beast in the forest. Didn't your pa take you hunting, son? Haven't you ever gutted a doe?"

"No . . . I . . . We . . ." The young soldier shifts from foot to foot, boots crunching dead leaves. "We're crofters, sir."

"Crofters?"

"Yes, sir. We tithe a tract by the coast. Iceberries, mostly."

The older soldier scoffs. "Well, you'll need ice in your berries for this deployment, I'll tell you that. Cold as all fuck, this close to the Cimmerians."

Behind my blindfold, I imagine the scene. An encampment of soldiers, weather beaten from weeks on the road. A crackling fire to ward off the chill-and the wolves. A simple dinner cooking over the coals.

The smell of meat carries to me on the wind, and my stomach rumbles a contemptuous response. Hare, most likely, or a steer. Maybe a wild boar, if one of them is skilled enough with a bow. For surely there are hunters among their number. Men capable of tracking down some prey besides me and my kind. Though if we were edible, they might eat us, too.

It's been an unforgiving winter.

I wonder to which kingdom they belong, to which of the warring kings they've pledged their fealty. Perhaps the very one who sent his armies into Seahaven and set the Starlight Wood aflame-and the only home I've ever known along with it.

A hand tugs at the shackles around my raw wrists. I hear the hiss an instant before the pain bolts through me. The smell of charred skin hits my nostrils.

My own flesh, burning.

It takes all my self-possession not to cry out-but I will not give these soldiers the satisfaction. Breathing deeply, I press my spine harder against the bark of the tree to which I'm lashed, trying not to lose consciousness.

Gods above, it hurts.

"See how she blisters?" the older soldier asks. "You'd think I'd taken a blazing log to her!"

"Y-yes," the youth stammers. "I see."

The irons stir a ceaseless tide of agony that never recedes-even now, after my wrists are scorched nearly to bone and sinew. Each shift of my chains sets off a fresh flow of anguish.

"When . . ." The young recruit clears his throat. "When will they . . ."

"String her up? Won't be long now. Commander Scythe will be here by midnight. Captain says we can't touch her till he signs off."

"Why?"

"Likes to be sure they're really dead, I suppose. Kick around the ashes a bit, make certain nothing stirs. Seems overboard to me, but it's on order of King Eld, so I do as I'm told. Hang 'em up, burn 'em down." There's the sound of a cork being unstoppered. A throat working to swallow the contents of a flask. A steadying breath. "Folks tend to get a touch superstitious when it comes to faery executions. You'll see, lad."

"Right . . ." The young man sounds unconvinced. "When I enlisted, I didn't think we'd be hunting halflings. I didn't know there were any left."

"Not many, these days. 'Specially this far up in the Midlands. The Southlanders have some . . . different practices. You should thank the skies you aren't stationed at the border to the Reaches. Hard to stomach, from what I've heard. And I ain't heard much."

My heart lurches. I've not been spared the rumors of what happens to halflings in the Southlands. Not in full. Eli gave me the briefest of glimpses at that darkness one night over a stiff dram of whiskey.

They might not kill you right away, Rhya, but the things they'll do to you will make you wish they had . . .

I force my thoughts from that dark path. It leads nowhere good.

"Son, just keep your head down, your hands steady, and your questions to yourself. You'll be fine. It's a job like any other-no matter what the rabble around here tells you." The older man's voice drops lower. "Swear, some men's breeches get stiff watching faeries squirm on the end of a rope. Different sort of bloodlust, you understand?"

"That's foul!"

"Aye. Don't make it any less true." He takes another deep pull from his flask. "Long while back, when I was no more than a young buck like you, points were a bit more common in these parts. My unit stumbled across a whole family one day, hidden away in the caves beneath a waterfall. Greenish skin and hair like river grass . . ."

Greenish skin?

Hair like river grass?

Wherever do they think up these ridiculous stories? From children's bedtime tales? Besides our ears, halflings are nearly indistinguishable from humankind. But then . . . I suppose it's easier to justify killing a mythological monster than a living being. Something, not someone.

The...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593820002
• ISBN 13: 9780593820001
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Auflage: 1
• Anzahl der Seiten: 561
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Bear Family Records GmbH; 49474882160; info@bear-family.de; ; Grenzweg 1; Holste; 27729; Deutschland