Daughter of No Worlds (The War of Lost Hearts, #1)

by Carissa Broadbent

She had her magic — silver butterflies and pretty illusions, yes, but more importantly, she had the ability to feel what people wanted of her. And, most valuable of all, she had the gift that her mother had given her: permission to do whatever it took to survive, without apology, without regret. She would do absolutely anything, except cry.

He believed me because he wanted to believe me — wanted to believe in the possibility of something better, however unlikely it was. And that? That was something that sank into my soul like water after miles and miles of parched, desperate desert.

victory meant another’s defeat, and sometimes our own defeat. That winning meant sacrifices, and sometimes ones that even our own people were not willing to make. That in war, someone always paid.

It was amazing, the mental somersaults minds and hearts could do to justify their actions in the name of love.

“The way I look at it,” he said, very solemnly, so quietly that his words slipped into the air like steam, “you didn’t forget what you were. I think you remembered. And I hope no one ever again has the fucking audacity to tell you otherwise.”

He wasn’t giving me another pretty trinket. No, Max — Max, the man who had taken such great care to carve out his own solitary corner of the world — was giving me what I’d never had. The real gift was not the necklace. The gift was a home to come back to.

“Don’t let them ignore you, Tisaanah. You’re better than they are. They should be terrified of you. Make them scared. Be angry.”

“Because if I allow myself to be angry, I will never stop.” He leaned closer. So close his nose brushed mine, so close I could count his eyelashes. And so close that I felt his warm breath across my face as he smiled and said, with the viciousness of smoke and steel, “Good.”

She drove forward with such relentless determination, always, no matter what. How could I not follow? And while every one of those steps hurt, like muscles creaking back to life after years of disuse, they still felt so right.

“Show me that unrelenting brute force, Tisaanah.”

There was power in being underestimated.

“Men want power because it makes them feel good. Women want power because it lets us do things.

I was no longer looking at a woman. I was looking at a fucking goddess. A goddess of death and vengeance and utter, indiscriminate destruction.

“I told you that together we would find a way to do this, and I meant it. But I stand with you until the end. You, Tisaanah. If you wanted to run, I swear we’d find a way out. And if it all goes up in flames, I’ll burn right beside you and it will still be the best thing I—” I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted salt.

“You are the best of men, Maxantarius Farlione, no matter how much you try to convince the world otherwise. Promise me that you’ll keep fighting your battles even if I lose mine.”

Together, we burned.

I loved her for her strength, for her beautiful brute force, for seeing what no one else did. I loved her for everything the world constantly used against her. I loved her for continuing anyway.

I stood with her, only her, until the end of our stories. But I refused to allow hers to be a retelling of mine.

Less than a year ago, a young woman in a ridiculous dress had been abandoned at my cottage and refused to leave. And now, absolutely everything was different. All of my certainties had been rearranged, some destroyed, some new ones built in their place. And for the first time in so long, something new altogether had begun to grow in the space between those certainties, something harder to see but more powerful, more dangerous, more beautiful: Possibility.

My name is Tisaanah. I am a free woman and yet still a slave. I am fragments of many things but a whole of only myself. I am a daughter of no worlds, and all worlds. And I am not done yet.