Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)

by Rebecca Ross

Turn a foe into a friend, and you’ll have one less enemy.

“I think I’m living it,” she replied, tracing the chipped edge of her teacup. “I’ve always wanted to write about things that matter. To write things that inspire or inform people.”

given as spoils to the boroughs of Cambria. Dacre had been buried in the west, Enva in the east, Mir in the north, Alva in the south, and Luz in Central Borough.

She couldn’t afford to lose this promotion. Which meant she couldn’t afford to upset Zeb with her essay. She needed to write something he would want to publish. This open assignment suddenly felt very narrow indeed.

Because if money couldn’t seal the Kitts’ prowess and respect in the city, then positions of power and esteem would.

he was bored of living day after day, season after season, year after year. Such is the weight of immortality.

He was stunned by the beauty of her, beauty which could not be seen but felt, and he crawled back to her, over the graves of humans.

“I think for this particular article, your words should be sharp as knives. You want the readers to feel this wound in their chest, even though they’ve never experienced a missing loved one.”

I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it’s that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear.

For a breath, Iris couldn’t move. And whatever mask he had been wearing for everyone else—the smile and the merry eyes and the flushed cheeks—faded until she saw how exhausted and sad he was. It struck a chord within her, music that she could feel deep in her bones, and she broke their stare first.

she let the words pass through her heart to her mind, down her arms to her fingertips, and she wrote:

Even now, I think about how effortless it is to lose oneself in words, and yet also find who you are.

She thought she might be in shock, because she was numb and kept waiting for her mother to return home, to sweep in through the door.

Not even for a moment would I trade my pain to erase Del’s life.

Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you—a shadow you carry in your soul—but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter.

Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams. You are not alone.

But she knew the moment Roman walked into the office. She knew it like a cord was bound between the two of them, even though she refused to look at him.

Iris shut her eyes. Her composure was about to crack, and it had taken all of her will to even get up and dress herself that morning, to brush her hair and force some lipstick on, all so that she gave the appearance that she was fine, that she was not coming apart at the seams. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was going through, because gods forbid they pity her—he pities you!—and she drew in a breath through her teeth.

For once, she wished he would look at her, because the longer she sat beside him, the more his tension coaxed her own, until she was cracking her knuckles and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

When Roman finally looked at her, time seemed to stall. His eyes were keen, as if he could see everything that dwelled in her—the light and the shadows. Her threads of ambition and desire and joy and grief. Never had a man looked at her in that way. A shiver traced her bones.

“Your prejudices are quite profound, Father,” he stated. “And you should stop having me followed.”

He couldn’t protect Del when she had needed him most, but he would try his best to protect Iris now.

the air teemed with something electric. There was excitement and passion and that breathless feeling of creation, and Iris felt it catch in her lungs, as if she were falling ill to whatever fever was fueling these people.

“Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”

“I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.”

the stars burned brighter than Iris had ever seen, as if they had fallen closer to earth.

If she was wounded and lying in an infirmary bed, in pain, would she want some stranger interviewing her? Probably not.

All of this to say—it is never wise to offend a musician. And choose your lovers wisely.

The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don’t waste time worrying about things that won’t even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light.

Time suddenly feels sharper than a knife grazing your skin, capable of cutting you at any moment.

I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain. That is strength, and I see it in you.

Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels.

“I fear I don’t run, Kitt.”

She didn’t want Roman going to the front. She wanted him here, where he would be safe.

She unfortunately had to sit on Roman Kitt’s lap, nearly all the way to the front lines.

He could lose himself in those hazel eyes, in wanting to calm the fear that blazed within her.

She has to survive this, Roman thought. He didn’t want to live in a world without her and her words.

and they would write on their typewriters and ruthlessly edit each other’s pieces and read books by candlelight at night.

“I’m needed elsewhere, but I’ll find you, Kitt. When this is over, I’ll find you, all right?”

“Don’t leave,” he whispered, and his hand flailed, reaching for her. “You and I … we need to stay together. We’re better this way.”

“You have to stay strong for me. Once you’re healed, I need you to write an article about all of this. I need you to steal the front page from me like you normally do, all right?”

“Before we left home,” he continued, even fainter now, “we decided to carve our initials into the great sycamore tree that overlooked one of the fields. The tree was on a hill, like a sentry. It had been struck by lightning twice but had yet to split and fall. And so we believed there was magic in that tree,

We woke up this morning to one world, and now the sun is setting on another.”

There was smoke in her hair, smoke in her lungs, smoke in her eyes, burning her up from within.

Her ears still held a faint ring; she wondered if it would ever fade.

saw. A transcendent connection. A divine threshold. But if there’s anything I can should say in this moment—when my heart is beating wildly in my chest and I would beg you to come and tame it—is this: your letters have been a light for me to follow. Your words? A sublime feast that fed me on days when I was starving. I love you, Iris.

I am coming to love him, in two different ways. Face to face, and word to word.

Now that his eyes had locked with hers, Iris felt seen, down to her bones.

“I was thinking we could go to our hill.”

Slowly, he lifted his fingers and wove them with hers—fingers that had typed letter after letter to her. And she raised him to his feet.