Runesworn: Stone Two (Runesworn Series—Book Two) E-Book

Taylor Night

• Herausgeber: Lukeman Literary Management
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Runesworn
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 236

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

From fantasy author Taylor Night comes the second novel in a breathtaking new romantasy series, ideal for fans of Rebecca Yarros, Sarah J. Maas, and Cassandra Clare. Haunted by revelations about her mysterious past, Lyra quests for her first satellite library, one that conceals impossible dimensions within its walls, where she must face a shapeshifting guardian composed of lost memories to claim her prize. As disturbing visions reveal dark truths about her bloodline and magical heritage, Lyra struggles to trust the rogue Riven, torn between notions of betrayal and protection. With Prince Cassian's forces closing in and the ancient dragon Drakmor growing stronger with each Codex he claims, Lyra must learn to open her guarded heart while navigating deadly magical trials that could either unlock the power to save those she loves—or destroy everything she's fighting to protect. The series transports readers into an electrifying fantasy realm where magic comes at a deadly price and ancient secrets threaten to reshape civilization itself. Following a street thief turned unlikely hero as she navigates forbidden romance, deadly political intrigue, and world-altering discoveries, this epic saga delivers unexpected twists and heart-pounding suspense that will captivate both young adult audiences and devoted fantasy enthusiasts seeking their next unforgettable adventure.

Leseprobe

RUNESWORN:

Taylor Night

Taylor Night is author of the SKYBORNE and RUNESWORN young adult epic fantasy series.

Some of Taylor’s books are available for free. Please visit Taylor’s author page to find out more.

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the fantasy genre, Taylor loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit taylornightauthor.comto learn more and stay in touch

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE: RHEA

CHAPTER ONE: KYTHARA IRONTIDE

CHAPTER TWO: LYRA

CHAPTER THREE: PRINCE GARETH

CHAPTER FOUR: DRAKMOR

CHAPTER FIVE: LYRA

CHAPTER SIX: HIGH MAGISTER CORVUS

CHAPTER SEVEN: RIVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT: VEX MORTAINE

CHAPTER NINE: PRINCE CASSIAN

CHAPTER TEN: FLUX

CHAPTER ELEVEN: KING ALDRIC

CHAPTER TWELVE: LYRA

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: RHEA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: LYRA

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: RIVEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: DRAKMOR    

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: CASSIAN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: LYRA

CHAPTER NINETEEN: CASSIAN

CHAPTER TWENTY: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: CASSIAN

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: FLUX

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE: KYTHARA IRONTIDE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX: PRINCE GARETH

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN: CASSIAN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT: DRAKMOR

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE: LYRA

CHAPTER THIRTY: LYRA

PROLOGUE: RHEA

Seventeen years ago

The marketplace buzzed with its usual morning chaos when Rhea first heard the small voice pleading near the baker's stall.

"Please. Hungry."

A crowd had gathered, their expressions ranging from curiosity to disgust as they watched a tiny girl, no more than five years old, kneel in the dirt. Her dark hair hung in matted tangles around a face smudged with grime, and her clothes—if the tattered rags could be called clothes—hung loose on her skeletal frame.

But it was the child's eyes that made Rhea's breath catch. Large and green as spring leaves, they held an intelligence that seemed too old for such a small face.

"Get away from there, you little thief!" the baker shouted. "This is the third time this week!"

"Not stealing," the girl said with heartbreaking dignity. "Just... hoping."

Several people in the crowd laughed—not kindly. Rhea felt something twist in her chest, a protective fury that she hadn't experienced since losing her husband Kirkland and their newborn son to the shaking fever five years ago.

"Where's your mama?" a woman called out.

The little girl's face went blank, confusion replacing the careful wariness. "Don't know. Don't... don't remember."

"How long have you been alone?" someone else asked.

"Don't know," the child repeated, her small voice growing smaller. "Always?"

The crowd began to disperse, their brief entertainment concluded. Soon the little girl would be alone again, facing another day of searching for scraps and safe places to sleep.

Without giving it any real thought, Rhea stepped forward.

"Come here, sweetheart," she said gently, crouching down to the child's eye level.

The girl looked up with those remarkable green eyes, wariness and hope warring in her expression.

"What's your name?"

"Lyra," the child whispered.

"Are you hungry, Lyra?"

The little girl nodded solemnly. As Rhea extended her hand, she noticed something odd—the shadows around Lyra seemed slightly deeper than they should be, as if the light bent away from her small form. But when Rhea blinked and looked again, everything appeared normal.

Tiny fingers, cold despite the warm morning, slipped into hers with touching trust.

They shared bread and soup on a quiet bench. Lyra ate slowly, carefully, with better manners than most children twice her age. When Rhea asked where she'd been sleeping, the answer was heartbreaking in its simplicity.

"Nowhere. Sometimes alley. Sometimes under the bridge."

"Do you remember your family? Your mama or papa?"

Lyra's brow furrowed with the effort of trying to recall something that might not exist. "No. Just... just me."

That evening, as Lyra curled up on Rhea's bed with the trustful sleep of a child who felt safe for the first time in who knew how long, Rhea made her decision.

The next morning brought the conversation that would change both their lives forever.

"Will you take me back to the–the market?" Lyra asked over breakfast, her voice small and uncertain.

“The market?” Rhea gently corrected. "Do you want to go back?"

"Don't want to be hungry. But don't want to be trouble."

"Oh, sweetheart." Rhea knelt beside Lyra's chair. "You're not trouble. You're not even close to being trouble."

"But I don't have money. I don't have family." Lyra's voice grew smaller. "I'm just... extra."

The word hit Rhea hard. "Lyra, look at me. You are not extra. You are not in trouble. If you'll let me... you're my daughter."

Lyra's eyes widened. "Really? You really know?"

"Family isn't just about blood, sweetheart. It's about choosing to love someone." Rhea smiled through her tears. "I choose you."

For a long moment, Lyra said nothing. Then, with the solemnity of someone making a sacred vow, she nodded.

"I choose you too."

As Lyra threw her small arms around Rhea's neck, something extraordinary happened. For just an instant, Rhea could have sworn she heard a sound like distant music—beautiful and haunting and utterly impossible. But when she pulled back to look at Lyra's face, the child appeared perfectly normal, if happy.

Later, Rhea would convince herself she'd imagined it. But in that moment, holding her chosen daughter close, she felt as if the world itself had shifted to accommodate the love between them.

And perhaps, in ways she couldn't yet understand, it had.

CHAPTER ONE: KYTHARA IRONTIDE

The smoke still rises from Hilltown's burned granaries when I ride through what remains of its main street.

My warhorse's hooves ring against cobblestones blackened with soot, the sound echoing off empty doorframes where doors once hung. The villagers fled before we arrived—smart of them. Those who run live to serve again. Those who stand and fight become lessons for the next settlement.

Behind me, my warriors move through the ruins like wolves through a slaughtered flock. The Ironspear clan strips copper from the blacksmith's forge while the Blood Moon women load grain sacks onto their war ponies. Efficient. Methodical. They've learned to take only what they can carry and burn the rest. Scorched earth teaches fear better than occupation ever could.

"Warlord!" Thorek Ironjaw, my chief lieutenant, approaches with the measured stride of a man who's witnessed a thousand raids. His scarred face bears fresh cuts from this morning's brief skirmish—the local militia tried to make a stand at the village outskirts. It lasted all of seven minutes.

"The scouts have returned," he reports, falling into step beside my mount. "King Aldric's army moves faster than expected. His vanguard should reach the northern valleys soon."

Soon. I've been hearing that word for days now, watching distant dust clouds on the horizon that never seem to grow closer. The old king marches toward me with all the speed of a funeral procession, probably stopping to secure every crossroads and hamlet along the way. Cautious. Predictable.

Soft.

I dismount and walk to the village well, where a wooden bucket still hangs from a frayed rope. The water below reflects my face—angular features marked by ritual scars that map my rise through the clan hierarchies, dark hair braided with iron rings that chime softly when I move. At thirty-five, I've united more tribes than any warlord in three generations. Yet here I am, waiting for an aging king to finally acknowledge my existence.

"Tell me about his forces," I command, splashing the cool water across my face to wash away the dust of the road.

"The same as our intelligence suggested. Heavy cavalry, siege engines, and a full baggage train. The kind of army that conquers kingdoms." Thorek's tone carries the respect due to a formidable enemy, though I hear the underlying confidence of a warrior who's never known defeat.

I already know about Aldric's eight thousand soldiers. My spies confirmed those numbers some time ago. Impressive numbers, but numbers mean nothing without the will to use them properly. King Aldric built his reputation fighting raiders and putting down peasant uprisings. His commanders learned warfare against opponents who couldn't read, couldn't plan, and couldn't adapt when their initial charge failed.

They've never faced someone like me.

"What of their magical support?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"Runesworn march with the main column. The scouts report seeing at least a dozen in their white robes, plus supply wagons carrying what look like sealed stone tablets."

Runestones. The foundation of southern military doctrine is portable magic that turns farmers into warriors and common soldiers into temporary champions. For centuries, the kingdom has relied on these toys to maintain their edge over enemies who lacked access to such power.

But magical weapons make armies lazy. When victory comes from touching the right stone at the right moment, commanders stop learning actual tactics. When your soldiers expect magic to solve every problem, they forget how to think for themselves when that magic fails them.

I've been studying the kingdom's military doctrine for three years, ever since I began planning this campaign. Reports from captured merchants, stolen dispatches, and intelligence gathered by spies who could pass for simple traders. The pattern was always the same: deploy conventional forces, wait for the enemy to commit, then unleash magical advantages to shatter their morale and break their lines.

Effective against barbarian clans who fight with raw courage and crude weapons. Less effective against someone who understands their methods and plans accordingly.

"How long until they reach the contested territories?" I ask.

Thorek considers this, his weather-beaten face creased in concentration. "Hard to say, Warlord. They're moving cautiously, securing their supply lines as they advance. Could be days. Could be longer."

Days. More waiting while my warriors grow restless and the clans start wondering why their great leader hasn't delivered the decisive victory she promised. Some of the younger war chiefs are already muttering about striking the capital directly instead of waiting for Aldric to come to us.

They don't understand strategy. This isn't about conquering a city—it's about breaking a kingdom. And kingdoms break when their symbols of strength are revealed as hollow.

"Summon the clan leaders," I decide. "All of them. I want them here before the sun reaches its peak."

As Thorek hurries away to carry out my orders, I walk to the edge of the village where the road disappears into rolling hills dotted with the smoke of distant fires. Somewhere beyond those hills, King Aldric advances with his magnificent army, probably convinced that his superior numbers and magical advantages make victory inevitable.

He's about to learn otherwise.

Within the hour, they gather in what used to be Hilltown's market square—a dozen clan leaders representing the finest warriors of the northern wastes. Each one commands hundreds of fighters, each one has earned their position through strength and cunning. The Frost Wolves' chieftain bears ritual scars that spiral across her entire left arm. The Ravencrest war leader wears a cloak made from the pelts of enemies he's killed in single combat. The Blood Moon matriarch carries twin axes that have never tasted defeat.

These are my instruments of conquest, and I've spent years forging them into a weapon the soft southlands have never encountered.

"Brothers and sisters of the clans," I begin, my voice carrying across the square. "For too long, we've lived on the scraps the South throws us. Barren lands, they don't want. The trade goods they priced too high. Territory they abandon when it becomes inconvenient."

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the assembled warriors. These are grievances that run deeper than politics—generations of being pushed to the margins, of watching their children grow up hard while southern nobles grow fat on wealth extracted from lands their ancestors once called home.

"But today, change comes to our lands." I gesture toward the smoke-stained horizon. "King Aldric marches north with his army, thinking to crush us with the same overwhelming force that broke the river clans twenty years ago."

The Ironspear chieftain spits into the dirt. "Let him come. We'll water the earth with southern blood."

"Yes, we will," I agree. "But not in the way he expects."

I move to the center of the square, where a crude map has been scratched into the dirt with a spear point. Lines mark the major roads, and circles indicate key villages and chokepoints. It's not much to look at, but it represents months of careful planning.

"The king expects us to mass our forces and meet him in open battle. Probably somewhere near the Richfield crossroads, where the terrain favors his heavy cavalry and siege engines." I point to the relevant section of the map. "He's planned his entire campaign around that assumption."

"So we don't give him what he expects," the Frost Wolves chieftain says, beginning to see where this leads.

"Exactly." I kneel and trace a new route through the map with my finger. "Instead, we send a message. Something to welcome him properly to our lands."

I look up at their faces, seeing interest replace bloodlust as they begin to understand. These aren't mindless savages driven by rage and desperation. They're seasoned warriors who've survived decades of clan warfare precisely because they can think beyond the immediate urge for violence.

"Thorek," I call. My chief lieutenant steps forward, already anticipating what I'm about to ask of him.

"Warlord?"

"Select two hundred fighters. Your best. Fast, experienced, capable of striking hard and withdrawing before the enemy can respond effectively." I stand and brush the dirt from my hands. "I want them moving within the hour."

"What's the target?"

I smile, and several of the clan leaders involuntarily step back. They know that expression well—it's the look I wear before battles turn decisively in our favor.

"The king's vanguard. Hit them hard enough to remind Aldric that he's not facing some disorganized rabble. Make him understand that every mile of his advance will cost him blood and treasure." I pause, making sure they all understand the true purpose behind this strike. "But more importantly, make him angry."

The assembled leaders exchange glances, and I can see them working through the implications. An angry enemy makes mistakes. An overconfident enemy becomes reckless. And a southern army that's been relying on magical advantages for generations might not adapt well when those advantages prove insufficient.

"How many casualties?" the Blood Moon matriarch asks.

"Enough to matter. Not enough to end the war before it truly begins." I meet each of their gazes in turn. "This isn't about winning a single engagement. It's about setting the tone for everything that follows."

Thorek nods slowly. "A message written in blood."

"The only kind these southerners seem capable of reading," I agree. "They've grown comfortable behind their walls and their magic, convinced that superior numbers and Runestone advantages make them invincible. Time to remind them that war is still won by warriors, not by touching pretty stones."

The clan leaders voice their approval—some with enthusiastic shouts, others with the grim nods of veterans who understand that the real campaign is just beginning. They disperse to their own forces, already planning which fighters to contribute to Thorek's strike force.

As the square empties, I remain standing over the dirt map, studying the routes and distances one more time. Somewhere to the south, King Aldric marches toward what he probably believes will be a straightforward campaign of pacification. His scouts have likely reported the burned villages, the refugee columns, the obvious signs of barbarian raiding.

What they haven't reported, because they lack the experience to recognize it, are the signs of careful military planning. The strategic value of the targets we've chosen. The deliberate pattern of our advances is designed to funnel his forces exactly where we want them.

By the time he understands what he's truly facing, it will be far too late to adjust his strategy.

I walk back to where my horse waits, its reins held by a young warrior whose eager eyes follow my every movement. The next generation is hungry for glory and convinced that their warlord can deliver victories against any enemy. Part of me envies their certainty. Part of me remembers when warfare seemed that simple to me as well.

But simplicity is a luxury I abandoned years ago, when I first began dreaming of something larger than clan raids and territorial disputes. This campaign isn't just about conquest—it's about proving that the old ways of strength and courage can triumph over the new ways of magic and comfort.

The kingdom has forgotten what real war looks like. I'm about to remind them.

As I mount up and prepare to ride toward our main encampment, I take one last look at the ruins of Hilltown.

Let Aldric come. Let him bring his soldiers and his Runestone magic and his absolute confidence in southern superiority.

I'll be waiting.

CHAPTER TWO: LYRA

The mountain path winds upward through pine and granite, each step taking me further from everything familiar and deeper into a wilderness that feels as foreign as another world.

I pause at a rocky outcrop to catch my breath, my legs burning from the steady climb. A day and night of walking since leaving Erasmus's sanctuary, following his directions toward what he promised would be "a cottage that appears ordinary but contains wonders beyond imagining." So far, all I've found are endless trees, steep slopes, and the growing certainty that I'm hopelessly lost.

Follow the old mining road until it splits at the lightning-struck oak, he'd said. Take the left fork toward the peaks. The path will climb steadily for half a day before leveling off near a waterfall that flows over black stone. From there, look for a small cottage with a red door nestled among the pines.

Clear enough instructions, but apparently, the mountains don't cooperate with fifteen-year-old directions. The lightning-struck oak had been easy enough to find—a massive dead tree split down the middle, its blackened trunk marking the fork in the path. But the left fork has been climbing for far longer than half a day, and I haven't seen any sign of a waterfall, black stone, or otherwise.

Maybe the geography has changed since Erasmus was last up here. Rockslides, fallen trees, and new paths carved by weather and time. Or maybe I missed a turn somewhere, distracted by my own thoughts and the constant ache of worry about Rhea.

It’s all I can think of—     the first satellite library. One of eleven total is scattered across the countryside of the outer realms. Add that to the main one in the city, and there are twelve of them. Each one has tablets in it—draconic codices, the pieces from the Amber Tablet.

This particular library houses the Codex of Binding, a piece of the Amber Tablet. According to Erasmus, it’s      a text that could potentially grant me the ability to transfer healing powers to others. To Rhea.

If I can read it.

The doubt gnaws at me constantly. Yes, I was able to read the runes in the Codex Vitae, the ones that awakened the dragon Drakmor from his stone prison. And I could read the runes at Erasmus's sanctuary. But those were created by the Runesworn, not ancient draconic script. What if the Codex of Binding is completely different?     

Erasmus insists that my abilities are innate, part of my Draethyn bloodline, but what if he's wrong? What if I finally reach this hidden cottage, find the Codex of Binding, and discover that the ancient script looks like meaningless scratches on stone?

Rhea doesn't have time for me to figure this out through trial and error. The healer's words echo in my memory like a death sentence: Weeks at the most, maybe a month if you're lucky. Every day I spend wandering these mountains is another day closer to losing the only family I've ever known.

The worst part is the loneliness. After traveling with Riven, the silence feels oppressive. No witty conversation to pass the time, no one to watch my back when I stop to rest, no reassuring presence to remind me that I'm not completely insane for chasing ancient magic through the wilderness.

Riven should be well on his way back to Erasmus's sanctuary by now, after completing the task we'd agreed on. He'd volunteered to create false trails, to leave signs that might mislead any hunters Prince Gareth sent after me. Broken branches pointing in the wrong direction, footprints leading toward dead ends, the kind of misdirection that might buy me precious time to complete my quest.

I hope he's safe. The thought of him being captured because he helped me sends a chill through my chest that has nothing to do with the mountain air.

Movement in the valley below catches my eye, and I freeze. Through a gap in the trees, I can make out tiny figures moving in formation along what might be a road. Too far away to make out details, but the organized way they move suggests soldiers rather than travelers.

My stomach clenches. Are they looking for me? Word of my escape from the execution platform would have spread by now, along with descriptions of the dragon that carried me away. Prince Gareth struck me as the type to hold grudges, and a very public humiliation would definitely qualify as something worth holding a grudge over.

But they could also be responding to the barbarian threat everyone was talking about before my trial. Northern raiders moving south, burning villages, forcing King Aldric to march out with his army. Maybe what I'm seeing has nothing to do with me at all.

Either way, soldiers mean danger. I duck lower behind the rocks, waiting until the distant figures disappear around a bend in the valley road. Only then do I realize how exposed I've been, standing on this outcrop like a signal fire advertising my presence to anyone with eyes.

Shouldering my pack, I continue climbing, but the encounter leaves me rattled. It's one thing to know intellectually that I'm being hunted. It's another to see potential evidence of that hunt moving through the landscape around me.

An hour later, I stop again to check my supplies, and the news isn't good. The dried meat Erasmus gave me is almost gone, reduced to a handful of tough strips that taste like leather. The hard bread won't last another day. My waterskin is half empty, though at least mountain streams seem plentiful enough that thirst shouldn't be a problem.

Food, however, is becoming critical.

I've tried foraging as I walk—Erasmus showed me a few edible plants before I left—but my city-bred eyes apparently can't distinguish between safe berries and potentially poisonous ones. The one handful I risked eating gave me stomach cramps for hours, so I've been more cautious since then.

Hunting has been an even bigger failure. I can pick locks and scale walls and fight when cornered, but apparently, none of those skills translates to catching rabbits or squirrels. The few times I've gotten close enough to try, my city-bred clumsiness sends them scampering away before I can do anything useful.

The thought of Rhea lying sick and alone while I stumble through the mountains, slowly starving, sends a familiar spike of guilt through my chest. Every hour I spend lost up here is another hour she doesn't have.

But Erasmus insisted this was the only way. Find the Amber      Tablet Codices, prove that there's more to magic than the Runesworn's carefully guarded monopoly. The Codex of Binding could grant us healing abilities powerful enough to save her life—if I can actually read the ancient text when I find it.

The doubts circle like vultures, feeding on my exhaustion and growing desperation. I force myself to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, because stopping to think too hard about any of this will drive me insane.

Suddenly, the distinct smell of smoke hits my nostrils.

I stop, sniffing the air carefully. Wood smoke, definitely, with the faint undertone of cooking food that makes my empty stomach clench with hunger. Somewhere below and to the east, following the smoke to its source with my eyes until I spot it—a thin gray line rising from what looks like a cluster of buildings nestled in a fold of the mountainside.

A village. Probably small, given how well hidden it is, but still evidence of civilization. Which means food, supplies, maybe even information about the cottage I'm supposed to find.

It also means people who might recognize me if my description has spread this far from the capital. People who might turn me over to those soldiers I saw earlier in exchange for whatever reward Prince Gareth has offered.

I stare down at the distant buildings, weighing risks against desperate need. My stomach chooses that moment to cramp with hunger, reminding me that noble intentions won't matter if I collapse from starvation before reaching the library.

The smart thing would be to keep climbing, keep searching, trust that I'll find what I'm looking for before my supplies run out completely. The safe thing would be to avoid any contact with potential enemies.

But as I look at my nearly empty pack and feel the weakness in my legs that comes from too little food and too much worry, I know I don't really have a choice.

I need supplies. And that village is the only source for miles around.

And so I adjust my pack straps and start picking my way down the mountainside, following game trails and rock ledges toward the smoke rising from below, each step taking me closer to potential salvation or certain disaster.

CHAPTER THREE: PRINCE GARETH

The throne room feels different when you're the one sitting in the chair.

I lean back against the carved stone, letting the weight of royal authority settle around me like a familiar cloak. Father's throne—my throne, for now—commands a perfect view of the great hall where nobles and petitioners gather to seek the crown's favor. Every hour brings new faces, new problems, and new opportunities to demonstrate that Prince Gareth Valdris understands what real leadership requires.

Unlike some members of my family.

"Your Highness." Sergeant Kaine approaches the throne with obvious reluctance. "We've received reports about Prince Cassian."

I straighten, already knowing I won't like what comes next. "What about my brother?"

"He's not in the palace, Your Highness. His chambers are empty, his personal effects gone. The stable master reports that he departed with a party of knights."

Gone. Of course he's gone. I should have expected as much from Cassian—the moment real authority falls to someone else, he finds an excuse to disappear rather than accept his proper role as advisor and supporter.

"How many men?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the anger building in my chest.

"A dozen knights, Your Highness. Sir Ambrose leads them, along with Sir Jonathan Grey and ten others from the palace guard."

A dozen men. A respectable force, large enough to handle serious threats but small enough to move quickly. The kind of group you'd assemble for a dangerous mission rather than a routine patrol. Which means Cassian is pursuing something significant, something he doesn't want brought to my attention.