Did someone say dragons?!
Confession: It was us. We said it. Because we love dragons, and if you do too we have the perfect book for you! Introducing Jillian Boehme’s epic fantasy debut, Stormrise! Check out the synopsis, cover, and an excerpt below, and then make sure to pre-order your copy.
Stormrise is on sale on September 10!
Stormrise by Jillian Boehme
If Rain weren’t a girl, she would be respected as a Neshu combat master. Instead, her gender dooms her to a colorless future. When an army of nomads invades her kingdom, and a draft forces every household to send one man to fight, Rain takes her chance to seize the life she wants.
Knowing she’ll be killed if she’s discovered, Rain purchases powder made from dragon magic that enables her to disguise herself as a boy. Then she hurries to the war camps, where she excels in her training—and wrestles with the voice that has taken shape inside her head. The voice of a dragon she never truly believed existed.
As war looms and Rain is enlisted into an elite, secret unit tasked with rescuing the High King, she begins to realize this dragon tincture may hold the key to her kingdom’s victory. For the dragons that once guarded her land have slumbered for centuries . . . and someone must awaken them to fight once more.
I assumed the second stance—legs spread, knees bent, back sword-straight—and wondered for the thousandth time if I looked anything like the son I should have been.
Of course my chest was heaving. We were on the third round of the third set, and my too-late night had stolen the edge from my strength. I closed my mouth and forced air in through my nose, long and slow. Like a snake.
But could never be.
He moved a half-breath before I expected him to—more evidence that I was short on sleep. I arced my knife arm and matched him anyway, thinking through my paces as my feet danced on the packed earth. Papa’s face was serene, as if this were effortless. That’s what I was supposed to do with my face, too, and most days, Papa’s praise for my “centeredness” was high.
“Masterful control,” he would say. “From a distance, no one would guess you were a girl.”
That was the highest compliment—to fight like a boy. Because being a girl was never quite enough.
Papa had just gained the advantage when he stumbled and lost his center. I stepped back, hesitant to claim victory when I saw that he’d slipped on one of my writing pens. He righted himself and gave the Great Cry before slicing forward with a double palm strike that I barely had time to block. I lost my balance and landed hard on my backside.
“Never lose an opportunity!” The hard edge in Papa’s voice had more to do with his own shame than my weakness. “The hesitation of an enemy should be the moment of your victory.”
“I know, Papa.” I drew up my knees and rested my arms on them. “But it was my fault. My writing pen—”
“Was no reason for you to show mercy.” He offered his hand. “We are not promised a path without obstacles.”
It was like him not to mention that I shouldn’t have been so careless with the pen. I took his hand. “I have the best teacher.”
I tightened my grip on Papa’s hand and pulled myself to standing, not missing the warmth in his eyes—my compliment had gone deep. “Only because I stayed up too late writing.”
Storm giggled—a throaty sound that didn’t match his stature or the deepness of his voice. “My turn now.” His words were slow and slurred and better suited for a five-year-old.
Papa smiled broadly, but his eyes were sad as Storm approached. The sickness we’d had when we were barely a year old had left him forever scathed—half the son he should have been. It was hard, sometimes, to be the one left untouched.
I turned to Papa and bowed, arms crossed over my chest. “As the sun rises.”
He bowed in return. “So it sets.”
Storm swung his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Will you spot me?”
“Of course.” Our sister Willow was waiting for me, but this was more important.
I sat cross-legged while Papa helped Storm assume the first stance, reminding him to relax his arms and straighten his legs. Storm nodded with each word of instruction and clapped his hands when Papa said it was time to begin the round.
I scuffled through the dirt, now in a crouch, now on my knees, following Storm and calling reminders to him. Never once did I interfere with anything Papa said—no instructor could have been finer. But Storm’s exuberance always got the better of him, and he needed me to keep him focused.
“Eyes on Papa!” I cupped my hands around my mouth to amplify my voice. “Eyes on Papa, Storm!”
Storm lunged awkwardly to the left, and I rolled out of his way moments before he stumbled and fell. I rushed to his side and sat beside him.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not hurt, Rain.” But his eyes swam with tears.
I kissed the face that looked more like mine than a brother’s should. Eyes, nose, the height of our brows—until Storm’s facial hair had begun to darken, even Mama sometimes confused us. Especially since I often wore pants instead of my sister’s cast-off skirts.
“For reasons unknown, I almost always find you sitting in the dirt.”
Willow crossed her arms as she approached, her perfect hair, tied at the nape of her neck, framing her perfect, heart-shaped face.
“I was spotting Storm.” I rose while Papa reached for Storm’s hand.
“You’re a mess.” Willow grabbed my wrist, her pale olive hand in stark contrast to my darker, sun-goldened skin. She eyed the ink stains on my second and third fingers and wrinkled her nose. “I knew I smelled oil last night. You should go to bed earlier.”
“Sleeping is overrated.”
“I’ve been ready for almost half an hour,” Willow said. “Might we go to town before all the shops close?”
“It’s barely past morning tea.” I turned to Papa. “He was a little quicker that time, don’t you think?”
“A little, yes.” It was the same game we always played—seeing improvement that wasn’t there.
Willow stepped between us. “Rain. Honestly.”
“Give me five minutes.” I ran toward the house, pretending not to hear her as she called out a reminder to wash my face.
Fifteen minutes later, with a clean face and a fresh linen skirt and blouse, I met Willow at the gate of our modest yard. A rehearsed apology was on my lips, but the irritation I had expected didn’t seem to be there. She smiled in a sort of not-quite-there way and opened the gate, stepping aside to let me pass through.
Ever since her betrothal, there hadn’t been much to lower her spirits. As if finding a husband were the single most important thing in the universe.
“How much are you spending?” I asked as we made our way down the flower-lined footpath.
“As much as I need to.” She must have seen the skepticism on my face, because she added, “It’s just a few basics. Materials for my bridal trunk, a new dress for dinner with his family. Not more than a couple of .”
I stared. “That could buy enough food to feed us for days.”
“Well, it’s not grocery money,” Willow said, her voice edged with defensiveness. “Papa and Mama set it aside for me, along with my dowry.”
“I know that.” I gentled my voice. “You deserve it. Truly.”
Papa hadn’t been able to afford Willow’s dowry by the time she turned eighteen, and it had been a source of shame for her. Now, at nineteen, she was delighted to be at the receiving end of Papa’s recent good fortune.
“Yes, you told me.” Six hundred times.
“Do you think he will mind an older wife?”
I held back a laugh. “Seriously, Willow. You’re nineteen, not forty-nine.”
“You know what I mean.”
“He’s eighteen,” I said. “I don’t think a year makes so much difference.”
“Most girls my age are married already.”
I frowned. “Are you going to start that again?”
“No.” Willow grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “We’re going to pick out the most beautiful, seductive nightgown we can find.”
“Yes. And you’re going to pay close attention, because your turn is next.”
My stomach did the same flip it always did whenever someone brought up my own betrothal. “I don’t mind waiting until I’m nineteen.”
“You won’t have to, silly duckling! Papa already has half your dowry put away. You’re in much better shape than I was at your age.”
I bit back my normal retort—that I’d rather die a toothless hag in the gutter than be married off to a boy I’d never met. Willow was the daughter any parents would dream of—lovely, obedient, eager to serve the high king by becoming a wife and siring fine soldiers. Even if it meant marrying a boy who, for whatever reason, was willing to accept a girl past the traditional age of betrothal.
“Once you’re betrothed, you won’t waste your time on that anymore,” Willow said. “You’ll realize what’s really important.”
“I already know what’s important.”
Her face clouded with scorn. “Neshu is for boys, Rain. And no matter how good Papa says you are, that’s not going to make things any better for Storm. And you know it.”
I wanted to say the words that burned on my heart every time we had this argument—that if I hadn’t been born, Storm would be the Neshu fighter I aspired to be. But I remained silent, certain she knew the truth as well as I did.
She softened her voice. “You’ll bring Papa and Mama honor in your own time. Besides, you—”
“Move!” I pushed her out of the way as several fine, black steeds made their way across our path. As expected, I lowered my eyes and bowed my head, not daring to look even though I longed to cast a disdainful glance at them.
Willow peered after the riders. “Didn’t they see us?”
But we both knew the answer. It was up to us to move out of the way or be trampled. To the noble, a girl upon a country road had as much value as a flea in a horse’s ear.
“Stupid riders,” I said, threading my arm through Willow’s. “Let’s get your shopping done before they line the streets with dung, ?”
Willow nodded, and I watched the riders grow smaller as they headed toward town. For several delicious seconds, I imagined knocking one of them off his horse and riding it to the sea.
If Willow saw my smile, she ignored it.
Nandel sat nestled among the rolling fields of , a cultivated flower known for its medicinal properties and its use as both a flavoring in local dishes and a liqueur that was known to be the best in the province of Tenema—possibly all of Ylanda. The medicine, derived from the roots of the plant, was a potent antidote for everything from festering wounds to heart ailments; even many who didn’t sell spices or spirits had small fields for their own use. Our town was a popular place for visitors, not only because of the beautiful fields and local liqueur, but also because of the rich selection of shops and eateries.
Willow loved the bustling streets and crowded shops. I was happier at home, where I could write poetry and practice Neshu away from the gazes of those who wouldn’t approve.
I was also happier near Storm, whose world existed at home. He was our barely whispered secret—the damaged child who had stolen my parents’ honor. If our small property and the roof over our heads was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.
Also I hated shopping.
Hours later, my arms ached with the wrapped bundles I carried—a fine bathing pitcher, embroidery floss, scented oils, lace, and yards of silk and linen for bedclothes, table covers, and undergarments. We’d be doing much sewing in the weeks ahead. I groaned inwardly and tried not to think about it.
Willow hugged her newfound treasure—an embarrassingly transparent nightgown that trailed to the floor and dragged behind her like an oversized broom. I couldn’t believe she’d actually tried it on and made me look at her. I’d requested an extra layer of paper wrapping to make sure nobody could see it.
“One more stop,” Willow said, leading me down a narrow, winding street I wasn’t familiar with.
“Why so far off the main square?” I tried not to sound irritable, but I was hungry as well as tired.
“Because Madam S’dora’s shop isn’t on the main square.”
Willow spun around, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I hear she sells things for the wedding night.” She turned and kept walking.
“Things?” I hurried to keep up, the packages shifting and rolling in my arms. “What things?”
But she didn’t answer. I wasn’t even sure which shop was Madam S’dora’s, but I knew enough from local tongues to know what was in it—potions, powders, and, for all I knew, poisons, none of which would find their way onto any respectable apothecary’s shelves.
Her old-days name made it no secret that she was born in the province of Ytel, where people supposedly adhered to a belief in the old tales—and in magic. Some people laughed and rolled their eyes at the mention of her name; others scoffed and said she was evil. I wasn’t sure if it was because she believed in dragons or because she looked like one; I’d only seen her from a distance, once. I was five, and a sudden wind had blown a handkerchief from my hand. I ran to fetch it, and the tallest, thinnest woman I’d ever seen stepped from an alleyway, picked up the handkerchief, and held it out to me. I stared for several seconds before running away.
“It’s good you ran,” Mama had told me later. “Madam S’dora doesn’t walk on the light side of the moon.”
I sighed and hastened after my sister, bracing myself to walk into darkness.