Powerful, page 14
Alright, enough about me. I can confidently say that I wouldn’t get the chance to write acknowledgements if it weren’t for a handful of incredible people. To start, I have the great privilege of working hand-in-hand with not one, but two incredible Simon & Schuster teams. Even with my scarily over-active imagination, I could have never dreamed of having a group of people in both the US and UK that care so deeply about me and my stories. I wish I could give each of you a kiss on the cheek but given that several thousand miles separate most of us, I will have to settle for typing your name with the upmost admiration.
Starting with the lovely UK team, it seems only right to begin with Yasmin Morrissey. As one of my brave editors, you have endured countless voice memos, emails, and zoom calls about all things Powerless. You have been there through every stage of this book, and I cannot thank you enough for your constant support. Even my imposter syndrome and self-criticism are no match for you! I genuinely fear what would become of me without your diligence, and I look forward to many more lengthy voice memos in the future!
But there are several other members of the UK team I have the honor to thank, starting with Rachel Denwood and Ali Dougal — my managing and publishing directors. Laura Hough and Danielle Wilson have championed my work with UK retailers while Loren Catana, my in-house Designer, came up with the gorgeous cover design for Powerful. Miya Elkerton and Olivia Horrox in Marketing, along with Jess Dean and Ellen Abernethy in Publicity. The fantastic rights team, led by Maud Sepult and Emma Martinez who have found incredible international homes for Powerless. Last – but certainly not least – Nicholas Hayne and everyone else. Thank you.
As for my equally lovely US team, I must shower Nicole Ellul with immense thanks and admiration. Being my other fearless editor is no simple task. You have helped guide me so graciously through each publication process, and your faith in my work is appreciated more than you know. Thank you for every idea and ounce of input that has made this series what it now is. Your enthusiasm alone is an inspiration to me.
And to the rest of the marvelous US crew, I have Jenica Nasworthy to thank for keeping everything organized as my managing editor. But there are several others who deserve a huge, general thank-you as well. Chava Wolin, Lucy Cummins, Hilary Zarycky, Alyza Liu, Justin Chanda, Kendra Levine, Nicole Russo, Emily Ritter, and Brandon MacDonald – you all are incredible at what you do. Thank you.
At this time, feel free to take a break from my ramblings to drool over the gorgeous artwork and map in the front of this book. And, yes, the rumors are true. It is all hand-drawn by the insanely talented Jordan Elliot. I cannot think of a better person to bring my world to life, and I am incredibly honored to continue working together. Here’s to more jaw-dropping art!
To my unflinching lawyer, Lloyd Jassin. Thank you for helping navigate me through this world of publishing – I cannot imagine tackling any of this without you. You are a pleasure to work with, and I hope to continue doing so for many years to come.
Besides the incredible S&S teams who helped assemble Powerful, there are several others at work behind the scenes. And I happen to be related to those individuals. Firstly, I can humbly admit that none of these dreams would have come true if it weren’t for my parents. Mom and Dad, you have supported me every step of the way, believed in me when I found it hard to believe in myself. Thank you for trusting your little girl enough to let her pursue this passion. I am so blessed to have you both, but especially a mother who happily juggles being my confidant, assistant, and bookkeeper.
Being the runt of the family, there are a few older siblings to acknowledge. Jessie, Nikki, Josh – you have all supported me in your own ways. I deeply appreciate every encouraging text and proverbial pat on the back. Thank you, Foos.
Aside from my family, there are several friends who ensured I stayed sane during this writing process. I would like to give a general thank-you to Ivy and Ella – you are the reason I survived both high school and this current, crazy stage of life. I love you endlessly. As for my beloved Olivia, Powerful would not be out in the world if it weren’t for you. Scheming up this story at a dirty coffeeshop table is one of my fondest memories, and I hope to continue conspiring with you. Thank you for putting up with my alarmingly lengthy messages. You are truly the voice of the people, Pookie!
Now onto the daunting task of attempting to express my feelings for a certain boy. Zac, to say you are my rock would be an understatement. Thank you for every bit of encouragement and willingness to help. Whether it’s cooking me a meal or offering a shoulder to cry on, I can always rely on your comfort. You are truly my fictional boy incarnate, and I hope to write our story one day.
As stated in the back of Powerless, I’d like to thank the One who gifted me my love of words and the desire to write. I truly would not be where I am today without my Lord and Savior, and I thank God for the opportunity He has given me.
Now it is your turn, dear reader. Did I hold your attention up until this point? Were you waiting for me to finally acknowledge you? Because it is all thanks to you that I made it to this very page. I am honored to be on this journey together, and even more so that you took the time to read my story. You are my inspiration, my reason for every word. And I hope to hold your attention for many years to come.
Here’s to more dreams, and the stories they create.
XO, Lauren
More from the Author
Reckless
Powerless
Keep reading for a preview of
Reckless
by
Lauren Roberts
PROLOGUE Kai
The halls are eerily empty at this hour.
Just as they are every year.
I take my time walking down them, stealing this sliver of peace for myself. Though stolen bliss is little more than smothered chaos.
I choose to ignore that thought as I turn down a dark hall, my footsteps soft atop the emerald carpet. A sleeping castle is comforting, solitude a rarity amongst royals.
Royal.
I almost allow myself to laugh at the title. I frequently forget who I was before what I became. A prince before the Enforcer. A boy before the monster.
But, today, I am no one. Today, I simply get to be with who should have been.
A soft light leaks from beneath the doors of the kitchen. I manage a slight smile at the sight.
Every year. She’s always here every year.
I gently push open the doors and step into the puddle of light cast by several flickering candles. The sweet smell of dough and cinnamon hangs in the air, swaddling me in warmth and memories.
‘You’re up earlier each time I see you.’
I meet Gail’s smile with a small one of my own. Her apron is dusted with spices, her face streaked with flour. I lift myself onto the same counter I’ve sat atop since I was big enough to reach it – my palms flattened behind me, scars sticky from the countertop.
There’s comfort in the normalcy of it all.
I smile at the woman who practically raised me, each grey hair a testament to the years she’s spent putting up with the princes. I lift a single shoulder in a lazy shrug. ‘Every year I sleep less.’
When her hands find her hips, I know she’s fighting the urge to scold me. ‘You worry me, Kai.’
‘When have I not?’ I say lightly.
‘I’m serious.’ She wags a finger, gesturing to the whole of me. ‘You’re too young to be dealin’ with all this. It seems like only yesterday you were running around my kitchen, you and Kitt…’
She trails off at the mention of him, forcing me to resuscitate the dying conversation. ‘I actually came from Father’s–’ I pause long enough to sigh through my nose – ‘Kitt’s study.’
Gail nods slowly. ‘He hasn’t left it since his coronation, has he?’
‘No, he hasn’t. And I wasn’t in there long, either.’ I run a hand through my disheveled hair. ‘He was just informing me of my first mission.’
She’s quiet for a long moment. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’
I nod. ‘It’s her.’
‘And are you—?’
‘Going to complete the mission? Do as I’m told? Drag Paedyn back here?’ I finish for her. ‘Of course. It’s my duty.’
Another long pause. ‘And did he remember what today is?’
I look up, nodding slowly as I meet her gaze. ‘It’s not his job to remember.’
‘Right,’ she sighs. ‘Well, I only made one this year anyway. Figured he wouldn’t be able to join ya.’
‘We’ll cut him some slack.’ With a nod, she adds, ‘This is the first year he’s missed, after all.’
She steps aside, revealing a glistening sticky bun beside the oven. I slide off the counter, smiling as I walk over to her. Only after I’ve kissed her on the cheek does she hand the plate to me.
‘Now, go on,’ she shoos. ‘Go spend some time with her.’
‘Thank you, Gail,’ I say softly. ‘For every year.’
‘And the rest to follow.’ She winks before shoving me towards the door.
I glance back at her, at this woman who was a mother to me when the queen could not be. She was warm hugs and affection, well-deserved scoldings and much-desired approval.
I fear where the Azer brothers would be without her.
‘Kai?’
I’m halfway through the door when I stop to look back at her.
‘We all loved her,’ she says quietly.
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘She knew.’
And then my feet are carrying me out into the shadowed hallway beyond.
The sticky bun sitting atop the plate in my hand is tempting, smelling of cinnamon and sugar and simpler times. But instead I force myself to focus on walking the familiar path to the gardens, the same one I take this time each year from the kitchens.
It’s not long before I’m heading for the broad doors that separate me from the gardens beyond. I barely glance at the Imperials standing guard or the ones sleeping uselessly beside them. The few who are awake pretend not to notice the sticky bun I’m carrying into the darkness with me.
I follow the stone path between the rows of colorful flowers I can’t make out in the shadows. Statues covered in ivy litter the garden, several missing chunks of stone after taking one too many topples that certainly had nothing to do with me. The fountain ripples at the center of it all, reminding me of stifling days and understandable stupidity that had Kitt and me jumping into it.
But it’s what sits beyond the garden that I’m here for.
I step out into the soft stretch of grass that was once layered with colorful rugs for the second Trial’s ball. Not allowing myself to reminisce any further on that night, I follow the moonlight that strokes its pale fingers over the outline of her.
The willow tree looks hauntingly alluring, her leaves rustling in the soft breeze. I run my eyes over each drooping branch. Over each root breaking through the dirt. Every inch is beautiful and strong.
I push through the curtain of leaves to step beneath the tree I visit as often as life will allow it – but always on this day with a sticky bun in hand. I run my fingers along the rough bark of the trunk, following its familiar grooves.
It’s not long before take my usual seat beneath the towering tree, draping an arm over my propped knee. Balancing the plate atop a particularly large root, I pull a small matchbox from my pocket.
‘I couldn’t find a candle this year, sorry.’ I strike the match, staring at the small flame now sputtering on the stick. ‘So this will have to do.’
I push the match into the center of the sticky bun, smiling slightly at the pathetic sight. I take a moment to watch it burn, watch it paint the massive tree in a flickering glow.
Then I look down beside me, running a hand over the soft grass there.
‘Happy birthday, A.’
I blow out the makeshift candle out, letting darkness swallow us whole.
CHAPTER 1 Paedyn
My blood is only useful if it can manage to stay inside my body.
My mind is only useful if it can manage not to get lost.
My heart is only useful if it can manage not to get broken.
Well, it seems I’ve become utterly useless, then.
My eyes flick over the floorboards beneath my feet, wandering over the worn wood that covers the length of my childhood home. The mere sight of the familiar floor floods me with memories, and I fight to blink away the fleeting images of small feet atop big booted ones as they stepped in time to a familiar melody. I shake my head, trying to rid myself the memory from it despite desperately wishing I could dwell in the past, seeing that my present isn’t the most pleasant at the moment.
… sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—
I smile, ignoring the pain that pinches my skin.
Found you.
My stride is unsteady and stiff, sore muscles straining with each step towards the seemingly normal floorboard. I drop to my knees, biting my tongue against the pain, and claw at the wood with crimson-stained fingers I struggle to ignore.
The floor appears to be just as stubborn as I am, refusing to budge. I would have admired its resilience if it weren’t a damn piece of wood.
I don’t have time for this. I need to get out of here.
A frustrated sound tears from my throat before I blink at the board, blurting, ‘I could have sworn you were the secret compartment. Are you not the nineteenth floorboard from the door?’
I’m staring daggers at the wood before a hysterical laugh slips past my lips, and I tip my head back to shake it at the ceiling. ‘Plagues, now I’m talking to the floor,’ I mutter, further proof that I’m losing my mind.
Although, it’s not as if I have anyone else to talk to.
It’s been four days since I stumbled back to my childhood home, haunted and half dead. And yet, both my mind and body are far from healed.
I may have dodged death with each swipe of the king’s sword, but he still managed to kill a part of me that day after the final Trial. His words cut deeper than his blade ever could, slicing me with slivers of truths as he toyed with me, taunted me, told me of my father’s death with a smile tugging at his lips.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know who it was that killed your father?’
A shiver snakes down my spine while the king’s cold voice echoes through my skull.
‘Let’s just say that your first encounter with a prince wasn’t when you saved Kai in the alley.”
If betrayal was a weapon, he bestowed it upon me that day, driving the blunt blade through my broken heart. I blow out a shaky breath, pushing away thoughts of the boy with gray eyes as piercing as the sword I watched him drive through my father’s chest so many years ago.
Staggering to my feet, I shift my weight over the surrounding floorboards, listening for an indicating creak while mindlessly spinning the silver ring on my thumb. My body aches all over, my very bones feeling far too fragile. The wounds I earned from both the final Trial and my fight with the king were hastily tended to, the result of shaky fingers and silent sobs that left my vision blurry and stitches sloppy.
After limping from the Bowl Arena towards Loot Alley, I stumbled into the white shack I called home and the Resistance called headquarters. But I was greeted with emptiness. There were no familiar faces filling the secret room beneath my feet, leaving me with nothing but my pain and confusion.
I was alone – have been alone – left to clean up the mess that is my body, my brain, my bleeding heart.
The wood beneath me groans. I grin.
Once again I’m on the floor, prying up a beam to reveal a shadowy compartment beneath. I shake my head at myself, mumbling, ‘It’s the nineteenth floorboard from the window, not the door, Pae…’
I reach into the darkness, fingers curling round the unfamiliar hilt of a dagger. My heart aches more than my body, wishing to feel the swirling steel handle of my father’s weapon against my palm.
But I chose the shedding of blood over sentiment when I threw my beloved blade into the king’s throat. And my only regret is that he found it, promising to return it only when he’d stabbed it into my back.
Empty blue eyes blink at me in the reflection of the shiny blade I lift it into the light, startling me enough to halt my hateful thoughts. My skin is splattered with slices, covered in cuts. I swallow at the sight of the gash traveling down the side of my neck, skim fingers over the jagged skin. Shaking my head, I slip the dagger into my boot, stowing away my scared reflection with it.
I spot a bow and its quiver of sharp arrows concealed in the compartment, and the shadow of a sad smile crosses my face at the memory of Father teaching me how to shoot, the gnarled tree behind our house my only target.
Slinging the bow and quiver across my back, I sift through the other weapons hidden beneath the floor. After tossing a few sharp throwing knives into my pack, joining the rations, water canteens, and crumpled shirt I’d hastily tucked inside, I struggle to my feet.
I’ve never felt so delicate, so damaged. The thought has me swelling with anger, has me snatching a knife from my waist and itching to plunge it into the worn, wooden wall before me. Searing pain shoots down my raised arm when the brand above my heart pulls taught with the movement.
A reminder. A representation of what I am. Or rather, what I’m not.
O for Ordinary.
I send the knife flying, plunging it into the wood with gritted teeth. The scar stings, gloating of its endless existence on my body.
‘… I will leave my mark on your heart, lest you forget who’s broken it.’
I stalk over to the blade, ready to yank it from the wall when the board beneath my foot creaks, drawing my attention. Despite knowing that flimsy floorboards are anything but foreign to houses in the slums, my curiosity has me bending to investigate.
If every creaky board were a compartment, our floor would be littered with them…
‘I lift the wood, and my eyebrows do the same, shooting up my forehead in shock. I huff out a humorless laugh as I reach into the shadows of the compartment I didn’t know existed.
