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Back The Art of Exile Save as PDF
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Map
  4. Dedication
  5. GENESIS INSTITUTE GUILDS
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  50. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  51. IMAGE DESCRIPTIONS

“Eighteen years ago, one day after she buried her village, Chorus had a vision of hope coming into the world. That was the same day you were born. It all aligns.”

I feel shaky and, honestly, horrified. Everyone is so quiet and just staring at me with misplaced reverence, as if I have something to give them. I have nothing to give them.

Their long-awaited messiah who will bring them out of exile—me? That can’t be. I’m just a mediocre Sire. I don’t even know if I believe in prophecies. I’m not even telling them the whole truth about anything. Any prophecy relying on me is destined for a whole lot of disappointment.

Bewildered, I look at the intricate murals on the walls surrounding me. Robed figures who look lifelike enough to walk off the walls. Valkyries, unicorns, wind horses, dragons. I’m an impostor in this world. A jack-of-all-trades among masters.

No. I close my eyes and chastise myself. I don’t believe that anymore. What is a jack-of-all-trades if not a Renaissance man in training? I’m more than I’ve given myself credit for. But there’s still no way that I am who they’re suggesting. The one prophesied to reunite them with the world.

Except, hasn’t that always been my goal? To join the wonders of this world with my own? My heart feels trapped in my throat.

There is a quiet knock at the door, and at Bloche’s barked invitation, Michael walks in.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt—” He takes in the shocked faces. “Is everything okay?” His eyes lock with mine. I pull my hand free from Rafe’s grip. A muscle in Michael’s jaw twitches, and he turns to Bloche.

“All is well, my boy,” the headmaster says, his voice heavy with emotion. “All is exactly as it should be.”

I look from the headmaster, who thinks I will be the salvation of his people, to Michael, who thinks I will contribute to their betrayal. I gaze down at my hands, at my fingers. I take in the crescent scars, the lines of my palms, the web of the blue veins.

What are these hands of mine capable of?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my agent, Ali Lake, no amount of thank-yous will ever be sufficient. You were not only the first person to take a chance on me and my book, but you also grasped the layers of this story in a way that none of my other readers ever have. You have shown me that with the right agent, even the hardest parts of publishing aren’t so hard. I’m so excited that we have been given the chance to grow our careers together.