Rapunzel meets the myth of Psyche and Cupid in a stand-alone fantasy romance tale of love, survival and healing, as a mortal woman and a god unite to overcome deadly trials—and their own tortured pasts—in the climactic final installment of the Four Winds series. Min of Marles is a skilled apprentice, assisting the town's apothecarist in brewing potions, tonics, and deadly poisons. High in the estate tower where she works, a powerful immortal is kept chained, tortured daily for information. His screams haunt her waking and dreaming hours. A god, she learns. The East Wind, Eurus, who commands the sea-born storms. A hasty attempt to free him leads to Min’s own capture and forced employment to the East Wind as an aide to his grand plans for revenge. In the City of Gods, a tournament is held every thousand years, in which the winner may ask a favor from the esteemed Council of Gods. If Eurus wins, the council must reverse his banishment, the sentence that exiled him and his brothers to the mortal realms. But he requires a deadly poison to ensure that, once the favor is granted, the council will pay for his centuries long exile. To earn her freedom, Min reluctantly assists in Eurus’s plans. As they work together to defeat the deadly trials, she realizes her relationship to the East Wind isn’t purely transactional. But if she ever wishes to return home, she must betray the god she loves. For more stories from the world of the Four Winds, check out The North Wind , The West Wind , and The South Wind. Alexandria Warwick is the author of the Four Winds series and the North series. A classically trained violinist, she spends much of her time performing in orchestras. She lives in Florida. Chapter 1 1 FROM THE NORTHERN TOWER, THERE comes a scream. I pause amidst chopping herbs. The spacious, stone-walled workshop at the rear of the estate coaxes forth the crumbling sound. Moments later, a second cry follows, a hoarse shriek of harrowing pain. A thread of unease slinks through me, and I glance toward the narrow staircase where Lady Clarisse vanished hours before. The screams should not trouble me. They are frequent, expected, wrenched from all manner of prisoner my employer has confined in the cells below the estate. But these particular sounds arise from the northern tower. And the northern tower is seldom used. I glance down at my unfinished work as the distant chapel bell tolls the eleventh hour. Today’s delivery must be made before noon. According to the bell, I am already behind. Lover’s Dream, one of the apothecary’s most popular teas, begins with four parts golden ash to one part larkspore, followed by a sprinkling of sleeping grass. After combining the ingredients into the small pot of liquid boiling atop the stove, I set it aside to cool before shifting my attention to Bones of Stone: two parts oleander, one part white clay, two parts griffin saliva. Recent illness sapped the village mason of his strength. He now requires something potent enough to grant him the ability to lift entire homes by himself. I work as quickly as I’m able to without slicing off my finger. The only thing Lady Clarisse loathes more than tardiness is incompetence. The slap of footsteps reaches me, and I stiffen. From the corner of my eye, I watch my employer emerge from the stairwell and march gleefully toward a large metal basin tucked in the far corner. Her blood-spattered dress swings about her slender calves as she proceeds to wash the crimson from her hands. “I assume, Min,” Lady Clarisse drawls without looking at me, “that the lack of chopping indicates your work is complete?” Water gushes from the metal pump, smacks against the brick floor surrounding the basin. Blood smears the hardened clay in red. I resume slicing the oleander stems. A sticky white substance wells from the incision. Alone, it is toxic to mortals, but when mixed with griffin saliva, it is able to restore eyesight, grant incredible strength, and enhance healing, amongst other things. “Lover’s Dream is ready for the final ingredient,” I say. Lady Clarisse huffs with irritation, yet dries her hands and moves toward the locked cupboard, which I’m forbidden from accessing due to the prized nature of the contents held inside. After unlocking the door, she pulls a glass bottle and pipette from the shelf before squeezing two pearly drops into the cooling liquid. Lover’s Dream: a draught promising everlasting love. One part larkspore, four parts golden ash, a sprinkling of sleeping grass—and sea-nymph tears, procured between the hours of midnight and dawn. Lady Clarisse is neither god nor saint, but she certainly acts like one. Lady Clarisse’s Apothecary supplies the villagers of St. Laurent with miracles daily. But to do so, she must twist an elixir’s elements until it becomes something else entirely, a form of dried, pressed, or distilled power that once belonged to those immortal beings. For that is who occupies the cells belowgr