This audiobook is narrated by a digital voice.

The morning mist clung to the cobblestones of Millbrook like a lover's whisper, and Lyra Blackthorne had always found comfort in such quiet moments. She swept the front steps of her grandmother's apothecary with practiced ease, humming an old melody that seemed to make the herbs in the window boxes sway despite the still air. At twenty-three, she had grown accustomed to the peculiar occurrences that followed her wherever she went—flowers blooming out of season at her touch, lost items mysteriously finding their way back to their owners when she wished it so, and the uncanny ability to brew remedies that worked far better than they had any right to.

"Magic runs in the Blackthorne blood," her grandmother had always said with a knowing smile, though she'd never elaborated beyond cryptic comments about destiny and ancient bloodlines. Lyra had assumed it was merely the eccentric ramblings of an old woman who had spent too many years surrounded by mystical herbs and dubious potions.

That assumption shattered the moment a shimmering portal tore open in the middle of Main Street.

The broom fell from Lyra's suddenly nerveless fingers as a figure stepped through the swirling vortex of silver and gold light. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in what appeared to be medieval clothing crafted from the finest materials—deep blue velvet doublet embroidered with silver thread, fitted leather boots that had never seen a cobbler's shop, and a sword at his hip that caught the morning light like captured starfire. But it was his eyes that made her breath catch in her throat. They were the color of storm clouds, grey and tempestuous, yet holding a depth of ancient wisdom that seemed at odds with his appearance of being perhaps thirty years of age.