Son of Bitter Glass
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The glasshouse was built for Prince Isbrand’s protection. It is good and will keep out the curse. But the glasshouse cannot keep out the Witch.
Eira does not remember her own mother’s death, but she remembers the day Prince Isbrand’s mother died—for Eira loves her best friend as much as any person can love another. On the day Isbrand’s mother was murdered by the Snow Queen, her best friend was cursed—along with all the kingdom of Ravenia—to a slow and icy doom. But Isbrand’s curse is special, and to save him from the fate his mother suffered, his father, the king, imprisons him in a glasshouse and searches far and wide for ways to save his son.
Isbrand has always loved Eira, but now that he lives under the Snow Queen’s curse, he finds himself fated to marry another. Eira is stuck living at his side in the glasshouse where her fate is tied to his own, trying to protect him from the Witch, who calls to Isbrand, tempting him, even within the safety of the glasshouse. And as the curse’s deadline draws near, no plan of the king’s—or Isbrand’s love for Eira—can keep the Snow Queen from stealing him away.
Left desperate and hopeless, Eira must set off on an impossible journey into the frozen north to save Isbrand. In a world of old magic, fae tricksters, and creatures out of time, it just might be enduring friendship and true love that save a kingdom destined for destruction.
Author: K. B. Hoyle
Part of: The Fairytale Collection (non-ordered series)*
Other Books in This Series: Son of the Deep, Son of Gold and Sorrow
Genre: Fantasy, Fairytale, Romance
Themes: Friendship, Life and Death, Coming of Age
Suggested Reading Level: 10-18
What's in this Book? Romance, Death, Magic
Eira does not remember her own mother’s death, but she remembers the day Prince Isbrand’s mother died—for Eira loves her best friend as much as any person can love another. On the day Isbrand’s mother was murdered by the Snow Queen, her best friend was cursed—along with all the kingdom of Ravenia—to a slow and icy doom. But Isbrand’s curse is special, and to save him from the fate his mother suffered, his father, the king, imprisons him in a glasshouse and searches far and wide for ways to save his son.
Isbrand has always loved Eira, but now that he lives under the Snow Queen’s curse, he finds himself fated to marry another. Eira is stuck living at his side in the glasshouse where her fate is tied to his own, trying to protect him from the Witch, who calls to Isbrand, tempting him, even within the safety of the glasshouse. And as the curse’s deadline draws near, no plan of the king’s—or Isbrand’s love for Eira—can keep the Snow Queen from stealing him away.
Left desperate and hopeless, Eira must set off on an impossible journey into the frozen north to save Isbrand. In a world of old magic, fae tricksters, and creatures out of time, it just might be enduring friendship and true love that save a kingdom destined for destruction.
Author: K. B. Hoyle
Part of: The Fairytale Collection (non-ordered series)*
Other Books in This Series: Son of the Deep, Son of Gold and Sorrow
Genre: Fantasy, Fairytale, Romance
Themes: Friendship, Life and Death, Coming of Age
Suggested Reading Level: 10-18
What's in this Book? Romance, Death, Magic
*The Fairytale Collection is a non-sequential series; the books exist in a shared universe with shared characters, but can be read in any order.
Released January 30, 2024 / February 20, 2024
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-957362-18-2
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-957362-19-9
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-957362-18-2
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-957362-19-9
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Look Inside Son of Bitter Glass
Chapter 1
“In the dark and roaring pines of the northernmost kingdom east of the sea lived a miserable creature everyone called the Hobgoblin. He was miserable because he was a goblin and because he was the ugliest of all the beasts that dwelled in the forest. And everyone called him the Hob-goblin because he hobbled around on his scaly goblin legs—”
“That is not true,” Eira said, leaning out of her window and pinching Isbrand’s shoulder. “Tell the story without making things up!”
“Ow.” Isbrand batted her hand away. “None of this is true. It’s just an old story—a legend. I can make up whatever I want about the Hobgoblin.” Isbrand shuffled away from Eira, shifting so he was fully in the windowsill to his own bedroom. “Nobody really believes in him anymore.”
“Some people do. Just because he hasn’t been seen in ages and ages doesn’t mean he isn’t real.” Eira sat up in her window seat, drawing back her elbows from the box of dead and dying flowers that crossed the span between their rooms. She tilted her face to the dying autumn light and closed her eyes as she said, “And legend or not, I know the Hobgoblin is not called that because he hobbles. It’s because he’s half-fae.”
“Half-fae as in half a faerie and half a . . . ?”
“Half a goblin, I suppose.” Eira shrugged.
“Goblins aren’t faeries?”
“No, they’re creatures.”
Isbrand wrinkled his nose as if he was thinking that over, and then he sniggered and shuddered dramatically. “Can you imagine a faerie marrying a goblin?”
“My father says things like that used to happen all the time. That they still do—out in the border realms. He says even Ravenia is steeped in magic, we just don’t see it as much anymore here in the city.”
“Goblins . . . faeries . . .” Isbrand yawned and stretched. “Well, I was going to tell you a story, but you had to go and be a know-it-all. Maybe we should just . . .” He thunked back his head against his sill and closed his eyes.
“What?” Eira reached across the span between their windows and poked him. “Isa, what?”
“Huh?”
“Did you fall asleep?”
He yawned wide, eyes drifting closed again. “I could. How long do we have to wait?”
“As long as it takes.” Eira huffed and hunched over her knees. “And it usually takes a long time.”
“Want me to try to tell you another story?”
“No. You’re bad at them.”
“Want to play a game?”
She peered sideways at him. “What sort of game?”
“Something to take your mind off . . . it all.” Isbrand rolled from his windowsill into the darkness of his room. “Meet me at the fountain!”
Eira got down from her windowsill with more care, her feet finding the box she’d placed for just that purpose and planting on it with as few wobbles as she could manage. She was petite, and people liked to remind her of her size at every opportunity. “How cute!” “Just a little peanut.” “Why, a bird could carry her away.”
Eira was very short is what she was—much shorter than Isa, her dearest friend, even though they were both only eleven years old and she had hit a period of adolescent growth and he had not. She figured she would probably get a little taller before adulthood yet, but she didn’t appreciate the ways everyone seemed to overlook her or infantilize her merely on account of her short stature.
She took her time lacing her boots and buttoning on her red coat, and she shook out her long, dark curls and poked her head into the corridor. The lights were dimmed, as they had been for many weeks, because they bothered her stepmother if they were too bright. But she could not hear her stepmother’s labored shouts now—or see any of her stepbrothers—so she dashed out before they could make an appearance. Down the hall, into the dumbwaiter, and down, down, down she lowered herself until she emerged in the kitchen.
“Miss Eira, just because you can fit doesn’t mean you should fit. Please stop using the dumbwaiter as personal transport,” their staff cook said when she rolled open the door. “It is for dishes and food—not people. Not people. And it rings the bell.”
“I’m sorry, Thoren,” Eira said, running breathlessly past him. “It’s the fastest way to the garden.”
“The bell!” he shouted after her.
She waved her hand.
Outside, she turned three times in the cold air of the garden before she remembered Isbrand said to meet him by the fountain. She dodged through the wild and dying bushes—no mazes in this garden, no pristine order—and around ornamental trees grown stark for impending winter until the fountain came into view. Her best friend was there, walking impatient circles in the emptied basin.
“You’re so slow,” he said.
“And you’re too fast. I can’t help that I have short legs.”
“Maybe you should learn to fly!” He climbed out of the fountain and landed, towering a foot over her. “You’re already as light as a bird.” He smiled so his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he picked her up under her arms and spun her around.
“If I were a bird, I would peck you all day for teasing me so!” She braced her hands on his shoulders and said, “Ohhhh, Isa, do put me down!”
He set her right back on her feet and bowed, very serious, and then he straightened her jacket and said—only slightly teasing, “Forgive me, Lady Eira.”
Eira’s chest tightened suddenly, and she cleared her throat and looked at her feet. “I think being a bird would be nice actually, don’t you?” Naturally, Isa had forgotten his jacket, so Eira took one of his cold hands and tucked it into the folds of her arms, holding him tight. A few snowflakes drifted down from the grey clouds above their heads.
Isa shrugged and kicked the ground as they began walking in a slow circle around the fountain.
“You wouldn’t want to be able to fly?”
“Nah, it’s not that. But if I were a bird, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
Silence clung to them for several minutes, and Eira held tight to Isa’s arm.
Suddenly Isa said, “Are you ready for my game?”
“Yes okay.”
Isbrand leapt onto the lip of the fountain, arms thrust out to either side. “It’s a balancing game. We face each other and make funny faces while balancing, and I figure the harder we laugh, the more likely we are to fall. The first to fall loses!”
“But this is hardly fair—you always make me laugh first. And, well . . . I’m not sure I can balance there.”
“’course you can. And you have an obvious advantage.”
“What’s that?” Eira said, readying to heft herself to the lip of the fountain. It was quite a height for her and she eyed the empty basin with trepidation. The inside was strewn with dried leaves and withered flowers. Possibly it wouldn’t hurt too much to fall that way.
“Lower center of gravity.”
“You . . . you . . .” She felt her face growing red, and Isa burst out laughing, and as he laughed, he toppled over into the fountain.
“Serves you right!”
His gasping voice echoed out from the empty, greening bowl. “See? You’ve won already!”
“That wasn’t the game, and you know—”
“Eira.”
She spun around to face her father, his voice tempered like steel, but his smile warm like sunlight through leaves. He was a wayfarer; someone everyone was glad to meet. She’d never heard of anyone who was not a friend of Lord Edvin, which is why he was King Severen’s most trusted ambassador. But he was home now and had been for a while.
Eira supposed that was one good thing about her stepmother being pregnant—again.
Well—she met her father’s eyes—not pregnant anymore, she guessed.
“What’s happening?” Isa’s disheveled head appeared above the lip of the fountain basin, leaves stuck in his hair. “Is it done? Does Eira have another brother? Or a sister?”
“It is done,” Eira’s father said carefully, gaze flashing to Isbrand. “And it is a boy. Lady Eira has another brother.”
Eira contained her groan with great difficulty. “But that makes four, Father.”
“Ah, yes. I am aware.” Her father’s mustache twitched with amusement. “I have come to bring you to meet him. Are you not even a little excited?”
She bunched her hands into fists and resolved herself to lie, but she was not a good liar, especially not to her father who always saw the truth in her eyes. They had the same eyes—blue as the Aegirian Sea her father sailed on so often. He said her mother had let him share his eyes with Eira as a gift, and that she had claimed all the rest.
He told her often how thankful he was that she looked so much like her mother, because he missed her every day.
“Very well, say nothing at all,” her father said with a sigh. “Just come along, and do be nice, Eira. Nordika is tired.”
Isa clambered out of the fountain. “Can I come? I want to meet Eira’s new brother!”
Edvin hesitated. “Not just yet, Your Majesty. This meeting is for family. But I am sure there will be a royal presentation soon.”
Eira chewed on her lip and waved despondently to her best friend as her father gestured for her to return to the great manor house that almost adjoined the palace. She wished that Isa could come with her so she wouldn’t have to face her stepmother and her new brother without his support. She wished that she could tell her father that she felt ever more invisible with the birth of each new stepsibling.
But she swallowed her feelings and hung her head and fell into her father’s wake.
“In the dark and roaring pines of the northernmost kingdom east of the sea lived a miserable creature everyone called the Hobgoblin. He was miserable because he was a goblin and because he was the ugliest of all the beasts that dwelled in the forest. And everyone called him the Hob-goblin because he hobbled around on his scaly goblin legs—”
“That is not true,” Eira said, leaning out of her window and pinching Isbrand’s shoulder. “Tell the story without making things up!”
“Ow.” Isbrand batted her hand away. “None of this is true. It’s just an old story—a legend. I can make up whatever I want about the Hobgoblin.” Isbrand shuffled away from Eira, shifting so he was fully in the windowsill to his own bedroom. “Nobody really believes in him anymore.”
“Some people do. Just because he hasn’t been seen in ages and ages doesn’t mean he isn’t real.” Eira sat up in her window seat, drawing back her elbows from the box of dead and dying flowers that crossed the span between their rooms. She tilted her face to the dying autumn light and closed her eyes as she said, “And legend or not, I know the Hobgoblin is not called that because he hobbles. It’s because he’s half-fae.”
“Half-fae as in half a faerie and half a . . . ?”
“Half a goblin, I suppose.” Eira shrugged.
“Goblins aren’t faeries?”
“No, they’re creatures.”
Isbrand wrinkled his nose as if he was thinking that over, and then he sniggered and shuddered dramatically. “Can you imagine a faerie marrying a goblin?”
“My father says things like that used to happen all the time. That they still do—out in the border realms. He says even Ravenia is steeped in magic, we just don’t see it as much anymore here in the city.”
“Goblins . . . faeries . . .” Isbrand yawned and stretched. “Well, I was going to tell you a story, but you had to go and be a know-it-all. Maybe we should just . . .” He thunked back his head against his sill and closed his eyes.
“What?” Eira reached across the span between their windows and poked him. “Isa, what?”
“Huh?”
“Did you fall asleep?”
He yawned wide, eyes drifting closed again. “I could. How long do we have to wait?”
“As long as it takes.” Eira huffed and hunched over her knees. “And it usually takes a long time.”
“Want me to try to tell you another story?”
“No. You’re bad at them.”
“Want to play a game?”
She peered sideways at him. “What sort of game?”
“Something to take your mind off . . . it all.” Isbrand rolled from his windowsill into the darkness of his room. “Meet me at the fountain!”
Eira got down from her windowsill with more care, her feet finding the box she’d placed for just that purpose and planting on it with as few wobbles as she could manage. She was petite, and people liked to remind her of her size at every opportunity. “How cute!” “Just a little peanut.” “Why, a bird could carry her away.”
Eira was very short is what she was—much shorter than Isa, her dearest friend, even though they were both only eleven years old and she had hit a period of adolescent growth and he had not. She figured she would probably get a little taller before adulthood yet, but she didn’t appreciate the ways everyone seemed to overlook her or infantilize her merely on account of her short stature.
She took her time lacing her boots and buttoning on her red coat, and she shook out her long, dark curls and poked her head into the corridor. The lights were dimmed, as they had been for many weeks, because they bothered her stepmother if they were too bright. But she could not hear her stepmother’s labored shouts now—or see any of her stepbrothers—so she dashed out before they could make an appearance. Down the hall, into the dumbwaiter, and down, down, down she lowered herself until she emerged in the kitchen.
“Miss Eira, just because you can fit doesn’t mean you should fit. Please stop using the dumbwaiter as personal transport,” their staff cook said when she rolled open the door. “It is for dishes and food—not people. Not people. And it rings the bell.”
“I’m sorry, Thoren,” Eira said, running breathlessly past him. “It’s the fastest way to the garden.”
“The bell!” he shouted after her.
She waved her hand.
Outside, she turned three times in the cold air of the garden before she remembered Isbrand said to meet him by the fountain. She dodged through the wild and dying bushes—no mazes in this garden, no pristine order—and around ornamental trees grown stark for impending winter until the fountain came into view. Her best friend was there, walking impatient circles in the emptied basin.
“You’re so slow,” he said.
“And you’re too fast. I can’t help that I have short legs.”
“Maybe you should learn to fly!” He climbed out of the fountain and landed, towering a foot over her. “You’re already as light as a bird.” He smiled so his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he picked her up under her arms and spun her around.
“If I were a bird, I would peck you all day for teasing me so!” She braced her hands on his shoulders and said, “Ohhhh, Isa, do put me down!”
He set her right back on her feet and bowed, very serious, and then he straightened her jacket and said—only slightly teasing, “Forgive me, Lady Eira.”
Eira’s chest tightened suddenly, and she cleared her throat and looked at her feet. “I think being a bird would be nice actually, don’t you?” Naturally, Isa had forgotten his jacket, so Eira took one of his cold hands and tucked it into the folds of her arms, holding him tight. A few snowflakes drifted down from the grey clouds above their heads.
Isa shrugged and kicked the ground as they began walking in a slow circle around the fountain.
“You wouldn’t want to be able to fly?”
“Nah, it’s not that. But if I were a bird, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
Silence clung to them for several minutes, and Eira held tight to Isa’s arm.
Suddenly Isa said, “Are you ready for my game?”
“Yes okay.”
Isbrand leapt onto the lip of the fountain, arms thrust out to either side. “It’s a balancing game. We face each other and make funny faces while balancing, and I figure the harder we laugh, the more likely we are to fall. The first to fall loses!”
“But this is hardly fair—you always make me laugh first. And, well . . . I’m not sure I can balance there.”
“’course you can. And you have an obvious advantage.”
“What’s that?” Eira said, readying to heft herself to the lip of the fountain. It was quite a height for her and she eyed the empty basin with trepidation. The inside was strewn with dried leaves and withered flowers. Possibly it wouldn’t hurt too much to fall that way.
“Lower center of gravity.”
“You . . . you . . .” She felt her face growing red, and Isa burst out laughing, and as he laughed, he toppled over into the fountain.
“Serves you right!”
His gasping voice echoed out from the empty, greening bowl. “See? You’ve won already!”
“That wasn’t the game, and you know—”
“Eira.”
She spun around to face her father, his voice tempered like steel, but his smile warm like sunlight through leaves. He was a wayfarer; someone everyone was glad to meet. She’d never heard of anyone who was not a friend of Lord Edvin, which is why he was King Severen’s most trusted ambassador. But he was home now and had been for a while.
Eira supposed that was one good thing about her stepmother being pregnant—again.
Well—she met her father’s eyes—not pregnant anymore, she guessed.
“What’s happening?” Isa’s disheveled head appeared above the lip of the fountain basin, leaves stuck in his hair. “Is it done? Does Eira have another brother? Or a sister?”
“It is done,” Eira’s father said carefully, gaze flashing to Isbrand. “And it is a boy. Lady Eira has another brother.”
Eira contained her groan with great difficulty. “But that makes four, Father.”
“Ah, yes. I am aware.” Her father’s mustache twitched with amusement. “I have come to bring you to meet him. Are you not even a little excited?”
She bunched her hands into fists and resolved herself to lie, but she was not a good liar, especially not to her father who always saw the truth in her eyes. They had the same eyes—blue as the Aegirian Sea her father sailed on so often. He said her mother had let him share his eyes with Eira as a gift, and that she had claimed all the rest.
He told her often how thankful he was that she looked so much like her mother, because he missed her every day.
“Very well, say nothing at all,” her father said with a sigh. “Just come along, and do be nice, Eira. Nordika is tired.”
Isa clambered out of the fountain. “Can I come? I want to meet Eira’s new brother!”
Edvin hesitated. “Not just yet, Your Majesty. This meeting is for family. But I am sure there will be a royal presentation soon.”
Eira chewed on her lip and waved despondently to her best friend as her father gestured for her to return to the great manor house that almost adjoined the palace. She wished that Isa could come with her so she wouldn’t have to face her stepmother and her new brother without his support. She wished that she could tell her father that she felt ever more invisible with the birth of each new stepsibling.
But she swallowed her feelings and hung her head and fell into her father’s wake.
