The Children of Triune
About
The sister first, the brother blessed, he sings of ships and hides the rest.
By his own mouth, his own decree, a king because he said it be.
A son in name, not in the blood, a mother mixed of care and flood.
To still the man, to start the spark, to light the tubes against the dark.
Under Tree, stand the sixty-seven, spent their years unclaimed by heaven.
Sparred and studied, bruised and broken, the last binding comes not as a token.
One should have faded winters past, she stands, the stones all look aghast.
Whatever chased them through the tear, is in the roots, is in the air.
So hold the lamp. Trust not the gleam. For things aren’t always as they seem.
Praise for this book
“The world beneath Triune absolutely floored me. The Middle is haunting, beautiful, and brutal all at once. The yearly Binding rituals are some of the most intense scenes I’ve read, you feel every ounce of pain and power. And then there’s Gilly… the only child who never blooms. Watching her face the final Binding, knowing what happens to those carved on the Memorial Wall, had my heart in my throat. This story is a masterpiece of tension and hope. I couldn’t stop reading.”