Title: Blood Beneath the Snow
Author: Alexandra Kennington
Series: Blood & Souls, #1
Pub Date: March 11, 2025
Pages: 416
Praise for Blood Beneath the Snow
“Raw, compelling, and darkly beautiful,
Blood Beneath the Snow is everything I love about romantasy. Alexandra Kennington effortlessly balances a suspenseful, action-packed plot with rich lore, tearjerking angst, and riveting character dynamics. This story had me hooked from the first fiery sentence to the poignant, epic last.”—
Thea Guanzon,
New York Times,
USA Today, and international bestselling author of
The Hurricane Wars“Thrilling, tense, and full of crackling romantic tension,
Blood Beneath the Snow is a captivating novel with an unforgettable and unstoppable heroine at its heart. Come for the gorgeous wintry setting, stay for the rich lore, devastating angst, and swoonworthy enemies-to-lovers romance.”—
Claire Legrand,
New York Times bestselling author of
Furyborn“
Blood Beneath the Snow has got it all: ill-advised love with plenty of bickering; chemistry that sizzles hot against the wintry atmosphere; and a brewing rebellion. A fun, propulsive debut that will have readers clamoring for the sequel.”—
Allison Saft,
New York Times and
USA Today bestselling author of
A Dark and Drowning TideI tapped my foot, growing impatient. The ritual and ceremony were supposed to start first thing in the morning, while the sun rose over the hills in the east. But here we all stood, blowing hot puffs of breath over our numbing hands, still waiting as the sun ascended in the sky.
The chatter of the crowd closed in around me and I fumed at how normal the godtouched sounded. They discussed what might still be available at the market despite the shortages, what parties they were attending later this week, whether their spouses and children were due back from the front lines in this round of military rotations. All the while, their expensive jewelry flashed in the dappled sunlight and they basked in the warmth of their fur-lined cloaks-as if they all weren't here to witness a murder.
I tried not to think about the godforsaken-my own people. The ones at the back of the crowd, dreading what the next hour would bring. Knowing they'd see blood of their own spilled on the altar of the gods and then be expected to go about their day as if nothing had happened. I wondered if any would lose toes or fingers from frostbite after enduring the frigid conditions of midwinter in their worn shoes and their thin cloaks, fraying at the edges. Whether their children's ribs were showing in the wake of a war they despised. Whether they'd go home and cry silently for a few moments, hugging their families tight as they wondered why it was worth living another day.
My thoughts were interrupted by the temple doors swinging open. The crowd fell silent immediately, every head bowing low. I stared at the priests for a moment too long before Freja elbowed me, and I directed my gaze to the ground as well.
The holy men still managed to make me shudder, even after having spent a lifetime in close contact with them. They dressed entirely in white, in robes stretching from their necks to their wrists and ankles. Veils covered their hair and faces so that they blended in perfectly with the snowy landscape-except for the eyes.
The fabric of their veils was pinned to the necklines of their robes, meaning not a single inch of skin was visible on any of the priests. Above each one's forehead was an eye embroidered with bloodred thread, eerie enough to make both the godtouched and the godforsaken feel the priest was peering directly into the depths of their soul.
I hated the priests almost as much as I hated the gods.
An endless stream of them flooded out the doors until they had filled the steps of the structure, the blades of their scythes winking in the sun. The last to exit brought with him a white cloth with another embroidered eye on it to drape over the altar. Fury ripped through me at the sight, but I forced myself to stay still. My fingernails bit half-moons into the flesh of my palms and I busied my mind with the reminder of what I was here to do.
"Every priest in the country must be here," Freja whispered as we surveyed them. "I've never seen this many in one place before. Do you think they traveled for the ritual?"
"Who knows," I murmured, feeling the telltale furrow of my brows appear. "I wasn't expecting them all to be here. This might be harder than we thought."
My friend nodded, readjusting the bundle of fabric in her arms. "Guess we'll see how fast we can run."
Another figure exited the temple. The queen. She'd once confided to me when I was a small child that the crown she wore today was her favorite: an arch that stretched from behind one ear to the other, hugging tightly to her hair, rays projecting out like a halo to frame her face. The gold of it glimmered in the morning sunlight, contrasting against her dark black hair. Her gown was a deep blood red, one of our national colors. It flowed like liquid, and I found myself wondering if she was freezing beneath the fabric. It certainly didn't look warm.
She stepped to the center of the dais and stood before the altar. My eyes found my feet and I clenched my jaw as if the tension would prevent her from seeing me, recognizing me. A priest came forward to stand next to her, facing the crowd. In one synchronized movement, the other priests pounded the wooden handles of their scythes on the temple's stone steps, sending a booming echo through the square. The ceremony had begun.
"Ready?" I asked Freja. My heart pounded with anticipation.
She nodded. "Let's hope this works."
The priest at the altar began speaking in a resounding voice. "Welcome to the Winter Ritual, beloved citizens of Bhorglid. Today marks the beginning of a new year, one filled with great hope for our country. Even now, we wage holy war against Kryllian, our armies drawing closer to taking over the southernmost country in the Fjordlands."
A cheer erupted around us, and I suppressed a sigh of irritation. The godtouched in the crowd, whose partners, parents, and children fought on the front lines, were ecstatic to hear it repeated: their loved ones weren't fighting in just any war. No, it was a holy war. Decreed by the gods.
The priest continued, "Generations ago, the Fjordlands were stolen from us. We, who communicate directly with the gods. Instead of harmony, discord was wrought and the Fjordlands were split into three. For thirteen generations, the gods have mourned with us as we have waited for their perfect timing. Now you are blessed to be part of the chosen few alive to see this miracle come to pass. Kryllian shall be rightfully ours. The gods have declared it."
I tried not to let my emotions show on my face. The speech had been the same every year since the war began, but it never failed to make me wince. Halvar had been the one to explain to me years ago how the priest's version of this story had been edited in Bhorglid's favor. Only those who passed on the original stories verbally still knew the truth. He'd been lucky enough to come from a family that didn't embrace the revisionist version of our history.
In actuality, the Fjordlands had been filled with wandering people, those with magical abilities and those without living in peace-until a pair with powers far beyond what was necessary for mortal man decided they could speak with the gods. And according to them, the gods said those with abilities had been blessed. Godtouched.
The rest of us were godforsaken. Forgotten by our holy pantheon, called unworthy from the moment we entered the world. While the godtouched enjoyed innate abilities that allowed them to manipulate elements of the world around them, the way the gods had once done as they walked the land millennia ago, the rest of us were normal. Shunted to the edge of a society where an invisible group of gods claimed we were lesser.
The speech grated against my nerves like the screech of a metal fork across a ceramic plate. Enduring the rest of this drivel was going to kill me. I was ready to move, ready to wreak havoc, ready to wrap my hands around the nearest priest's throat and rip their veil off. Only watching the light fade from their eyes would be enough to calm me.
Freja snatched my hand and squeezed. "No," she hissed. "We have to wait until they've brought out the child."
My hands shook with fury against hers. But she was right. The priests enabled the foul treatment of the godforsaken, but we weren't here to rid ourselves of them. Today was about saving a life, not taking it.
Even if I wished it were possible to do both.
The priest droned on, but I focused on Freja's words and nodded, forcing myself to breathe deeply. The godtouched around us were too intent on listening to the priests to notice me acting strangely.
The ritual speech continued despite my swirling thoughts. "As we perform the new year ritual, this unholy blood will be a tribute to the gods. In exchange for our sacrifice, they will grant us their power. We will gain a powerful advantage in this war; with the vanquishing of this life, we will be able to defeat the Hellbringer. The gods have declared it so.
Freja squeezed my hand again, barely in time to keep an indignant huff from escaping me. This part of the speech was new, the logic as incomprehensible as the rest. How would killing an infant grant us the power to stop the most powerful godtouched being to exist in any of our lifetimes and end the war? As Freja released my hand, the queen gestured to the side of the stage for several acolytes to bring someone forward. I glanced over but couldn't make out the woman's face; the figure was hunched at an odd angle and a low moan emanated from her mouth. There was a wriggling bundle clutched to her chest. My stomach sank, the way it did every year.
The priest took the infant out of the person's arms and began to move toward the altar.
The figure left in the shadows-undoubtedly the child's mother, a godforsaken woman-let out a haunting scream, her wail of anguish echoing through the square and silencing everyone, even the godtouched. I clenched my teeth. The screams were always the worst part. Worse than the blood. The mother collapsed to her knees and howling sobs cracked the silence.
Freja and I were the only ones who appeared affected. The priests' expressions were carefully hidden behind their face coverings and the godtouched on either side of us were reverently silent, waiting for spilled blood to spell their salvation. The queen curled her lip at the bundle in the priest's arms as he set it carefully on the altar.
As he laid it down, it wriggled, and a tiny hand emerged from the blankets.
Seeing the movement made my throat raw. The last child born to godforsaken parents each year was always culled-a horrifying euphemism-as a sacrifice to the gods. Only the youngest, freshest blood would do for this brutal tradition, repeated winter after winter.
"Now," I said to Freja as anger sparked in my stomach. "We go now."
Excerpted from Blood Beneath the Snow by Alexandra Kennington Copyright © 2025 by Alexandra Kennington. Excerpted by permission of Ace. All rights reserved.
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