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Book Title: Tristan
Author: S. Legend
Publisher: S Legend Fiction
Narrator: Curtis Michael
Release Date: November 24, 2021
Genre: Arranged Marriage M/M Romance, fantasy
Tropes: Enemies to lovers, age gap
Themes: Self-discovery, forgiveness
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 9 hours
It is not a standalone story. Tristan is book one of the Tristan Trilogy. The story ends on a cliffhanger.
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Also available in Kindle Unlimited, Hardback and Paperback
Blurb
Tristan dreams of the day he’ll succeed his father as the next Warlord of Markaytia. Elves—creatures famous for their darker passions and tantalizing culture—approach the Markaytian king with an offer he can’t refuse: an alliance with the Elves for the one Tristan Kanes.
Tristan is forced to give up his dream.
He’s not thrilled, but Tristan is a man of duty above all else. What choice does he have? He cannot refuse the king or Markaytia. He begrudgingly comes to terms with the arranged marriage. Is he a tad sour about it? Yes, but he’ll get over it.
Probably.
Maybe it won’t be so bad. Elves have cool weapons, maybe he’ll get one?
Corrik bans him from cool weapons.
Corrik’s seen Tristan’s gruesome death on the point of a sword in a prophetic vision. He bans Tristan from picking up a sword ever again. Tristan wants to accept the marriage with grace to make his people proud, but he resents Corrik for his remorseless attitude over his life’s work.
Facing the Ice Prince and himself.
Tristan’s conflict follows him on the journey to the mysterious Elven land of Mortouge. He hates Corrik for taking him from the life he loved, boy does he, but his new Elven husband is an enigma and he’s captivated. He sets Tristan’s blood on fire and freezes it at the same time. Corrik unravels Tristan’s true nature and despite his best efforts, Tristan falls for his ice prince.
But Corrik won’t bend.
Corrik wants to be obeyed. He’s demanding and possessive. He’s overbearingly protective.
Can these two find a suitable compromise? Or will Tristan’s resentment and Corrik’s arrogance ruin forever their chance at love?
Tristan by Mock (S. Legend) is a gay romance fantasy featuring enemies-to-lovers vibes, an age gap, arranged marriage, first times, and a happy ending (um, eventually). This is the first action-adventure romance in the Tristan Trilogy. Mock may have written it down, but truly it’s told by your lovable host, Tristan Kanes. He’s funny, sarcastic and while it may not seem it at times, he’s the real person in charge of this story.
Excerpt
I walked into the hall with my stomach already churning and when I saw that my father and uncle were not alone, it plummeted like it had been shoved in ice-cold water.
That was when I saw him for the rst time.
The power of his features came from what wasn’t there, rather than from what was. The man was devoid of imper‐ fections; not one thing about his face or his body hinted to a deciency. There was no weakness in his impenetrable demeanor—the man was used to winning and getting what he wanted. His cold purple eyes knew no warmth or sunshine and sat as sentinels atop the high bridge of his patrician nose, complementing the supercilious manner that surrounded him. Without a smile on his face, he looked cruel and stony. At the same time, there was no darkness in him, whatsoever. Gold hair owed long over silver robes that were open to reveal porcelain white skin; unmarred, and solid. The breezy, pretty robes did nothing to diminish the restrained force of his chest and abdomen muscles—he seemed to dominate the eeminate attire, as if he’d already defeated it. Not a body built for eldwork, but for blood—war.
My cock stirred for him and made it impossible to deny that I was attracted to this ice mountain of a man—I blushed. This was not the place I wanted to have an erec‐ tion. I shifted my eyes away from the prince, down to my boots, placing my hands over my crotch.
“King Vilsarion, Prince Corrik. This is Tristan, my son,” Father introduced me.
“Welcome,” I said, giving a deep bow to each using the Markaytian etiquette Papa taught me, then I took my place beside Papa.
“Tristan,” my uncle said. “We are honored to announce that we have reached an alliance with Mortouge.”
I smiled my best smile. Absolutely, bloody fantastic! The Elves didn’t align themselves with just anyone and knowing what I knew of the recent unrest in the Northeastern Plains, since we helped them a while back, I knew it was best to have as many strong alliances as possible, if the Kanes were to maintain our hold of Dragon’s Rock. For the rst time in millennia, we had to take extra measures to protect Markaytia’s crown city.
“That is excellent, Sire.” I turned to the Elven king. “I’ve been named as successor to my father at my coming-of- age ceremony, and as future Warlord, I will look forward to dealings with your Warlord. We Markaytians could learn from your teachings. I’ve read much about your weapons—I know you forge the best ones,” I gushed.
I wage for peace, but war is inevitable and the prospect of ghting alongside an Elf was exciting. All I knew of Elves at the time was of their weapons and great wars. I had little interest in their other qualities. The Elves are a beautiful, mysterious race, but I didn’t see much use getting involved in their politics or anything else about them since they were also a private race who didn’t often allow outsiders into their grand kingdom.
I didn’t expect the Elven king to frown at my words. The smile on his face lit up the room before, and especially standing next to his grouchy-looking son, the contrast was far reaching. I turned to look at Papa, confused, and he took a sharp breath, ready to cry. Father stepped between us; his dark eyes pinned me in place.
Uncle continued. “The alliance will be sealed with a marriage, Tristan. You to Prince Corrik.”
The displeasure must have been plain on my face, though I tried for the life of me to hide it.
About the Author . . .
Mock is an ambitious creative, weaving the most precious aspects of her soul into stories. She is an architect, building fascinating worlds, designed from inquiry, rooted in worldly wonderings. It’s an intuitive process where she is the scribe, the translator, the conduit.
It helped that storytelling was the language spoken at home. One simply didn’t say, “We have an ant infestation. ” In Mock’s family it was, “I was on my way to the living room, when a peculiar ant crossed my path. I looked to my right, a suspicious line of them marched toward the pantry. In that moment I knew; my kitchen was under siege.” The natural flow of conversation always took this form.
And so.
When Mock wrote her first novel, she didn’t plan it chapter by chapter, there was no outline, no “plotting” to speak of. But she didn’t “pants” it either, she didn’t make it up as she went along. She knew how the story felt, where it curved in places and hollowed in others; she knew the destination it rushed toward. Instead of orchestrating, she let the world inspire her, and held space for the words to come, trusting the characters knew what they were doing. All she had to do was tell a story, as she always had done; like breathing.
This is her peace, her healing and solace: Gifts better shared.
Mock’s works are the comfort you seek when you need to come home. Her unique writing style will take you, wayfaring reader, to unexpected destinations.
She always says, “I’m not in the business of making up stories, I couldn’t if I tried. I’m lucky enough to get picked to share someone else’s story when I ask a question to the universe. Someone answers; I write it down.”
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About the Narrator. . .
