If you thought that we were done with Cosmo Reads reveals, think again. After unveiling our first official thriller and another contemporary romance that you won’t get enough of, we couldn’t let you think that’s all we had up our sleeves in our first year. In fact, we’re back with another fun announcement that we also can’t believe we can share: Cosmo Reads is releasing its first romantasy novel. That’s right—dragons! Knights! Swords! Witches! All the fun things that we have been wanting more of are coming to Cosmo Reads and our first new fantasy that will no doubt absolutely transport you to debut author Bethan Croome’s magical new world.
Reign, which will be released on September 1, 2026, introduces us to Niamh, who must leave everything she has ever known or risk being killed due to her magical abilities. But the only place she could find safety? An army’s camp where she is not only forced to pretend to be a man but also follow the very leader who is set to get rid of her and those who share her special abilities. It’s a heart-pounding and mesmerizing book that will definitely give you the chills as you see Niamh do everything possible to not just keep herself alive but also the ones she quickly gets close to in her new life.
Oh, and would it be a romantasy novel without a complicated triangle and maybe a dagger to the throat or two?
Below is your official first look at Reign, including a cover reveal and exclusive excerpt!
Found family, forbidden love, and a heroine who refuses to kneel— from Cosmopolitan’s book imprint comes REIGN, a fierce feminist romantasy about choosing freedom over fear and setting fire to the throne.
The Kingdom of Lyonesse is absent of magic but not of rain.
In the rain-soaked Kingdom of Lyonesse, magic is outlawed—punishable by death.
So when Niamh’s forbidden witchcraft is exposed, she flees her rainy village disguised as a man.
She never meant to end up on a battlefield.
Mistakenly conscripted into a brutal war engineered by a paranoid king against a vengeful sorceress determined to reclaim the throne, Niamh now hides another secret—her womanhood. Between fighting terrifying beasts and confronting arcane powers she once believed were merely folklore, Niamh is thrust into a world where survival relies on more than luck—it demands alliances.
In battle, Niamh must obey Prince Fitzroy, the king’s infuriatingly handsome illegitimate son and sharp-tongued commander tasked with eradicating magic. He is everything she despises…and everything she struggles to resist. Back at camp, she forges a complicated friendship with Bash, a fellow soldier who sees her like no one else does and stirs forbidden feelings that could shatter her disguise.
As war tightens its grip on the kingdom, Niamh is forced to choose: obey the prince who could expose her, trust the soldier who could love her, or embrace the forbidden magic that could save them all.
But war is merciless, and not everyone will live to see which side prevails.
Not only is the cover stunning, but because this is also Cosmo Reads’ first hardcover book, we had to celebrate in style! Not only are we revealing the book’s stunning cover, designed by Franziska Stern…
...we’re also taking it further with stunning sprayed edges that match the wine red of Niamh’s cape and gives us a closer look to her sword that you’ll wish you’d get to wield yourself.
THE WETLANDS
The Kingdom of Lyonesse was absent of magic but not of rain. A tempest had raged since the harvest festival, but it was a different kind of wet than yesterday. The night before, as I finally settled to sleep, the wind battered the thatch roof, and the rain knocked against the wattle and daub—as if pleading to be let in.
That afternoon, walking out of my village, Green Vale, I ventured toward the forest. The rain no longer lashed from the skies. Instead, it hung in the air—a thick mist that clung to my skin and veiled my path. The constant drizzle made me yearn for shelter—whether at the smithy, the tavern, or beneath the hawthorn trees. Yet I knew she’d be waiting, hungry, for me to feed her.
No one would notice my departure as I slipped away into the surrounding woodland. My father—the village blacksmith—had been sent on foot with the knights, sworn to their liege, the Lord of the Wetlands, to push back a malevolent invasion on the far shores of Cambas.
Meanwhile, my mother was busy raising my younger sibling or tending to her endless domestic duties, and in our father’s absence, my elder brother was consumed by forging iron to the high standards he was renowned for.
I tucked my long, brown braid into my woolen hood, which hung heavy over my face. It was so saturated with water that I longed for the dry days, before my cloak grew mossier than a tree stump. Clutching the basket of leftovers close to my chest, I feared that a hungry villager might smell the food and fight me for the feast hidden beneath my cloak.
Once I reached the dense forest on the outskirts of the Wetlands, I lowered my hood and silently thanked the trees for their shelter before hurrying to where I’d been nursing her. Amid the gentle patter of raindrops on the leaves, I hearkened to the sound of faint whimpers. In my haste, I moved the branches that formed the nest I’d built and, overcome with impatience, thrust my hand between the sticks.
Before I could feel her, a burst of warmth radiated from her hiding spot. A tussle of fur rubbed against my outstretched hand, followed by a wet nose that sniffed and licked my fingertips. I shifted the final twigs aside to be greeted by a wagging black tail.
Dog rolled onto her back, showing me her empty belly. I rubbed it until her leg kicked with joy.
“Good girl,” I murmured.
Sometimes, I wished I’d given her a name. When I first found her a few months ago, I never imagined she’d make it through the night. Unearthing her from a burrow where she whimpered in despair, I discovered that she had more black fur than meat on her bones. She limped when she walked, and flies rested on her face as if awaiting her death. I knew I’d become too fond of a sickly animal if I gave her a proper name—instead, I simply called her what she was. A dog.
I placed the basket down as Dog eagerly nuzzled her nose against the wicker. The moment the lid flipped open, she buried her face among the scraps. I scratched the scruff of her neck while she ate. Thin strands of light flowed through the breaks in the trees as if spun from golden thread. The rainfall quickened, dripping rhythmically from the sheltering leaves—its drumming the lone sound in the quiet.
My mother once told me tales from her girlhood—times when the forest hummed with life. Hares hopped through the long grass, while sprites swooped from branch to branch. Even during the chilling winter, when the grass wilted underneath a blanket of ice-cold snow, deer darted through the open plains.
But now, after the Dark Days when bloodshed rivaled the rain for what would sodden the Wetlands, Mother said she had not once heard the growl of a griffin.
The forest might have still been green, but almost all creatures were gone.
Dog’s ears pricked up as she stopped eating and stared into nothingness, twitching as if attuned to something I couldn’t hear. My heart pounded harder than drumsticks beating a tambour at the thought of being caught—alone in the forest with a dog. If a villager stumbled upon me, hunched between the nettles, nursing a creature, they’d suspect I was a witch practicing magic—and I’d be hanged.
Then, Dog dove her head back into the basket; she no longer sensed any threat. If she felt safe, so did I.
Some villagers believed that animals understood the magical language of Yfelle. One frequent patron of our local tavern claimed to have heard a hound fluently speak the forbidden tongue as he staggered back to his lodgings after one too many tankards.
I believed that Yfelle would soon be remembered as myth. Though the Dark Days were long ago, I grew up hearing grim stories of the slaughter—of how every wizard, witch, and magical creature had been executed or forced into hiding because of their abilities.
Despite all the fables bred from fear, one certainty remained: Anyone or anything caught speaking Yfelle was killed.
Mother reminded me daily.
As Dog ate, I foraged for things only the forest could offer. I gathered sticks for the furnace and scavenged wild herbs for Mother to pestle into medicines. Dog tipped over the basket in search of more food, but she had eaten it all. After a final rub behind the ears, I set off toward Green Vale.
Emerging from the sheltering trees into the rainy Wetlands, I felt something brush against my leg.
Glancing down, I saw Dog nuzzling into me. “Stay,” I commanded.
Dog whined but obeyed; her gaze tugged at my heartstrings. Guilt gnawed at me for leaving her behind, yet I knew it was the only way to keep her safe.
The dewy grass soaked my boots as I trudged toward the crossways, where a sunken signpost—skewed in the clay-like soil—loomed overhead. King James had decreed its placement to guide passersby to the nearest village. A lingering terror pervaded these lands, for many feared encountering a magical entity without knowing where to flee for refuge.
Four wooden arrows branched off the post, each pointing toward a village in the Wetlands: Green Hollow, home to the nobility and knights; Green Vale, Green Gallows, and Green Glenn, where the common folk dwelled. One arrow bore a faded painting of a river winding between two hills. I followed its trail toward Green Vale.
My family was tied to the Wetlands. Unlike the freemen who dwelled in the romanticized Walled City, we belonged to a lord—in exchange for our labor, he provided us with land and lodgings.
A sharp snap of a branch broke my focus and sent me stumbling along the uneven path. Regaining my balance, I surveyed the middle distance toward my village. From this hilltop, I could normally see everything from the old stone well, to the local tavern, and even the thatched roof of the smithy.
But today, the mist shrouded it all, leaving only the tallest turret of the Lord’s castle piercing through the haze.
As a child, I often wondered what secrets were hidden behind the great stone wall protecting the Lord’s fortress. Only as I grew older did I understand its true purpose—to keep magic out.
I heard another crunch—then several more—making my heart rattle in my chest. It sounded like footsteps on fallen sticks. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw light flickering through the trees. Something darted between them.
An overwhelming sense of foreboding gripped me as I wiped rainwater from my face.
“Who goes there?” I yelled back from where I just came, but only the gentle hum of the wind replied to my call.
As I squinted, a cloaked stranger stepped into a beam of light piercing the fog, lingering in the ethereal glow. From this distance, I couldn’t tell if the silhouette was friend or foe. The wind coiled my hair around my neck like a noose as I hurriedly wiped raindrops from my eyelashes. When I looked again, the figure was racing toward me, their cloak billowing in the strong winds like a ghostly apparition.
I dashed toward the safety of Green Vale, cutting through a cornfield without caring which crops I damaged. A fuming farmer didn’t frighten me, but the person chasing me did—their desperation as wild as a starving man spotting a rabbit after months of famine.
Running was difficult. My thick cloak weighed me down. My damp linen undergarments chafed against my skin. But I forced one foot in front of the other—until my boot caught on the hem of my overdress, hurling me forward. The basket flew from my hands, throwing herbs up into the rain like confetti as I tumbled onto the crop. I lay on the dirt, staring up at the dense, gray clouds. The drizzle pattered against my face, momentarily distracting me from the burning in my scraped knees and palms.
For a fleeting instant, I mistook the shadow overhead for a storm cloud—but as my eyes adjusted, I realized it was a black cloak. A hand appeared on either side of my face and, before I could react, a stranger grappled my shoulders, pinning me down. The figure pressed their full weight into my chest, stealing my breath. Desperate to break free, I clawed through the fabric, searching for a weak point to bite—until my gaze caught on the cloak’s lining: rich ermine fur, a pelt reserved solely for noble households.
A faint laugh echoed from inside the hood.
“What’s a helpless maiden like yourself doing so far from the safety of the village?” my hunter mused.
The instant I heard her familiar, soft voice, I knew who was hiding in the dark folds. At last, she released me, and I reached upward, yanking down the hood.
Her auburn hair wildly rode the wind, blowing across her devilish grin.
“Avice,” I said, catching my nervous breath. “My soul nearly leapt out of my skin!”
My heart still thudded, but I was relieved—my stalker was my closest friend.
Avice laughed as she extended her hand, helping me back to my feet.
“Why are you creeping around the outskirts of the village like a vagrant?” she asked, her rosy lips slipping into a coy smile.
I grabbed the empty basket and carefully picked out the damp sticks from the foxglove and wildflowers.
“Herbs,” I replied, silently noting that my brother wouldn’t be pleased about the wet wood.
I inspected each sprig before placing it back in the basket, worried I might accidentally grab foxglove instead of the yarrow and poison my family.
Avice plucked a black hair from my cloak. “I didn’t know heather grew fur.”
I chuckled at her naivety for herbs. “Don’t confuse heather for foxglove—one’s delicious, and the other’s deadly.”
“Just like me and you then,” she teased. “Tell me honestly—did you go visit the dog?”
My words snagged in my throat, like wool on a splinter, as I contemplated how best to answer. When I’d confided in Avice about my wild companion, I’d foolishly hoped she’d be as intrigued by the unknown as me.
But she wasn’t—she was unnerved.
I shook my head. “I went to collect sticks, and she crossed my path,” I said, stretching the truth. “She followed me. I told her to go away, but she wouldn’t listen. She likes me.”
Mother often warned that sharing secrets was dangerous. She said hearsay was like little sparks beneath kindling—it didn’t take much for one to catch and burn into great, untamable flames. But Avice and I had once sworn to tell each other everything—and I almost always kept that promise.
Avice tutted, clearly disappointed in my nurturing nature. “If my father knew you’d befriended a beast, he’d have you hanged,” she said with no sentiment for our lifelong friendship—just plainspoken.
For a moment, I faltered, imagining the unyielding rope being strung around my throat before the deadly drop. I dwelled upon how suffocation might feel, how the pressure might pulsate behind my bulging eyes. Would Avice bear witness to my execution? Would she try to save me before my candle was blown out? Or would she watch on with burning certainty in her emerald irises that this was necessary—that because I cared for a creature, I deserved to die.
“Niamh, do you understand?” Avice’s voice cut through my dark daydream. “My father treats his duty like a sacred obligation.”
Her father, Lord of the Wetlands, valued his role in the King’s Order above all else. Even his own daughter, I thought.
“I know,” I murmured.
“He wouldn’t care that you’re my dearest friend,” she reminded me. “That we’ve known each other longer than we’ve known our own names. He’d feel no remorse giving the order.”
I nodded, ignoring a niggle—would she feel regret if I were accused of witchcraft and hanged? Before I could fret, I reminded myself that she cared for me deeply. I hoped that if that day came, she’d defend me with bone-deep loyalty. After all, we were the dearest of friends.
To an onlooker, Avice and I seemed an unlikely pair: the daughter of a lord befriending the daughter of the local blacksmith. But my father had spent his life delusionally devoted to his liege, and his unwavering loyalty meant that from my first blink, I’d been given the role of Avice’s plaything. Thankfully, her fondness for me blossomed early, while she was still suckling milk from her wetnurse.
“Niamh,” Avice sighed, her gloved fingertip tapping lightly against my forehead. “Please, listen to me. Stop helping that dog. You know I’d never lie to my father. If he asks whether you’ve been tending to it, I’ll be honest. Let it die so you can live.”
“The dog’s better now,” I murmured. “I don’t need to go back. She can fend for herself out there in the wilderness.”
My words sought to reassure her, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist returning before dawn broke.
Dog depended on me; she wholeheartedly trusted that I’d visit every day.
I imagined her, excitedly waiting for me at the forest’s edge tomorrow. Only as dusk consumed the daylight would she realize I wasn’t coming. When nightfall settled on the trees, she’d retreat to her burrow—hungry, confused, and abandoned. The mere thought made tears prick at my eyes.
“Good,” Avice said, taking my hand in hers. “Even I’m beginning to worry that you might be a witch.”
She wriggled her fingers against mine as though speaking in jest. Yet, there was a sharp edge of truth to her words, and I worried that if she knew all my secrets I’d be offered no redemption.
Her father had indoctrinated Avice, along with his knights and the villagers, into his merciless dogma, all in the name of protecting Lyonesse.
“I should be more concerned with your lack of heart,” I replied, giving her hand a tight squeeze. “If I find a creature in need of help, I’ll offer it.”
Avice sighed. “Your kindness will get someone killed.”
We walked hand in hand through the mizzle as Avice spoke of her wedding plans, and I found myself grateful for the change of conversation. Long before she could walk, her father had arranged her marriage to King James’s middle son. Prince Fitzroy, four years her senior, was twenty-five and desperate to produce a legitimate heir.
“We’ll be wed before summer solstice in the grand Walled City, at the royal palace,” Avice said. Though she tried to sound boastful, I knew she was dreading her departure. “Did I tell you, there will be hundreds in attendance?”
I shook my head. “Sounds like a grand affair.”
“It’s been meticulously planned, with no input from myself.” Avice sighed. “I’ve chosen the flowers and the color for the drapes in the feast hall, but no one has cared to ask for my opinion about anything.”
“I’m sure the prince has spectacular taste,” I said, trying to reassure her, though I knew little of the man.
I’d once overheard a drunkard at the tavern claim that Prince Fitzroy possessed all the arrogance and hubris you’d expect of a King’s son. According to Avice, he was a great swordsman and a natural-born leader. But I had yet to encounter a man who didn’t consider himself endowed with the same virtues.
“He’s had long enough to plan it,” Avice said.
Their nuptials had been postponed for two winters, but this would be the final one we’d spend together.
From the way Avice hung her head, her face shrouded by the shadows of her hood, I knew she was deeply unhappy.
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Would your absence be noticed this evening?”
“No,” Avice mumbled. “Everyone, even the chambermaids, is too preoccupied with the warmongering.”
As she spoke, the skies above unleashed a slush of snowfall. Still gripping Avice’s hand, I ran. We took shelter beneath the hawthorn trees while the flakes melted into the soil.
Excerpted from REIGN by Bethan Croome. Copyright © 2026 Bethan Croome. Reprinted with permission from Cosmo Reads. All rights reserved.
Reign, by Bethan Croome will be released on September 1, 2025 from Cosmo Reads. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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