Welcome to “First Chapters,” Cosmo’s column where we shine a spotlight on debut authors who you are definitely going to be obsessed with. And what better way for you to get to know them and their books than with the first chapter of their new release. This round, we’re highlighting Sasha E. Sloan's The Ruins Beneath Us, the kickoff to a new romantasy duology that follows young elf Lyria as she hides her true powers and identity to fit right into the human world. But when dark secrets start to uncover themselves, the line between truth and lies start to blur more than ever. Here’s some more info from Disney Hyperion:
This first book in a romantasy duology by TikTok star Sasha E. Sloan combines a compelling love triangle, luscious worldbuilding, and spellbinding magic to deliver a debut with everything romantasy readers crave.
Young elf Lyria has spent her life in hiding while a dangerous war brews between the elven kingdom and human world. Now eighteen, she has grown restless hiding on the outskirts of the forest that surrounds the human world. One day, while her mother is away, Lyria hears a boy in the forest calling for help and rescues him from certain death. Unbeknownst to her, the boy, Finn, is the crowned Prince, and he wants Lyria to become the kingdom’s royal apothecary!
Terrified that Finn is going to discover she’s an elf and she used magic to heal him while he was unconscious, Lyria struggles to fit in with the human kingdom while also hiding her identity. At court, she meets the jaded Head Healer, Cygnus, who is cold, highly suspicious of her, and constantly questions her abilities. But earth-shattering secrets can’t lay dormant forever, and after Lyria and Cygnus discover a dark and sinister world hidden underneath the palace, Lyria must decide once and for all who—if anyone—she should trust.
This slow-burn YA romantasy by BookTok sensation Sasha Sloan will appeal to fans of other successful TikTok hits like Lightlark and Assistant to the Villain.
And now you have the chance to meet Lyria and Finn for the first time and let's just say their first meeting is not what you could have expected. Check out an exclusive excerpt below and don't forget to pre-order The Ruins Beneath Us to see what happens next!
I put him up in my mother’s bed, since the prospect of him sleeping in mine is, of course, unfathomable. After checking his airways, I administer nocturn to keep him sedated. Then I assess his injuries. It’s even worse than it looks. He has a skull fracture, a slew of broken bones, and half a dozen organs requiring reconstruction. Complicated, messy stuff—healing that stretches the limits of what I’ve even studied in theory.
My Talent demands total concentration. Before the war, Elves with Talents would train under Mages to hone their unique skills. Without a Mage to teach me, and no one but myself and Mother to practice on, it’s taken years to master even simple injuries like a skinned knee or a broken finger. First, I visualize each intertwining strand of his life force. Then I push and pull on each thread with the precision of a master tailor. Any mistake could be deadly. I hold my breath as I draw upon my power to mend his skull, his organs, his leg, and finally the fractures and gash in his chest. Once he’s stable, I pump him full of restorative potions and slather his wounds with salves.
While he sleeps, I strip off his clothing (averting my eyes from the unpleasantries) and search for any identifying items. He’d been carrying little when he was attacked. I find no identification or papers, just a compass, a small traveler’s map of the Midlands, his sword, the sheath strapped to his belt, and a pouch of coins I refrain from counting.
His body fascinates me. He’s massive, at least a head taller than me, and yet still has the puppyish look of someone with a growth spurt ahead of them. His arms and shoulders are muscled, his hands callused. I notice cracked and bleeding skin in the webbing between his forefinger and thumb. His nails are bitten to the quick. He’s hairy, too, hairy everywhere—a revelation I find particularly intriguing. As the swelling reduces, his features emerge sharp and symmetrical: a straight nose, thick eyebrows, and a wide, haughty mouth over a sharp little chin. I can’t place his age. Eighteen? Twenty?
Next, I prepare the cottage, removing anything that might reveal our Elven heritage. My mother’s spellbooks get shoved into a knapsack at the back of our closet. We keep a customary altar to Elowyn, Goddess of Life, in the east window, which must also be deconstructed.
I move the flowers to the kitchen table, string the seashells over my bed, and tuck the prayer slips into a napkin drawer, feeling somewhat guilty over the arrangement. My kerchief stays knotted tightly over my ears, but I recite the concealment charm every few hours as a precaution.It becomes habitual to brush the tips with my fingers, ensuring my spellwork is sound this time.
Perpetual motion over the next few days leaves little time to ponder the consequences of my decisions—something I’m avoiding at all costs. It’s a technique I learned from Mother. If my mind is busy with the problem in front of me, there’s no space for anything else. So I act as she does when she’s troubled: fussing, double-checking, sweeping the floor just to have something to do with my hands.
Then, on the eighth morning, I see it.
A twitch. It’s so subtle that at first, I’m convinced I imagined it. But then . . .
Again. His eyelids. They’re fluttering.
He’s about to wake up.
My stomach lurches. I back up, suddenly keen to put space between us. He doesn’t move again for a long while, but I know we’ve turned a corner. I pace the cottage, with my stomach in knots. I wash and rewash my hands. In an abundance of caution, I find some rope and tie his ankles together and knot his wrists to the bedposts—can’t have him trying to kill me after he regains consciousness. I’ve got my father’s dagger, of course, but I swipe another knife from the kitchen and tuck it into my apron. Just in case. Then I take a seat beside him.
What feels like hours (but may have been minutes) later, his eyelids twitch again.
Then, softly, he moans, “Eeeeaaaaarrrrhhhtttsssssssss.”
I bolt upright, heart thundering.
He moans again faintly. “Errrrryythhhhhnnnhrrrts.”
“Sorry—I don’t understand,” I say. Perhaps he doesn’t speak the common tongue? “You’ve got some strong medicine in your system.”
“Everything hurts.” His eyes open.
Slowly, he looks left to right, then up and down, appraising the rafters, the bubbling cauldron by the stove, and the narrow steps leading to my bedroom in the attic, lingering on each detail like he’s memorizing it. My mind races, imagining what he might think of the house, the bedding, his bandages. Does it seem other? Peculiar?
Finally, his gaze finds me.
I’m hardly breathing as we lock into a staring contest that stretches on and on for eternity. Then, with a bolt of new and profound self-consciousness, I consider: What does he think of me?
I run a self-inventory. My hair, always fairer and finer than my mother’s, is tied back into a sloppy braid underneath my kerchief. My work dress is threadbare and faded but clean. As far as I can tell, we appear to be approximately similar in terms of looks. Same brown hair, freckled skin, and sharp nose. Still, I wonder, Can he tell what I am? Are things about to get violent?
He clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Well . . .” His voice is deep and ragged from neglect. “Good morning.”
I shiver, though the cottage is warm. “Good morning. I’m glad you’re awake.”
A knot bobs in his throat. “Why . . .” He coughs, hands twitching in the restraints. “Why am I tied up?”
“That’s for my safety.”
“For your safety?” he repeats, eyebrows rising.
“Yes.” My voice sounds about an octave too high. “I need to be sure you’re not a threat before I allow you to move freely.”
“Right.” A laugh rumbles out of him. “Since we’re establishing present threats, how exactly did I end up in your bed?”
Does he really not remember?
“You were attacked,” I explain tentatively. “I heard you screaming for help . . . and I came.”
“I remember the attack,” he mumbles. “I don’t remember anything after.”
As if recalling the fight, my Talent swells into my fingertips. I push it back down. Not now.
Feeling feverish, I share the story exactly as I’ve rehearsed it. I tell him that Mother’s a Healer and I’m her apprentice, and we live in the Ironwoods to enable our foraging. All true. I tell him I got to the swamp in time to see him slay the Moragorion. Less true. But I’m hoping that the cocktail of shock, head trauma, and relief will keep him from digging further. For good measure, I add an elaborate lie about building a makeshift stretcher to drag him the half mile home—since a human girl couldn’t carry him as I did. Maybe the story works, because he goes on gaping with that look I can’t decipher. It’s not cold, but it’s not altogether warm, either.
“Was that . . .” His lips twitch, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Was that before or after you tied me to your bed?”
“It’s not my bed,” I correct him. “It’s my mother’s.”
He smirks. “Ah. An important distinction.”
I fold my arms, leveling the most menacing glare I can muster at him. “Do not mistake my compassion for weakness. I have a weapon, and I know how to use it.”
“I’m sure you do.” His smirk grows, which I can’t understand.
Isn’t he scared? Should I brandish my dagger?
“You think this is funny?” I scowl, brow knitting.
“Far from it,” he says. “I just don’t understand your approach. You rescue me, but now here I am, tied up and apparently in need of rescue. Your motives aren’t exactly straightforward.”
I shift my weight. “I’m not going to allow you to take advantage of me.”
“No taking advantage allowed. Noted.” He flexes his hands. “How long have I been out?”
“Eight days.”
As his fingers regain mobility, they twitch toward his bandaged chest. His brow furrows like Mother’s does when trying to recall a complicated recipe. I practically see the wheels in his head turn. Softly, he asks, “It was bad, wasn’t it?”
“Pretty bad, yes.”
Again, I can’t read his expression. Horror, maybe? Shock? Awe?
“What did you call that thing?” he asks. “The monster?”
My arms prickle. “A Moragorion.”
“That’s what I thought. A Moragorion,” he repeats, with an audible reverence. “I thought they were bedtime stories.”
“Well, they’re real. And you’re lucky to be alive.”
He gazes back at me, and I’m struck with a blistering sense of being perceived. It’s not a good feeling. “Who are you?”
The question draws a lump to my throat. Because what kind of answer can I give him? Certainly not the truth. Hello there, I’m Lyria. I’m eighteen years old, I like long walks and cinnamon rolls, and I’m pretty sure my mother thinks I’m a monster. . . .
I counter instead. “Why does it matter?”
“You saved my life, and you won’t even tell me your name?” He looks incredulous.
“I don’t see how it’s relevant.”
For some maddening reason, he chuckles. I’m taken aback by how laughter somehow makes him even more handsome. His face folds with perfect symmetry, and the skin pinches at the corners of his eyes, like butterfly wings.
My cheeks burn. “What were you even doing in the forest, anyway? You’re not from here.”
“What gave it away?”
“Believing Moragorions are bedtime stories, for one.”
He sighs. “No. I’m not from the Ironwoods. I . . . was looking for someone.”
I wait for him to continue.
“If I tell you, will you untie me?”
“I’m not making any promises.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s measuring whether I’m serious. Evidently deciding I am, he frowns. “Fine. The truth is my father is a hunter, among many other things,” he finally says. “Ever since he was a boy, he dreamed about tracking down a . . . particular beast. But he was never successful. My younger brother, Damien, just turned sixteen. In old Dornik families, it’s customary to get your portion of the inheritance at that age, and my parents are very traditional. Damien’s got this massive ego, and he had these expectations stuck in his mind. . . .”
He shakes his head, breaking off. “Anyway, my father didn’t give Damien what he thought he was going to get. And he was really royally pissed about it. So he made a big show of storming off to the mountains to find the beast and bring it back as a trophy. Y’know, to prove to my father that he’s a better man or whatever.”
I try to absorb this. I’m familiar with Dornak, though it’s not a pleasant association—it’s the coastal region where King Verdin originally ruled before the Long War. The Dornik are descendants of seafaring raiders, infamous for their bloodlust and skepticism toward magic. Considering their violent history, it tracks for Dornik traditions to involve violence. But Mother and I have only ever hunted because we were hungry. I can’t wrap my head around killing for sport, or worse, spite. “What was he hunting?”
“A fyrehound.”
Every muscle in my body stills. “A . . . fyrehound?” I repeat, feeling sick.
Fyrehounds are sacred to Elves. Our connection dates back thousands of years, to when warriors rode them in battle during the golden age of Evermore. It used to be customary for children to bond with a pup when they started training with a sword. But after the Long War, humans hunted the fyrehounds into extinction, a symbolic way of crushing Elven resistance. It’s almost too much to hope that there might still be some fyrehounds left—survivors, like Mother and me.
“Is that why you’re in the Ironwoods, then?” I ask, unable to keep the disdain out of my voice. “You’re trying to beat your brother to the punch?”
“I was trying to stop him from doing something I thought he’d regret. Clearly, that plan is going great.”
“Well,” I say, scowling, “maybe it’s the universe passing judgment.”
“You’re saying I deserved to be attacked?”
“I’m saying hunting for sport is immoral.”
He looks exasperated. “Listen, Damien is a menace, all right? He was either going to do something terrible or get himself hurt in the process. That’s what jackass little brothers do. I never wanted to be here. I thought he was way off base looking in the Ironwoods, anyway. Everything I’ve heard suggests the target was near Sulnik.”
I fold my arms, huffing. “I’d like to meet this brother.”
“Why? So you can tie him to your bed, too?”
“It’s not my bed.”
“Ah, yes. It’s your mother’s bed. Much better.” He starts to chuckle, but the sound snags, and he starts hacking instead.
I rush forward, reaching for his chest. “Take it easy. You’re not out of the woods yet.” I edge closer. “Mind if I check your bandages?”
He coughs until his shoulders slump in surrender. “Go ahead.”
As I peel back his shirt to examine him, my hands tremble.
Fortunately, he’s mending well. The gash through his chest still looks nasty, but the lung’s rebounded. His skull fracture has closed. As I re-dress his wounds, I scan surreptitiously underneath. My magic lets me perceive his pain, sampling it like dipping my toes into hot water. His innards feel like they’ve been carved out with spoons. His skull feels shrunken by two sizes.
At last, I pull away. He needs to sleep before I can use my Talent on him again. I can slip nocturn into his food, but he needs to trust me enough to eat it. So I take a deep breath and offer an olive branch. “My name is Lyria. What about you?”
“I’m Finn.” His eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I notice their color. It’s green with hints of gold, like an oak leaf held up against the sun. Something flutters in my chest as he smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Lyria.”
Copyright © 2026 by Disney Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc.
The Ruins Beneath Us, by Sasha E. Sloan will be released on March 3, 2026 from Disney Hyperion. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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