A year ago, Cosmopolitan got an official first look at S.F. Williamson's A Language of Dragons, giving us a glimpse into the vast and gripping world filled with dragons, dark academia, and romance. So it's only fitting that we get a new look at to what it set to come next in this heart-pounding new sequel that raises the stakes and takes us to new heights.
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive look at A War of Wyverns by S.F. Williamson, which is set to be released on January 6, 2026. The book continues Viv's journey as she not only has to deal with being the name on everyone's lips, but dealing with the reality of what is to come. Despite a big loss, she now has to step up like never before. But what sacrifices will she be forced to make this time in order to win this war. Here's some more info from our friends at HarperCollins:
Rebellion happens in the shadows. In the sequel to the New York Times bestseller A Language of Dragons, language is the greatest weapon in a war between humans and dragons—and one translator has the power to change the world. Perfect for teen fans of Fourth Wing and Babel.
Who is Vivien Featherswallow?
It’s the question on the lips of every human and dragon in Britannia, and even she doesn’t know the answer. Is she the Swallow, the face of the rebellion against the corrupt government and invading Bulgarian dragons? Is she a brasstongue, a translator on the cusp of discovering a new dragon language? Or is she just Viv, the girl who lost the love of her life after playing spy?
Viv isn’t sure, but she knows she has to fight back.
Armed with a machine that allows her to listen to dragons’ thoughts, a diary with the clues of a never-before translated dragon tongue, and her own need to avenge her lost love, Viv seeks out the elusive Hebridean Wyverns. If she can find them and convince them to join the war, the rebellion might have a chance.
Viv will soon realize that while translation is a weapon, it might not help her on her journey to victory—or to finding herself.
So just how is Viv handling it all? You can check out an exclusive excerpt below that shows us what she's been up to since the ending of A Language of Dragons. Just make sure to pre-order A War of Wyverns so you can find out what happens next when it drops!
An Excerpt From A War of Wyverns
By S.F. Williamson
Chumana’s strawberry scales shine in the lamplight, slick with a natural oil that protects the skin beneath from their rough edges. The sores that used to run up her legs, the result of years spent locked inside a dark library, are gone and her teeth are coated in blood. When I told Hollingsworth I wanted to live somewhere far from the First Class luxuries that reminded me of Bletchley Park, she insisted it be with Chumana. My eyes dart to the carcass of a young stag behind the pink dragon and my stomach lurches. So that’s what the smell is.
I raise an eyebrow. “Bon appétit.”
Chumana watches as I head to the makeshift parlor area in the corner of the warehouse and change into a nightdress. A wet wind blows in from the river, straight through the missing wall at the far end of the room. It was smashed away during a rebel attack before we moved in. We can’t block it up because it’s the only entrance to the building Chumana can fit through. A small fire burns within a metal barrel. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Chumana returns to her prey, holding it steady by an antler as she peels off strips of meat with her teeth. The scent of warm blood is overpowering. I pour myself a glass of water from the jug and sit down amid a pile of blankets to watch the Bulgarian dragon I live with crunch the stag’s skull between her jaws.
“Chumana,” I say.
She stops chewing, blood trickling down her chin as her eyes flick lazily to me.
“Wyvernmire has appointed General Goranov as Dragon Chief of State.”
A low growl emanates from her throat. “I know.”
My heart sinks. Of course she does.
So why am I the only one who didn’t?
“Why would she do such a thing?”
Chumana licks her lips. “She believes it will make her powerful on the world stage to have a Bulgarian Bolgorith at her side.”
“And will it?”
“It will make her a threat,” she breathes. “Britannia will be hated for allying with Bulgaria, but it will also be feared.”
“She’s also made Slavidraneishá the country’s national dragon tongue,” I say as Chumana eats.
“Are you surprised?”
“So British dragons cannot speak their own tongues, but the Bulgarian invaders can?”
A bone cracks loudly between Chumana’s teeth. “Wyvernmire will do whatever is necessary to keep control,” she hisses. “Since she betrayed Queen Ignacia, no British dragon is required to be loyal to her. Ignacia may be refusing to ally with the rebels, but she still wants revenge against the government. As for the humans, the lower classes are joining the rebellion and the First Class is beginning to question her, too.”
“That’s why she has Hollingsworth writing the Babel Decree articles,” I say bitterly. “She wants to know what everyone is saying at all times.”
Chumana grunts. “Assimilation through language is an age-old tactic among humans. Perhaps this war will be fought with tongues rather than talons or teeth. It is why Rita Hollingsworth chose you as her Swallow.”
“Her swallow?” I say.
“That is what she calls you. What the rebels call you.” Chumana looks up again, her grin full of blood. “Don’t you like it?”
“She wants me to be the face of the rebellion, but she doesn’t bother to tell me anything,” I mutter. “She still hasn’t sent me to Canna. What’s the point of learning to speak the tongue of the Hebridean Wyverns if I’m never actually going to use it?”
“So you assume you are ready to come face-to-face with a pack of wyverns?” Chumana breathes.
“I’ve read Clawtail’s descriptions of them, of their behavior and culture and environment, and I can speak basic Cannair now, so—”
“You forget that they are dragons, dragons with wings and teeth and a taste for flesh. And you are just a girl.”
“Just a girl?” I spit. “Why is it that everyone has forgotten what I did at Bletchley Park, what Atlas and I—”
I stop as the memories unfurl again, threatening to wrap their cold hands around my throat and choke me.
“We could go to Canna together, couldn’t we?” I continue. “We could fly there tonight. And if I can’t convince the wyverns to help us then maybe you can. They’ll recognize you as one of their own . . .” I shrink beneath Chumana’s fiery gaze. She stares at me, no trace of her meal left except for some shining white bones and a red stain on the floor.
“I will thank you,” she snarls, “not to compare me to a wyvern. Obstinate, fickle, two-legged things.”
“I have two legs,” I say, swallowing the laugh in my throat. “Does that mean I’m obstinate and fickle?”
“And yet,” she says, ignoring me, “you would do well not to underestimate them. Wyverns are proud, prouder than any other species. They hoard knowledge like Bolgoriths hoard riches, as though they invented intelligence itself and should be rewarded for it. They hunt in packs, so swift and methodical that it is as if they are of one mind.” Her eyes fall on my face and I feel my smile disappear. “You will not outsmart one, and you will not outrun one.”
“What’s the difference between a wyvern and a dragon, apart from the number of legs?”
“Wyverns lack the solitary nature of dragons,” Chumana replies. “They live by no maxim. They are an excitable, unpredictable species and their bodies are smaller, more pliable than those of dragons. I have seen one pass through the narrowest of gaps in search of its prey. I suspect that these particular wyverns—”
“The Hebrideans,” I say.
“—will only be found if they want to be.”
“Clawtail’s journal says the Hebridean Wyverns only speak one language. Did you know that?”
Chumana growls.
“The only other species anywhere near as lazy about learning tongues are the Bulgarian Bolgoriths, and that’s only because they communicate largely in echolocation.”
“Lazy . . . such a compliment warms my heart,” Chumana says.
“You know I don’t mean you,” I reply. “Hollingsworth says that Goranov’s army places troops in family groups because their strong emotional bond allows them to communicate effectively over long distances.” I steal a glance at Chumana. “You were wise to tell us, you know. That the Koinamens is more than just language. You know I won’t try to translate it ever again.”
When she doesn’t reply, I push the pile of pamphlets Edward gave me toward her.
“Will you deliver these for me? Tonight?”
She sniffs. “No one told me that living with you would involve becoming a giant dracovol.”
“Well, you’re the most inconspicuous dragon-size dracovol I know.” I nod toward the silver piece of metal lying in the corner. Chumana begrudgingly sticks her snout under the crown and tosses it on to her head. With the silver peak between her eyes, she looks just like one of Wyvernmire’s dragons. I found it dented in the street in the aftermath of a rebel attack and after dragging it back here, Chumana used her flame to weld it back into shape. I’m surprised Hollingsworth didn’t have one made for her—it makes her nighttime flights even less noticeable. Whether she likes it or not, Chumana is crucial to Hollingsworth, because only she can listen to the Bulgarians using her Koinamens. She can only understand their most simple calls, as she’s not bonded with any of them, but it’s enough to know where they’re stationing patrols or where they’ll attack next.
She takes the pamphlets in her mouth and lumbers over to the missing wall. I follow, the wind whipping my nightdress around my legs. I peer over the edge at the dark street below, then up into the starry sky. Chumana transfers the bundle to her talon.
“Keep back,” she growls. “Do you remember how to listen for a Bolgorith?”
“Your wings beat slower,” I say, nodding. “Two beats, not three.”
“Good. Extinguish the lamp.”
Chumana steps off the ledge and into the air. I gasp as she swoops low, her wings barely fitting between the rows of buildings, then lifts with such a force that the bushes lining the street bow in her wake. I go back to the blankets on the floor and pull them aside. Hidden beneath them are five more pamphlets. I slide them into my satchel. Tomorrow, I’ll show them to Hollingsworth. She’ll be angry at first, but they’ll make her realize how dedicated I am to the rebel cause. They’ll make her realize that I’m ready to go to Canna. I blow out the lamp and lie down.
The wind blows humid across the room, threatening to pull my covers away. I burrow down the way I used to do as a child in my bed, back when I slept on cotton sheets instead of floorboards. But I’m not frightened in the sugar house. I know I’m safer here than anywhere else in London. When Chumana and I first took up residence, both still wounded from the Battle of Bletchley, my body reacted to every creak and groan. Atlas’s voice haunted my dreams and looking at Chumana, so bloody and beaten, was an unbearable reminder of how I felt. We kept to opposite sides of the building, me freezing beneath my damp blankets, until one night the floor beneath me shook and a hot wing dropped over my body.
“You can’t sleep like this forever,” I had hissed bitterly into the dark. “I’ll just be an inconvenience to you.”
“You’ll inconvenience me more if you’re dead,” came the reply.
I lie still, listening to the sound of my own beating heart and the distant swish of wings outside. I wait for Chumana to return, for her presence to banish the thoughts that slip back into my mind every time I’m alone, those that remind me that the war still isn’t won, that my parents are still imprisoned and that Atlas is still dead. Dragon Chief of State . . . how will Britannia ever escape this mess?
I clutch the swallow around my neck and think of the pamphlets again. All I want is to make up for my mistakes—betraying Sophie, believing lies about the Third Class, taking so long to join the rebels. All I want is to live out the second chance Chumana promised me, to honor Atlas’s memory by helping the Coalition. But writing about dragon tongues isn’t going to achieve that. I remember what Chumana called me earlier and cringe.
The Swallow?
What would the rebels think if they knew the Swallow is hiding in a house in London while they fight dragons? And now Goranov is leading the country and Slavidraneishá is the only dragon tongue allowed. I bury my face into a cushion and scream. I have to do something.
Something dark slips into the sugar house as my eyes grow heavy, a desolation I haven’t felt this keenly since Atlas died. Working for Hollingsworth—having a purpose—has been the only thing keeping it at bay. But now I let it flood the empty space around me, licking up the wooden beams like a cold, shadowy flame. Atlas’s face appears in front of me, blood droplets spattered across his white collar. I see a silver revolver. Smoke. A motorcar hurtling through the trees.
The terrible memories engulf my dreams and I hear myself cry out just as a scaly warmth settles beside me.
There is the soft whoosh of flames.
A bird flies through my mind and scatters the nightmares, light trailing from its forked tail.
Copyright © 2026 by Stephanie Williamson. Courtesy of HarperCollins Children’s Books.
A War of Wyverns, by S.F. Williamson will be released on January 6, 2026 from HarperCollins. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
AMAZON AUDIBLE BARNES & NOBLE BOOKS-A-MILLION BOOKSHOP APPLE BOOKS KOBO LIBRO.FM TARGET WALMART POWELL'S BOOKS HUDSON BOOKSELLERS GOOGLE PLAY EBOOKS.COM
