Read a Chapter Month 5

 Action-adventure romantasy

ON AMAZON 

Kirkus "GET IT" Award - January 2026

Kirkus "A classic quest narrative that lovers of fairy tales are likely to enjoy."

Booklife Review (Jan 2026) " A lively, touching bard’s tale of a faerie’s adventures in the mortal realm."

An action-adventure romantasy filled with intrigue, sharp banter, dangerous secrets, and real emotional stakes.

Escala’s Wish, the debut fantasy-romance novel by David James, launches the epic Tales from Valla series, where fey politics and forbidden love collide in a world shaped as much by choices as by power.

It started with a kiss.

Escala Winter, a mischievous pixie from the Court of Dreams, only wanted to understand love.

But one impulsive kiss awakens a long-buried grudge, forges a treacherous alliance, and unleashes a storm of vengeance that threatens to consume both mortal and Fey realms.

Banished from her enchanted home, Escala is thrust into a world of danger and deception, and burdened with an impossible quest that may be her only chance to make things right.

She’s hunted by a cruel rival, haunted by the loss of her best friend, and entangled in a sinister revenge plot older and darker than she could ever imagine.

Now, trapped in the mortal world, Escala must confront a past she never knew, and an evil she accidentally unleashed, one that could destroy her family, the fey realm, and the entire material plane.

Escala’s Wish is a sweeping coming-of-age tale about magic, mischief, and the dangerous price of curiosity.

Escala never meant to cause the end of everything, but can she stop it before it's too late?

This is a fresh, unique romantasy: no werewolves, no vampires, no “bad boy” love interest, and no enemies-to-lovers arc. Instead, the romance is sweet, gradual, emotionally sincere, and reminiscent of classic fantasy love stories, an innocent slow burn that grows from shared trials and genuine connection.

Told by an energetic and egotistical bard named Wigfrith Foreverbloom, Esacla's Wish is a tale of redemption, sacrifice, and love, where every price of curiosity might be too high.

Step into Valla and discover how one wish sets an entire world in motion.

Read a Chapter

I reach for my pipe—a quiet invitation, in case anyone else fancies a smoke. As I pack the bowl with tobacco from the rolling fields of Kelly’s Pride, I nearly launch into the tale of how it got its name.

Something about a woman named Kelly who seduced a wealthy old miner,

took over his town, and inherited everything—after he “accidentally”

tumbled down one of his own goldmine shafts.

But that’s a story for another night.

As I puff, I continue the story.

When they arrived at Dunwell, the first thing Escala noticed was the

vivid colors. Everything was painted—doors in faded reds and deep

greens, shutters in lavender and storm blue. Even the cobblestones were

splashed here and there with dye and chalk, remnants of old festivals and

careless children.

They passed a bakery with golden rolls steaming on the sill, a smithy

with a horseshoe nailed crooked over the lintel. Street vendors called out

wares. Sticky walked beside Escala, arms folded behind his back, scanning

every flowerpot for bugs to snatch with his tongue—he was not

disappointed.

Escala wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many people. Almost

immediately, there were some “don’t touch the faerie” moments that

Roedyn had to defuse.

They followed a cobbled lane to a three-story inn with a crooked sign

swinging out front: The Stag and Hound.

They stepped inside by the very door you all came through tonight. It

looked the same back then, maybe with fewer folks inside—but on stage

was a certain dashing gnome performer, finishing a tale as they walked in.

He struck a pose and recited:

“—and with a roar, she tore the wing from the firedrake’s spine and

fanned herself with it—the way only a queen of the Summer Court might!”

The gnome was me, of course, and I bowed so deeply that I nearly

tumbled off the table.

“Wigfrith?” Harper called out, grinning.

I snapped my head up and took in Harper and her companions.

I lifted my mug as if preparing to deliver the toast of a lifetime. This

was the very first time I laid eyes on Escala. And my, oh my, was she

beautiful.

She wore tan canvas pants tucked into black boots that rose to her

knees. A royal navy-blue tunic, trimmed with silver, hugged her frame. A

black leather belt circled her waist, with a travel pouch on one side and a

short sword on the other. Her pack was slung casually over one shoulder.

I even noticed a small patch near her ribs where the tunic had clearly been

stitched, like it had once been torn in battle.

But what struck me was her presence. She carried herself like someone

who belonged in a court—she was no peasant. Of course, I recognized

Harper and Roedyn immediately. But the frog? I didn’t know him. I had

questions—so many questions.

Harper nudged Escala forward, of course, but I did not know her name

yet.

“She’s looking for you,” Harper said. “We told her you know

everything.”

I looked at the crowd for confirmation that perhaps Harper was not

wrong. It took a moment—longer than I would have liked—but eventually,

applause developed, and when I was satisfied, I gave a courteous nod.

Smiling at Harper, I said, “Well, now, I can see you definitely didn’t

inflate her expectations.”

Turning to Escala, I bowed with an elaborate flourish. “My dearest elf

maiden, it is my honor to meet you. I’m Wigfrith Foreverbloom—Bard

Medic of Misty Springs, spinner of a hundred tales, and survivor of at least

thirty-five. And you—

”And that’s when she said those nine words I would come to hear

hundreds—if not thousands—of times throughout our adventures together:

“I am Escala Winter from the Court of Dreams.”

Now, I’d heard of the Court of Dreams—most bards had. But she was

claiming to be fey, even though she looked like an elf. Interesting.

I stroked my chin theatrically. “Then come—we have much to

discuss.”

We took the corner table by the hearth. Escala sat across from me and

watched me closely, her eyes searching my face. And I—well, I was doing

the same to her, looking for any hint of madness.

I pulled out a leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen, and prepared to

take notes.

“Now,” I said, “we must establish that you are who you say you are.

Let’s begin.”

I squinted suspiciously at her. “First question. Name the three most

dangerous edible mushrooms in the Deep Briar, which, as you know, is a

hollow four valleys southwest of the palace of the Court of Dreams, and

tell me what they whisper when picked under a full moon?”

“What?” Escala said.

Roedyn leaned over to Harper. “Is he serious?”

“Oh yeah,” Harper muttered. “He’s in full Wiggie mode.”

Escala thought carefully. “This is a trick question.”

“How so?” I asked, knowing she was right.

“Well, the mushrooms that are dangerous to some are also a boon to

others. For example, firecaps can burn your blood, and if you eat too many,

you can explode from the inside. But they’re used by healers in small

quantities to treat certain infections. And what they whisper depends on

how fast you pick them. If you pick them fast, they scream. But if you pick

them very slowly, they don’t whisper anything.”

I raised an eyebrow—surprised. She was right.

“And then there are the purple-stemmed heartspore mushrooms,” she

continued. “They’re deadly to mortals and can kill almost instantly if

consumed, but they’re not poisonous to fey. We use them for stomach

aches. So, I’m not certain if that counts as a dangerous mushroom or not.

And they don’t whisper anything—well, I guess they do, but no one knows

what they say because they speak a language no one understands, and

then—”

I cut her off. “Very good!” I quickly scribbled her answers into my

notebook.

“But I didn’t finish the answer,” she said, almost annoyed.

“You did fine, just fine,” I said. “Question two: What is the third law

of moonlight according to sprite tradition?”

Escala didn’t hesitate. “Moonlight reveals only what wishes to be

found.”

I grinned wider. “Excellent. Question three: How many names does the

wind have in the Court of Dreams?”

“Eighteen,” she said. “Nineteen, when a crossing is open.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means she knows what she’s talking about,” I said, my eyes never

leaving Escala’s. Maybe it was because she was so unbearably beautiful,

those striking blue eyes impossible to look away from—or maybe I was

trying to spot a ‘tell,’ some twitching lip or suspiciously sweaty forehead

that would reveal a lie.

All I can report is this: she had none of those things. Just those

impossibly beautiful blue eyes.

I leaned forward across the table. “Last question—the real test.” My

voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “In your truest form—before

the banishment—how tall were you?”

I pause the tale and take a slow sip of ale, rubbing my chin as if

pondering some grand mystery. Then I lean in and say, “Now listen

closely, friends—that last question I asked Escala was a trick question.

The fey don’t measure things the way we do. No pounds, feet, or meters

for them. They measure by nature—petals, raindrops, moonbeams, that

sort of thing.

If she’d said something like ‘one foot’ or ‘sixteen inches,’ I’d know

she was faking it. This is the moment of truth. If her answer sounds like a

lie, the story ends right here, and you can all head over to the Golden

Goose—hells, I’m going with you!

“But,” I tap the table for emphasis, “listen to what she tells me.”

Escala immediately answered, “I was two red apples and a green grape tall.”

I must admit—I howled with laughter and slapped my knee, and the

audience did too.

Harper choked on her drink.

“Two red apples!” I was nearly crying. “And a green grape!” I thumped

the table. “By the gods, she’s genuine!”

I nearly toppled off the stool, catching myself with a wobble and a

curse. Then, recovering with all the grace I could muster, I swept my arm

in a grand arc across the table.

“Escala of the Court of Dreams,” I proclaimed, “welcome to the

material plane, to Dunwell, and to The Stag and Hound!”

I extended my hand with a theatrical flourish. “How may I, Wigfrith

Foreverbloom, be of service?”

She did not shake my hand. To be honest, I thought she was being rude.

However, Roedyn quickly said, “She doesn’t like to be touched; it’s

nothing personal.” I withdrew my hand at once.

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded beneath my chin.

“So,” I said, “what can I help you with?

Escala told me her story, which you have already heard, and I focused

on the boulder part.

“Tell me exactly what the Court of Dreams said—word for word.” I

said, ready to take detailed notes.

Escala nodded slowly. She took a breath, closed her eyes for a moment,

and recited her sentence from the trial I told you about earlier. I stopped

her at the part about the boulders and made her repeat it.

Now, I am a smart gnome, I think you’ll agree, but I did not know what

a boulder was in the context of her punishment.

“Apples and pears,” I said. “They went full poetic punishment.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out what it means ever since,” Escala said. “At first, I thought the court meant real boulders—physical things I had to move or destroy. Then I thought maybe it was about people’s obstacles—dreadful things in their lives they needed help with. I’ve been keeping a logbook—I have people sign it every time I help someone.”

“She’s not kidding,” Harper said. “She even has a signed page from some guy saying she helped him negotiate a peace treaty with a swarm of bees.”

“Do you think what I’m doing is right? Is helping people with their

troubles and obstacles the boulders the Court of Dreams meant?” she

asked.

“No,” I said. “But,” I added, holding up one finger, voice laced with

stubborn brightness, “I have theories.”

I flipped through my notebook and stopped with a flourish on a page—

crinkled, ink-stained, singed at the corner.

I tapped a passage with my knuckle. “This one always stuck with me.

A forest warden I met in the Cindermarshes said it came to him in a fever

dream. He woke screaming and didn’t speak for days. When he finally did,

all he said was, ‘The Cycle’s jammed. Too many boulders—the wheel’s

stuck.’”

That line sent me spiraling. Some scholars—those unhinged enough to

study dream-sentencing—believe the True Cycle governs more than life

and death. They think it governs intention and balance—not just how life

moves… but why.

I traced a small circular sketch beside the passage. “The fey courts,

especially the Dreaming Court—”

“Court of Dreams,” Escala corrected.

“Yes, the Court of Dreams,” I said, “are obsessed with the idea of

balance. Dreams, stories, seasons—they all turn like wheels. But when a

wheel is blocked… everything can get warped.”

“So…” Roedyn frowned. “Boulders could be disruptions?”

“Exactly,” I said, nodding firmly now. “Blockages or interferences.

Some obstacle that prevents the Cycle from moving cleanly. It could be

anything—unresolved pain, misplaced power, unnatural magic, festering

guilt. Something that doesn’t belong but won’t move.”

“If enough of those stack up… the wheel stops.”

“Like corruption?” Harper asked. “Or monsters?”

“Sometimes.” I shrugged. “But the ‘boulder’ could be a lie, a secret, or

even a regret. Something stuck in someone’s heart that refuses to move

forward.”

“That could be anything,” Escala exclaimed.

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the point—it’s not a checklist. It’s a test of

the soul.”

Escala looked down, the reality hitting her for the first time.

“They gave you an open-ended sentence. That means the court doesn’t

want you to solve a riddle. They want you to change. To see the world. To

touch it—and let it touch you.”

“But I don’t understand. I was sent here for interfering. It doesn’t make

sense—why would they want me to interfere with the True Cycle now?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“So, the logbook… won’t help?” she asked quietly.

I knew I had to be careful—not to crush her spirit. I smiled gently. “It

might. I think it says more about you than you realize.”

Escala looked down again.

“That’s the worst part of fey justice,” I added, settling back on my

stool. “They don’t hand you chains—they hand you a mirror.”

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