If Forged by Malice was the moment The Beasts of the Briar transformed from a fairytale retelling into a full-fledged romantasy legend, then Broken by Daylight, the fourth book in Elizabeth Helen’s sweeping series, is the moment it stretches its wings and discovers just how vast the sky really is.
Helen’s universe has always been emotionally rich—lush with magic, intimacy, and that deliciously complicated love that grows between Rosalina and her cursed princes. But Broken by Daylight marks a shift. Not a departure, exactly—more like a deepening. A widening. Stepping into the sun and finding that, yes, it burns a little.
This is the book where everyone is scattered, separated, and forced to stand alone. And somehow, it’s the book where we understand them more clearly than ever.
One of the most striking choices in Broken by Daylight is its distance—literal and emotional. Unlike the first three books, which unfold back-to-back like one long breath, this installment begins after time has passed. Enough time for resentment to harden, for wounds to deepen, and for the characters to fracture in ways that feel painfully human.
For the first time since book two’s brief separation, Rosalina and her princes are apart—and this time, the distance matters. It shifts the tone of the narrative, loosening the tight ensemble dynamic and allowing fresh air, tension, and loneliness to seep into the story.
But here’s where Helen’s craft shines: she uses that separation not as a plot delay, but as a catalyst.
When characters aren’t defined by the group, they reveal themselves. When they can’t fall back on banter or shared purpose, they’re forced to confront the things they’ve been avoiding—about themselves, about each other, and about the world that’s unraveling beneath their feet.
Distance becomes the crucible, and what emerges is richer, sharper, and more honest than anything the series has shown before.
From the beginning, readers have fallen in love with these princes—Keldarion’s storm-swept intensity, Farron’s soft-spoken ache, Ezryn’s devastating restraint, Caspian’s bristling thorns, and Dayton’s golden-boy glow.
But in earlier books, their arcs were often interwoven with Rosalina or filtered through the ensemble lens. In Broken by Daylight, that lens shifts. The princes are no longer a single emotional unit—they are individuals with their own burdens, flaws, loyalties, and fractures.
And it’s delightful.
Ezryn’s path forward continues the emotional line drawn in Forged by Malice—a quiet, tender exploration of repentance and rebuilding. Farron’s arc edges toward darkness in a way that feels both surprising and inevitable. Caspian’s thorns sharpen as long-buried pieces of his past rise to the surface. Keldarion (ever the walking thundercloud) somehow manages to get broodier, which feels like a violation of the laws of physics, and yet… here we are.
And then there’s Dayton.
Dayton’s book is different by necessity—and by brilliance.
Where Farron’s and Ezryn’s installments drilled inward, excavating interior wounds and soft-spoken vulnerabilities, Dayton’s story radiates outward. It’s bigger, brighter, and more kinetic—just like the High Prince of Summer himself.
Instead of reshaping Dayton to match the emotional architecture of the earlier prince-centered books, Helen lets him reshape the book. His open warmth becomes momentum. His charisma becomes plot. His wounds—less hidden than his brothers’, but no less real—become fault lines running through the Summer realm.
The result is a novel more expansive and political than the earlier entries, without losing the emotional intimacy that defines this series. Dayton’s backstory finally unfurls here, revealing why he struggles to step fully into his power—and how his inner brightness has always been tempered by a shadow he refuses to name.
And yet, the narrative never becomes solely his. Instead, his arc is woven seamlessly into a widening tapestry: summer politics, fractured alliances, rising threats, and revelations that reshape everything we thought we understood about the realms.
It’s Dayton’s book, yes.
But it’s also the book where the world itself demands equal attention.
One of Broken by Daylight’s great joys—truly—is how fresh and unexpected the character dynamics become once everyone is separated.
Put two characters in a room who’ve barely spoken before? Magic.
Force a prince into a responsibility he is wildly unequipped for? Comedy.
Give Farron a thorn-adjacent companion? Ship launched. No regrets.
Helen uses these unexpected pairings to reveal aspects of the princes we’ve never fully seen. Their flaws sharpen. Their soft spots show. Their coping mechanisms either crumble or evolve depending on who they’re paired with.
This is character development at its most intentional—placing emotional pressure on the cast in ways that feel organic, funny, and sometimes uncomfortably honest.
And it makes the story feel alive.
By book four, a series often risks either overwhelming the reader with subplots or flattening its characters to make room for the plot. Helen does neither. Instead, Broken by Daylight balances a remarkable number of narrative threads—Summer realm politics, personal reckonings, long-awaited revelations, magical fractures, and the slow, painful consequences of the group’s separation—without ever losing emotional clarity.
The pacing remains sharp.
The stakes escalate cleanly.
The converging threads feel earned rather than chaotic.
This is the point where the series becomes not just romantasy, but epic romantasy—without sacrificing the intimacy that originally drew readers in.
It’s an impressive line to walk, and Helen walks it confidently.
This book contains some of the most gut-wrenching reveals of the series. Not just one twist. Many.
Some reframe earlier events. Others deepen ongoing mysteries. Others hit the heart so suddenly that you need to put the book down and pace the room.
But the beauty of Broken by Daylight is that it never relies on shock for shock’s sake. Every revelation feels anchored to character, history, and the world’s political machinery. Nothing feels arbitrary. Everything feels like it has been building.
This is the hallmark of a series stepping into its full strength.
If Forged by Malice was intimate, aching, and patient, then Broken by Daylight represents a tonal shift:
This tonal evolution feels not only intentional, but necessary.
These characters are no longer huddled together under one roof. Their world is cracking open. The threats are larger. Their loyalties are tested. Their hearts are stretched across realms. The narrative reflects that expansion.
This is a book that understands its place in the series arc—and embraces it.
Broken by Daylight is the longest and most complex book in The Beasts of the Briar, and it uses every page wisely. It’s the funniest the series has ever been, the most plot-driven, the most expansive, and somehow also one of the most emotionally resonant.
If you love:
…this will be your favorite installment yet.
By the final pages, one thing becomes clear: the series has outgrown its fairytale beginnings. It has become something vast, rhythmic, and alive—shaped by characters who refuse to be simple archetypes and by a world that continues to surprise us.
And now?
We wait for April 2026, hearts in hand.