“Killian will arrive any day now,” the king said.
The general’s head snapped up. Killian Erwyn Sylvana, the boy who’d been raised a rebel warrior in this very house. The boy who was now a man, honed by the loss of everyone he loved. Killian was the general of the southern branch of the king’s army: the Fire-drakes. The king himself had specially selected this fate for Killian; he’d denied him an easy death, instead forcing him to serve in his Dark Army—the greatest punishment for a boy housed by rebels.
When the Dark Army had invaded this land ten years ago, the man now known asthe Dragonhad proved himself ruthless in defending it. So mere days after he’d been sent to Hilsian in a prison wagon, his magic leashed by iron shackles, the king had uttered an incantation that wiped his memory clean. From that day forth, Killian was the king’s personal puppet, serving as general of the very army he’d once fought against in an icy, blood-soaked field. Since then, the Firedrakes had breached the walls of cities that had known decades of peace, and scorched villages to ash.
The king was studying the general’s reaction. Kit speared a potato and popped it into his mouth. “And what does the Dragon wish to speak of this time?” he asked.
The king resumed eating but kept his shrewd gaze on the general. “He’s coming to observe the Wolf Pack. I’d like you to discuss battle tactics; you both could learn a thing or two from one another.” He cleared his throat and poured himself another glass of cranberry juice. “He’s also coming to have a word with those of your newest pack. Specifically, that dark-haired vixen. Your men tell me she’s been a handful. What’s her name again?”
Kit nearly choked on his food. He reached for his glass, stalling as he took a sip. “Nocturne Wycherley,” he replied.
The king’s inky hair shone in the sunlight streaming in through the wall of ice as he gave a sharp nod. “Yes, that’s the one. That girl needs to learn how to follow orders. If she continues to be a problem, I’ll have her disposed of immediately.”
Kit set his glass back onto the table a little too hard. “Follow orders, My King? Despite what you may have heard, I’ve had few problems with Nocturne.”
“That’s not what Zenaide tells me. Are you calling one of your best men a liar?”
Kit’s voice dropped in volume, taking on a lethal note. “She has fight in her—I’m not denying that. But her attitude could prove useful in battle.”
The king’s next words came out sharp. “I will not have you softened by some whore with an attitude. Girls like her must be controlled. You are to fix that attitude of hers, or I’ll have Zenaide do it. I’m sure he would enjoy it very much, General. Do you understand me?”
Kit’s surroundings bled into a deep crimson, but he took pleasure in knowing the king had no idea when his moods changed. Unlike the skin-changers of the Wolf Pack, Kit’s eyes never visibly changed color; it was a quirk he was eternally thankful to have.
Kit had no intention of acknowledging the king’s threats. As the seconds ticked by, he held the king’s stare, and the room seemed to dip several degrees cooler.
He wasn’t sure what would’ve happened next if a young page hadn’t walked in, his boots tapping out a clumsy rhythm on the gleaming floors. He came to a stop near the king, who reluctantly tore his gaze from Kit’s but didn’t deign to look the boy in the eye.
“What?” the king snapped, his teeth glinting in the sunlight.
The page sketched an awkward bow. “Forgive the interruption, Majesty. But the mask—we can’t find it anywhere. Your men searched the catacombs all night. It’s as if it…”
“Vanished?” the king snarled.
The page nodded again. “But your daughter…,” he stammered. “One of your men reported having seen a mask in her bag before she left. A silver one, shaped like—like a woman’s face.”
The king huffed a laugh, though it wasn’t one of amusement. The sound sent a chill up Kit’s spine. “My daughter,” he muttered. “My daughter…” His fingers tightened around the knife again, and he squeezed so hard the metal bent instantly. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, but his words had Kit’s pulse quickening.
“Bring me the Wraith,” he drawled.
When he set the knife back onto the table, the metal was molded to perfectly fit the shapes of his fingers.
7
Dusk was settling over the landscape. They’d been on the road for two days, and with each mile that passed, Avalon’s heart grew heavier.
Along with the freezing winds that set her teeth chattering loud enough to elicit complaints from her father’s men, the fear of dreaming prevented her from falling asleep at night. The visions only succeeded in making her feel powerless, and she often awoke from them with a nosebleed and a headache that wouldn’t go away until after noon. The visions had sparked a thousand questions, though no matter how hard she looked for answers, she couldn’t find them—and she wasn’t certain finding them was the best idea.
The snow was beginning to melt when they made camp at a bend in the Blue River—evidence that they were making steady progress on their trek to the Realm of Wind. Although Avalon would’ve liked to stay longer at the House of Ice, she had to admit she missed the sun. The fire they’d built and the many layers she was bundled up in provided little protection against the bitter wind howling through the forest.
Sometimes being human was a pain in her mortal ass, for being human meant she suffered the elements worse than the Folk. Rumor said her father had been human once, the same as her—but Avalon had no memory of him without his deep-set eyes, pointed ears, and angular features. She wasn’t exactly sure how he’d managed to become one of the Folk, but she didn’t dare ask questions. And even if she were to try, the chance that she would receive answers was slim to none.
From where she sat by the fire, she studied Hadrian as he sharpened his knives. Evenhewas Fey. Growing up, Avalon had hardly known the difference between humans, the Fairfolk, and Elves; to her, they were all justpeople. She missed the days of her childhood, when she hadn’t understood why having rounded ears would mark her as prey, or why pointed ones were the sign of a predator.
Hadrian glanced up from his blades, his eyes meeting Avalon’s—catching her staring at the features that marked him as different. The features that should leave her cowering, yet she’d never been afraid. Not of Hadrian, the boy who’d dried her tears when they were children, and who’d saved her life so many times she had lost count.
But the angular facial features, the cheekbones that were sharp enough to cut, the ears that sometimes poked through his tousled bronze hair, and the skin that was far too perfect for a human… Perhaps she had been wrong to think they could be friends forever.
She wasn’t sure what emotions her face betrayed, but Hadrian’s expression grew somber. He raised an arched eyebrow inquisitively, and she looked away, into the shadowed forest.
