Fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist, Avalon prayed for strength. The engraved band was the only piece of jewelry she’d never removed—not even once. Every night, she slept with it on, wishing upon the stars outside her window. Every wish went unanswered, though they were all the same: she wished to remember justonething about her mother.
Avalon didn’t even know her name. Every time she tried to ask her father about her, he would ignore her as if she hadn’t spoken. Even Hadrian claimed to not remember anything about Avalon’s mother, but sometimes she wondered…
An icy rain began to fall. Aside from their cloaks and blankets, and the skeletal canopy of the trees hanging above them, they had no means to keep themselves dry.
Avalon tucked her knees against her chest and pulled up her hood. So much for catching some shuteye! There was no way she would be able to sleep now.
Hadrian sheathed his knives and strode across the glade, his boots squelching in mud. Avalon watched as he approached her, though she spared a few glances at the men seated around the fire. They, too, watched Hadrian, but with condescending sneers and snide comments whispered under breath. To them, it didn’t matter if Avalon was a princess; she washuman, and any relationship between one of the Folk and a mortal—even platonic friendship—was frowned upon and mocked.
Avalon tried not to think about what they were whispering or the trouble it might cost Hadrian later as he shed his cloak, plopped down on the bedroll beside her, and draped the cloak around her shoulders.
“Won’t you be cold?” she asked.
“A little cold never hurt anybody,” he mumbled, his sharp eyes taking in the men seated around the fire and the shadows behind them, in the ageless woods and across the half-frozen river. “A mortal illness, on the other hand…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence. The Fairfolk couldn’t catch human illnesses, like the common cold, the flu, or even frostbite. There were certain illnesses that were exclusive to the Folk, and were deadly enough to kill them, but these were rare. The only person in danger tonight was Avalon.
Without another word, she pulled his cloak tight around her shoulders and watched the shadows in the woods deepen. The rain died down as quickly as it had come, and soon her eyelids were growing heavy.
As she fell asleep, she began tipping forward. But a pair of strong yet gentle hands caught her, and she didn’t stir for a long time after.
~
The sun would be setting soon.
She was supposed to meet Hannelore at the outskirts of the Haunted Woods, the dark tangle of trees that separated the Lands of the Fairfolk from those of the mortals, but she was far away now. Hours, perhaps. She had ventured farther than she intended, deep into the ancient Wistwood that separated the Realm of Ice from the Outlands farther north. Here, the trees and the earth and the mountains belonged to no one. Even the king’s men refused to set foot on this land, for fear it was haunted.
“You may play around the castle and in the woods, but don’t go near the Outlands,” Aunt Rhea had told her. “No one goes there—not unless they have a death wish.”
The Outlands: a place of fury and sin and bloodstained history. A place where even the birds don’t sing, and rivers run quieter than tears down cheeks. At the fearless age of nine, this warning wasn’t enough to keep her away, to make her turn around and head back home—to the House of Ice. She could handle herself, for there was a stick in her hand, the end sharpened to a wicked point. If anyone dared come too close, they’d lose an eye.
Even the sun’s rays barely reached through the thick canopy of the trees, but something about this place kept her from turning around, from growing afraid the farther she crept into the woods. The metallic, sugary tang that settled on her tongue—as well as the shrill ringing that began deep in her ears, threatening a nosebleed—would’ve been indication enough that this place thrived in magic. Despite that it was farther north than the House of Ice, the air was warm, the plants thick and green. Even the air smelled green, like moss and tilled soil.
A few steps later, she came across a clearing stuffed with wildflowers. The sun stretched down far enough to stroke the petals, lighting them up like a glowing rainbow—a smear of color on an artist’s paintbrush. Fluffs of cotton floated through the air and sparkled in the hazy sunlight.
The sight of it stole her breath. The stick in her hand slipped through her fingers and fell soundlessly to the plush grass at her feet.
Aunt Rhea had told her many things about the Outlands, but what she stressed most was that the land could play tricks on the eyes of a wanderer. The woods had a mind of its own and a power so great it could change its own appearance. A murky swamp would transform into a lake as clear as glass; a blood-hungry water nymph would shift into a beautiful human girl; a witch’s hut would instead appear as a quaint cottage warmed with a fire, and the smells of home would replace the stink of flesh and rot.
“They’re tricks, my star.” Aunt Rhea’s voice echoed inside her head. “Everything in the Outlands is a nasty trick.”
But at nine years old, she didn’t care. Didn’t heed the warning.
She stumbled forward, as if in a trance, and smiled in delight as the sunrays warmed her head. Only the lack of chirping birds indicated that something was amiss, though she couldn’t help but notice that even the air was still. None of this mattered though; not when there were so many flowers to pick. Aunt Rhea would be thrilled when her niece returned with a bouquet so colorful it was nearly blinding! Without another thought, she started picking.
She didn’t know there was someone else in the clearing with her until she was tackled.
“Agh!” she yelled as she tumbled through the grass, the taste of dirt on her tongue. The world passed by in alternating flashes as she rolled. The sky, then the flowers, the sky, then the flowers.
When she stilled, someone was perched atop her, his sun-browned hand holding a curved blade against her throat. Squinting in the bright sunlight, she saw eyes—cold and hard as ice—set in a tan face. Dark hair stuck up in an unruly mess around his head.
“Who are you?” he growled. He was about eleven. Twelve, at most. “Why have you come here?”
Gritting her teeth, she drove her knees up and tossed him aside. He went sprawling in the grass. Before he could reach for the blade that had slipped from his hand, she grabbed it and pressed the cold metal against his throat.
My turn,she thought with a wicked smile.
Gulping down breaths of flower-scented air, she growled, “Not so tough now, are you?”
Without the sun to blind her, she was able to see his ears—as pointed as her own—and the slant to his eyes and arched brows. The combination of light eyes and dark hair suggested he was one of the Shadowfolk. He had yet to gain his wings—bat or vulture—though two horns that curved inward were visible through his hair. A dull, eerie light shone from behind his eyes, like two pieces of ice struck by the sun, and a wicked scar cut through his left eyebrow.
