Falling asleep was the worst thing she could’ve done.
When Avalon jerked awake, trembling as the dream shook free of her mind, it was still dark out. The fire had died down to a dull glow, each soft flicker of light playing tricks on her eyes. The shadows between the bone-white trees writhed like living nightmares in the firelight.
That name—Sable—echoed inside her head, like a heartbeat.Sable. Sable. Sable.
TheSable? The warrior-girl who’d gone missing years ago, after the king’s men had marched into the House of Ice and butchered everyone who dwelled there? The girl whose brother—Killian—now served the king in the South, as general of the southern branch of his army?The Dragon,they called him.
For years, Avalon had dreamed of a girl with strawberry-blonde hair and eyes like molten gold. And throughout those years she’d wished she could somehow learn the girl’s name, because to her, they weren’t just dreams—they werememories. And that voice she’d heard inside her head…when she’d found the mask in the catacombs… It belonged to the girl that haunted her dreams.
And if her dream tonight hadn’t lied to her, that girl was Sable Erwyn Sylvana.
It took a moment for Avalon’s eyes to adjust enough to see that she was alone, the campsite deserted. Hadrian—everybody—was gone. But the campsite looked the same as before she had fallen asleep. The bedrolls—now empty—were scattered around the fire, and the horses were tied to the trees nearby.
What had caused everyone to leave? And more importantly, why hadn’t they taken her with them? Her heartbeat thudding in her ears, she scrambled to her feet…and listened.
It took her a moment to hear it over the sound of the rushing river, but then her ears—heruselessmortal ears—picked up on the sloshing of icy water, the thud of fists connecting with flesh, and a strange gurgling that sounded like—
Like someone was drowning.
“Hadrian?” she called, her voice hardly more than a croak.
She stumbled forward, her hands held out in front of her, but she barely made it three steps before something slammed into her back. With a cry of surprise, she pitched forward, tripping over her saddlebags; the contents went flying. Her hairbrush, spare sets of clothes, an apple, and the mask—the silver gleaming red in the firelight—toppled out.
She landed hard enough to rattle her jaw; the apple split right in half beneath her, and the mask bruised her elbow. Her attacker landed on top of her, squeezing the air out of her lungs in awhoosh. One of his hands was instantly in her hair, pulling and shoving as he struggled to keep her in place, while his other ruthlessly tore at her clothes.
Avalon fought beneath him, screaming until her throat was hoarse. He cursed, slamming her face into the dirt.
“I’ve never tasted a mortal woman,” he hissed in her ear, pulling her hair so hard that stars flashed across her vision. He slammed her head back down, but this time something hard and cold met her face, bruising the bridge of her nose. The mask had slipped through the mud, as if drawn to her, and when her features fit into the mold, a current of power shivered through her.
The mask melded seamlessly with her face, and a voice—the same voice she’d heard in the catacombs when she found the mask—filled her head.
Wh—what?The voice was confused, but soft as wind chimes. Groggy. The voice of a girl who’d been asleep for a long, long time.
The voice of the infamous Fey warrior: Sable.
Avalon blinked. This time, when her eyes opened, it was someone else behind them. Sharing her head—her mind, her body, her senses—with her. Avalon had tucked herself far back into a corner, and somehow, someone else—a stranger—had taken full control. The limbs were no longer hers to command; it was as if her spirit had shrunk several sizes, and something bigger and far more powerful had taken the reins.
The groggy, panicked voice inside her head quickly turned into a calm and solid presence as the girl inside the mask took in their surroundings, noting their position and what had to be done to save them both.
Avalon surrendered her body, like a marionette to her puppeteer. And she moved.
Moved like she’d never moved before.
Reaching up through mud and winter grass, her fingers wound around the ice-cold hilt of a dagger that had slid from her bag. With expert precision, she drove it back over her shoulder in one grand, sweeping gesture. There was the sickening sound of metal connecting with bone, and the strangled cry of a predator caught unawares.
He was dead in two seconds flat.
She pushed him off her with ease and leapt to her feet with the litheness of a cat.
Avalon felt like she was dreaming. Like she was watching a performance as her hand expertly flipped the bloodied blade in her grip, like an artist wielding a paintbrush. Her legs moved without her command as she strode through the camp.
Corpses passed under her boots, nothing more than rocks or fallen logs. From the back of her mind, Avalon sighed in relief that none of these men were Hadrian.
Who is Hadrian?The silvery voice filled Avalon’s head, startling her.
My friend,she answered with a hushed thought.Please—
Avalon cut her thought short, as she saw him—straight ahead. Battling two men—the only two from their company left standing. Hadrian’s blades were dripping with blood, but his face was red with exertion, his wet hair sticking to his forehead. From where she was crouched in a corner of her mind, Avalon realized with sickening clarity that Hadrian had nearly drowned. And those gurgling sounds she’d heard… Oh heavens, that had beenhim.
