Anxiety swept through Avalon’s veins at the realization that her father—for the first time since leaving Hilsian—planned to dine with her, and she was nowhere near ready. The last thing she had expected was to be invited for supper, especially at this hour. But her father’s appetite was a peculiar thing these days; he was always hungry, and at the most ungodly hours of the night. No one knew what to make of this, but not one person was stupid enough to ask questions—Avalon included.
She hurried to keep up with Hadrian, though every step that took her farther from the catacombs had the voices growing louder. Fiercer. They were telling her to turn back, to keep looking. A part of her was hoping Hadrian would tell her that he heard the voices, too. But the captain didn’t say anything, so Avalon buried her hands in her cloak pockets and decided she would do what princesses did best: pretend there was nothing wrong.
2
Nocturne Wycherley stood in line with the members of the Wolf Pack, facing the Bluehorn Mountains as the general’s second-in-command drilled into them the importance of working as a team. The dry wind burned her eyes as she stared at the snow-crusted mountain range that cut a jagged line between the Realm of Ice and the Realm of Wind. The frozen waterfalls and skeletal trees dotting the cliffs were barely visible in the amber glow of twilight.
It was hard for Nocturne to resist the urge to roll her eyes as the second-in-command—the beta—droned on. Asking the stubborn, self-righteous members of the Wolf Pack—a unit of canine skin-changers in the king’s Dark Army—to settle their disputes and behave was laughable. It was true that canine skin-changers naturally behaved much like their four-legged kin, but unlike their kin, teamwork was their greatest challenge. And, unless the alpha was delivering the order, there was a slim chance they would obey.
At Nocturne’s left stood Twyla Forst, her only friend in the whole pack. Copper-haired Ailish stood at her right, close enough for Nocturne to smell the enthusiasm and bloodlust coursing through her. It made Nocturne’s own blood boil. Made her palms itch with the need to spill Ailish’s foul guts all over the white field.
To passersby, the lines of hundreds of soldiers would be utterly invisible in the snow that was blowing in from the mountains. Fog curled around their ankles, blending seamlessly with the identical white cloaks the pack members wore. With the cloaks fastened tightly over their shoulders, and the heavy hoods shadowing their features, they were hardly more than spirits. Spirits haunting the wasteland the Realm of Ice had become. The wasteland that would soon become their home—or prison, depending on how a person looked at it. But there was a price for thishome—this land. And that price was blood.
After the king’s army had sacked their villages and sold their family members into slavery, the skin-changers were brought here to eat, sleep, and kill. If they refused to follow orders, they would either be hanged, burned, or stripped of their magic. Most considered the latter to be the worst of the three fates.
Bands of Cold Iron would be fastened above their elbows, and within days, their ability to shift into wolves would vanish without a trace. The iron would then begin to slowly kill them, making them sick and weak. No amount of food would make them gain weight, and a week straight of rest wouldn’t ebb the exhaustion. The bands were sealed with magic, and they could only be removed by the person who put them there.
Yes, a quick death was certainly the better fate.
Snowflakes swirled through the air and clung to Nocturne’s eyelashes in glistening clumps. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from nodding off. She was tired. So,sotired.
Nearly six weeks had passed since she was forced into this wretched army—and during that time, she hadn’t had a single decent night’s rest. The king expected her magic would stir awake under intensive training, and when that time arrived, she would be required to prove herself useful. No longer as an unwilling runt but as a ruthless, bloodthirsty skin-changer.
Nocturne hoped, for her benefit, that her magic would remain dormant. If it did, there was a solid chance they would simply slit her throat to be rid of her. But if it awoke… She didn’t want to even consider how long they might keep her here against her will.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nocturne saw the General of the North approaching, his footsteps near-silent in the ice-crusted field. His red cloak billowed behind him like a trail of blood, and his snow-white hair swished across the intricate scales of his armor.
Nocturne was careful to keep her eyes on the mountain range, but she couldn’t stop her jaw from flexing. If given the choice, she would spill the general’s blood over Ailish’s any day. Ailish could wait—but the man responsible for countless imprisonments and deaths… Simply put, the general—also known as the Wolf of Winter—was a priority.
Balling her fingers into fists, she waited as the Wolf—Kit,his mother had named him, if he’d indeed ever had a mother—drew closer with every step. He was near enough now that she could see his eyes—one as blue as ice, the other as brown as the earth—studying his collection of killers.
The general slowed as he passed in front of her, the soft light of dusk casting his shadow across the snow. Nocturne could feel his gaze on her, searching for a glimpse of her features in the shadows beneath her hood, but she refused to look at him. She carefully kept her expression impassive, though her heartrate quickened enough that she wondered if he could hear it.
After what seemed like a very long time, the general carried on. He strode across the field until he stood next to his beta—Zenaide, whose shaved head was covered in tattoos, and whose scarred hands had beaten Nocturne to a bloody pulp on more than one miserable occasion. After she was finished ripping out the general’s throat, she would go for Zenaide’s, and she would take her sweet time killing them. There would be no swift and painless death for either of them.
When the beta concluded his speech, he folded his hands in front of him and gave his attention to the general. For the next few minutes, Kit said many words, but Nocturne wasn’t listening. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the wind, the sound of it bringing back memories of the night her family was killed.
Six weeks and their screams hadn’t faded from her mind. But regardless of how much pain it caused her to remember them, Nocturne savored the cold bite of the memory. They deserved to be remembered, no matter how painful. If it weren’t for her, they would still be here.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she sensed someone watching her. Even without looking, she knew it was Zenaide. Regardless, she opened her eyes and swung her head around to glare at him—a move she knew he would consider a challenge, and a welcome one at that.
Zenaide grinned at her, his teeth a vicious slash of white against his tanned skin. His scarred hands drifted toward the daggers in his weapons belt—curved blades he obsessively sharpened night and day. The smile on his face said enough about his intentions: he was challenging her. If she were to step out of the line of soldiers, hurling a blade at her head would be an acceptable reaction, and likely one that would go unpunished.
A gust of wind stirred her hair, the cold stinging her eyes. Her heart throbbed with such bone-deep hatred for these people that for a moment she forgot her own name.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nocturne swore she saw a cruel smile of anticipation curve Ailish’s mouth. But she didn’t hesitate as she stepped out of the line, balling her fingers into fists.
She would rip out Zenaide’s wretched throat, laughing as she did it.
But before she could take another step, Twyla’s slender arm shot out in front of her, bringing her to a sudden stop. Several soldiers dared a glance over, but once they realized their mistake, they quickly turned to face ahead again.
It took longer than it should have for Nocturne to realize the general had stopped talking. And despite that everyone else had looked away out of fear a moment ago, she now found that every soldier was staring at her again, judging the girl who’d been called many names since she’d arrived here, the worst of which wereoutsiderandrunt.
Outsider—because she hadn’t yet claimed the Skin that would allow her to shift into a wolf.Runt—because she was the weakest link. Useless and pathetic, as she was often told. She wasn’t inclined to disagree.
Just like that, her blinding rage instantly vanished as Kit prowled toward her. His right hand hovered at a casual distance from the wolf-head pommel of his sword—Wolfsbane, he’d named it—while his left casually swung at his side.
He came to a stop directly in front of Nocturne, his body barely a hair’s breadth from hers. He towered over her, his strong shoulders broad, the wind blowing strands of hair across his stern face. But she refused to back down. Alpha or no, cowering was the last thing she would do in front of this monster.
