As she studied the fang in her palm, her mouth twisted into a grimace.Yes, certainly too big for a wolf or a bear.
A violent gust of icy wind sent her hair fluttering about her face, and a chill skittered up her spine. She pocketed the fang and hurried away from the animal, into endless swirling snow.
She threw one last glance over her shoulder, but the stag had already been swallowed by the storm.
~
When Kit Wilding made it to the front doors of the House of Ice, he stopped to shake the snow off his boots. Zenaide did the same, along with the other members of the Wolf Pack that had been out for the exercise, but Killian and the Firedrakes showed no such courtesy. They marched past the general and shoved the doors open, their boots pounding as they strode through the entrance hall, leaving trails of snow and winter grass behind them.
No manners. None.
The general tried not to scowl at Killian’s back as he watched him drift through the corridor, his rose-gold hair reflecting a different color with each crystal he passed. The last Kit saw of the Dragon was the tail end of his burgundy cloak disappearing around a corner, and soon the rest of his men were following swiftly behind him.
Zenaide stepped up to Kit’s side and smirked at his expression of disgust. “Spoiled brats,” he offered.
“Mind your tongue,” Kit retorted. “Someone like Killian wouldn’t hesitate to cut it out.”
It was with respect that the members of the Wolf Pack waited to enter the House until Kit was well inside, though there was a tangible change in the atmosphere as soon as the soldiers stepped over the threshold. No matter how much time they spent in the body of a wolf, there was a part of them that would always take comfort in the warmth of a house.
Kit’s mind began to wander as he made his way through the corridors of glass and ice. Mostly, his thoughts went to Nocturne. No matter how hard he tried, these days they always went to Nocturne.
He was nearing his chambers when footsteps sounded behind him. He turned, the red velvet of his cloak glittering with hoarfrost as it swished around his ankles.
Twyla Forst stood before him, her long and slender hands folded in front of her, her shaved blonde hair glistening with melting snow. Kit’s eyes automatically scanned the area behind her. This girl was Nocturne Wycherley’s only friend, but today she was alone.
“Twyla.” He nodded in greeting. “Shouldn’t you be with the others in the Great Hall?”
“I would, milord. Though I can’t help but worry for my friend’s safety.” Her eyes shone, and she dipped her head slightly. “Nocturne, she…she didn’t return with the rest of the group.”
The general sighed through his nose. “I’m sure she’s here somewhere—”
“She’s not, milord. She was right behind me when we were heading back. I didn’t notice she was gone until we were nearing the gate.” Twyla took a tentative step toward him. “Please, General. It’s not like her to disappear like this. I fear she got lost.”
Kit feared something worse than getting lost had happened to Nocturne.Despite the threats the king had made the other day, Killian hadn’t yet bothered to say a single word to her. Though thanks to Killian putting Zenaide in charge of what the groups were required to practice this afternoon, Nocturne had thoroughly embarrassed herself. By the fifth time she’d landed face-down in the snow, Kit had stopped watching. If he’d witnessed another fist strike Nocturne’s stunning face, he would’ve gladly taken it upon himself to settle the score.
And no one—especially the Dark Lord—would’ve liked that.
Twyla waited for the general’s answer, her shoulders rising and falling with rapid breaths. Clearly, she feared for her friend.
Well, that made two of them.
“If she’s not back within the hour, I’ll go looking for her,” Kit said. “Now mind your own and get to the Great Hall.” He turned his back on her and strode toward his rooms. To Twyla, he likely seemed insensitive. Perhaps even cruel.
Little did she know Nocturne was the first person the general had dared to care about in a very, very long time.
12
Avalon and Hadrian made it through the forest surrounding the Bluehorn Mountains and into the Realm of Wind before sunset. The Bluehorn Mountains formed a massive, jagged border that extended for miles between the Realm of Ice and the Realm of Wind. It had taken them from before first light until now to make it through the forest, into a landscape far greener than the one from which they came.
The Realm of Wind was exactly as its name suggested: Windy. Avalon and Hadrian kept their arms linked as they staggered through the evergreens in search of shelter, the wind tearing at their hair and cloaks. At least it was warmer here—Avalon thanked the gods for that. She’d had quite enough of the cold. The tree branches shivered with each gust, the leaves flashing vibrant greens and oranges and reds in the light of the setting sun, the shadows of the trees long and slanted on the mossy earth.
Their horses were displaying signs of discomfort after the long trek here. Both Avalon and Hadrian had dismounted over an hour ago to give them a break, and although Avalon had suggested they stop in a cave they’d stumbled upon miles ago, Hadrian had insisted they keep going. Avalon knew why: He wanted to get her back to Hilsian as soon as possible, fearing she might argue with him about Sable again. She already had—several times. They’d argued until they were both red in the face, and now all she wanted was to sleep. She hated fighting with Hadrian, but sometimes she simply didn’t understand him.
As the shadows deepened, Avalon grew anxious. It was beginning to look like they would be sleeping on the forest floor tonight. But after another few minutes, she spotted a crumbling structure through the trees. Made of pale gray stone, it towered so high the peaked roof nearly touched the swaying treetops, and the last of the sun’s rays as it faded behind the trees cut between the stone columns like fingers of light.
“The Temple of Wind,” Hadrian said. A gust of air tore off his hood and ruffled his hair.
“If we don’t stop here,” Avalon said, panting, “you’ll be carrying me the rest of the way.” As if seconding her statement, her dappled mare—Butterscotch, Avalon had named her, despite that her coat was varying shades of gray—stamped her hooves and stopped walking. The reins in Avalon’s hand grew taught, and her arm nearly came out of socket as Hadrian, unaware that Avalon and was now standing still, continued forward, pulling her along.
