After fighting to fall asleep for several hours, he’d finally drifted off in the armchair beside the hearth, into a collection of peaceful memories of when he was a child. He and Sable kneading dough to make loaves of fresh bread; he and Sable having snowball fights near the House of Ice; he and Sable howling at a full moon like a couple of wolf pups. The last thing he wanted was to be woken up from such a soothing sleep, but it seemed catching some shuteye was too much to ask for around here.
After shoving his feet into his boots and donning his cloak, he made his way to the foyer, where the Dark Lord was waiting for him. The king led the way through the front gates, where a group of his men waited on horseback. There was Geb, Zenaide, Hawthorne, Cassius, and the Leviathan. Killian wasted no time and asked no questions as he approached his dusky stallion and pulled himself up into the saddle.
The general was the last to arrive, looking for all the world like he wanted to kill them all. On most days Killian could relate, but today he simply wanted to sleep. He tried not to think about why the general winced not once, but twice as he swung himself up onto his white stallion. Killian would be willing to bet the pain the Wolf of Winter was showing had less to do with his own wounds and everything to do with those Nocturne Wycherley had sustained.
Nocturne Wycherley, the dark-haired outsider, and the first person to find he and Sable after they were thrown into the Tyrrhenia River when they were children. Even back then, Killian had been able to smell it on her—the skin-changing magic coursing through her blood. The girl had the potential to become quite powerful, if only she would accept her gift and learn how to wield it. Killian had never repaid her for what she did—for letting he and Sable go that day instead of turning them in for a hefty reward.
A farmer had caught sight of he and Sable some weeks later, and the man had done exactly what Nocturne had refused to do: he’d told the king where he had spotted them. But after the king’s men had searched through a storm that lasted days and had come up empty, he’d had that farmer beheaded—in the very same fashion he had the guard who’d spared them a quick death before condemning them to the river.
Killian had always sworn he would find a way to return the favor to Nocturne, but over the years, miles had separated them, and he hadn’t seen her again until the day he’d given the order for the Wolf Pack to ransack her village. Nocturne had recognized him when Zenaide and several other men had pulled her—thrashing and screaming and covered in blood—from her family’s house. And she’d glared at him with pure hatred—with a look of betrayal that shook him to his very core.
This was how he’d repaid her. Regardless that he hadn’t recognized her village until it was too late, he’d destroyed her home. He was no better than the monsters who’d raped her sister to death and murdered her parents.
Sometimes he felt like putting himself out of his misery, if only to spare anyone else from falling at his command. He hadn’t intended for this to go on so long—he’d thought he could find a way to free Sable from the mask and stop the king and his Dark Army. But years had passed, and instead the king’s own daughter was closer to freeing Sable than he’d ever been. As hard as it was for him to admit it, he’d done nothing but fail.
Killian remained buried by his thoughts for several hours as the group traveled north, and when they began to head west and then north again, all uncertainty of their destination vanished.
They were going to the Ice Bay.
The mere sight of the bay, deserted and sleepy, growing closer with every step set Killian on edge. The waters were too still, the sheets of ice floating atop the surface too clear. Tendrils of curling fog clung to the shore, billowing across the body of water like the lost souls of all who’d ever died here.
Many centuries ago, a brutal war had come to an end here in a final, vicious battle. Blood had stained the snow red, and bodies had tumbled into the frosted waters. The moment the Witch Lord Gandraian had fallen to Ilyad’s sword and plummeted beneath the frozen surface, the battle cries and the clanging of swords had immediately ceased. Many men, both Fey and Elf, had seen Gandraian fall that day, but some claimed he still lived. Waiting for the day he might rise again.
Beside Killian, Kit’s armored hands tightened around his reins. Twisting. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and Killian swore the Wolf muttered a prayer under his pale breath. When Kit’s eyes met his, as hard and cold as two chips of ice, Killian faced ahead and tried his best to ignore the crawling sensation under his skin. Even the wind seemed to whisper the names of the men who’d died here.
The king led them along the bank, and after several miles they came upon the gaping mouth of a cavern. Icicles hung from the lip of the entrance like jagged teeth, and a breeze drifted from inside, somehow colder than the frigid air they were shivering in. And not in a natural way. The cold that drifted from within that cavern spoke of suffering and death. Of restless spirits bent on revenge.
The king nudged his horse into a trot, and the men followed suit. The Wolf was the last in line, with only Killian before him. Neither of them seemed to mind; whatever lurked in this cave wasn’t something they were eager to meet anytime soon.
Torches bearing blue flames lit the interior, and a network of tunnels branched off in every direction. The ground beneath their feet soon became solid ice, and upon further inspection, Killian spotted slivers of seaweed stretching up to the surface, and farther down there were skeletons trapped in the ice. The skeletons wore armor bearing the old royal sigil, a golden winged horse in flight.
Killian couldn’t help but wonder about those men who were eternally trapped beneath the miles of ice; what horrors their eyes had seen before they’d fallen. They must’ve had families waiting for them to come home, only to never live that moment through.
The lake disappeared behind them as they ventured farther, the roof of the cave lower now than before. If Killian were to stretch his arms out above his head, he would just be able to graze the stone. A crust of snow crunched beneath the hooves of their horses, the sound like bones breaking.
Several turns later, a dark shape became visible through the mist. It was so tall it nearly touched the sparkling roof of the cave, its length comparable to a line of three horses.
It was an onyx weaver’s loom, the thread the color of a spider’s web.
Appreciative murmurs bounced against the cave walls, but all Killian could do was gape in silent horror.
It couldn’t be. Surely this was just a replica, and not the same loom that had driven the world to the brink of madness during Gandraian’s reign—during the days when his Elkmoon Witches had stalked the earth.
“This,” the king began, his voice bouncing against the walls, “is Moiria’s Loom.”
Nine Hells.Just like that, the last of his hope flew out the gods-damned window. The Dragon closed his eyes in an effort to block out this horrible truth. But conversation started up again, forcing him to listen. To face his fears, despite how much he wished he could bolt out of this cave and never return.
“Where did you find it?” said Zenaide, the prick of a beta.
“Dug it out of the ice a week ago,” the king replied.
“Is it the same loom the Witch Lord used?”
“Yes,” said the king.
“What are you going to do with it?” This question came from Cassius. It was the most important question of all, and the one Killian wished he could avoid hearing the answer to.
“I’ll be taking it back to Hilsian when I go,” said the king. “And it will be used on those who need more persuasion.” He would use it on the people who refused to swear fealty to him. The ones who fought for their homes, their families, and their lives. With the loom merely in his possession, he would likely convince the last of the people who gave a rat’s ass about defending what was right to bend the knee before him.
