“General,” the king said. Killian thought he was talking to the Wolf before he continued. “You’re looking a little queasy.”
Killian’s eyes snapped open. The entire group was staring at him—all but the Wolf, whose blank gaze was fixed upon the frozen ground.
“I’m tired, sir,” Killian said. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
The king nodded once. “Cassius and the Leviathan will stay with me. The rest of you may head back.” His gaze flicked to Kit. “Train those soldiers hard. All of them.”
Killian felt sick. The king had found the single item that could change the tide of this war. With Moiria’s Loom, there was no uncertainty that the Dark Army would soon rule all of Elderyn.
With a human sacrifice worthy enough, Moiria’s Loom could predict the moves of the wielder’s opponent before going into battle. Gandraian’s eldest witch had gifted it to him when he’d first risen to power, and now that the king had found it, what was the point in fighting?
With the loom in the king’s possession, the war was already over.
~
At midday, Nocturne was relieved of kitchen duty.
Not only had the king torn open her back, but he’d demanded she work in the kitchens for the next few days. Scrubbing pots and mopping floors had reopened her wounds, and her back was slick with blood. Two of the king’s men were ordered to watch her as she slaved away with the scullery maids, as if she could escape in this condition.
As if she evenwantedto. Sure, she’d thought about it. Several times, as would any prisoner who hadn’t completely lost their mind. But where would she go? The Wycherley farm had been burned until it was nothing but ash, the livestock brutally slaughtered or herded into barns that were later set on fire. All her sheep and cows; her dogs and baby rabbits—gone.
As soon as Nocturne made it out into the courtyard, the tears started falling. For the first time since dawn, the guards left her alone, not bothering to follow her out into the cold. They lingered in the doorway instead, giving her just enough space to lose control.
Good riddance.
She fell to her knees beside a blackberry bush near the easternmost wall, where she’d buried her aunt’s body—and where she was certain no one could hear the sobs tearing out of her. These past few weeks had been nothing short of torture; standing in line with her enemies—with the murderers of her family—learning how tokill.
What was she doing here? Twiddling her thumbs, sleeping in a warm bed in an enemy House, while innocent people went to war and fell to a king with an iron fist?
She was failing—that was what she was doing.
But the last thing she knew how to do in this gods-forsaken world was win.
~
Killian was drunk out of his mind.
As soon as he’d arrived back at the House of Ice, he’d ordered several rounds of whiskey for himself and a few lucky men—the ones he supposed he hated the least. They’d drank and drank, until they could barely stand. And then they’d wandered into the brisk afternoon, silver flasks in hand, slurring songs and toasting to the empty skies. Until they’d lost themselves in the tangled woods surrounding the House.
Killian rubbed his eyes. The trees were blurring together; he was seeing doubles of everything. Grunting as he steadied himself against an ice-covered birch, he listened to his men’s bawdy singing fade into the distance. A moment later, they called for him, their voices bouncing above the swaying treetops. He slurred a reply he wasn’t sure they heard. He needed to piss.
The woods were silent as he undid his belt and relieved himself. Closing his eyes tight, he tried not to fall over as he swayed on his feet. Gods—he couldn’t recall ever being this drunk, though he’d had good reason to be. He didn’t even want to think about Moiria’s wretched loom. Right now, he was done with caring about anything.
The click of Killian’s belt buckle was loud in the silence. He listened for the voices of his men, but he heard nothing save for the distant rushing of the Airese River and the wind scraping along skeletal branches. He opened his mouth to call out their names…but stopped.
There was a dragging sound, like a bag—or a body—being pulled over the snow. Killian reached for his sword, but his fingers closed around air. He must’ve taken off his weapons belt.
Something splashed on his cheek.Drip. Drip.When had it started raining?
He looked up at the sky, but moisture dripped in his eyes, burning them. He cursed and wiped it away… And then he froze.
The tips of his fingers were red. Was that—
Blood?
A shadow spilled across the snow. Killian watched, blinking fiercely, as the shape of great wings unfurled and blocked out the sun. Slowly, he backed away.
Something dropped out of seemingly nowhere, landing hard on his shoulders and nearly knocking him over. He barked a curse and scurried out of the way.
