Her heart pounded in her chest as she neared the stairwell. But it wasn’t because of the ghost that had vanished into thin air moments ago, nor was it because of the creatures she sensed were watching her from the shadows.
It was because she’d heard that woman’s voice before. It had haunted her dreams for ten years, and for those ten years, she’d hoped to discover whose voice it was. But now that she’d heard it while she was awake, she wasn’t so certain she wanted to know anymore.
4
For the first time in what seemed an eternity, she had woken up. Endless, gleaming silver surrounded her on all sides, pressing into her like walls collapsing. But for the briefest moment, she hadseen…
The catacombs where someone—she couldn’t remember who—had dragged her, like a dog on a lead. The sight of the catacombs had brought back the memory of shackles cutting into her wrists, the chains clinking as she was forced through a cold and dark network of tunnels.
Then she’d glimpsed the light of an oil lamp competing with the shadows, dancing on the walls that hadn’t changed since she last opened her eyes.
But the eyes she’d seen through were not her own. They belonged to someone else; she wasn’t sure who, but she had every intention of finding out.
It felt like she had been gone for a very long time. Her own name still escaped her, along with the names and faces of every person that had ever been in her life. The time for remembering had come and gone long ago; years had passed since a memory had shot into her mind like a bolt of lightning.
But at that precise moment, only one thing mattered.
She had woken up. Somehow, she’d come back from that dark and empty place where her soul had gone to wilt.
She had been reborn, like a phoenix from ashes. And she would not stop fighting until she broke free of this prison.
~
Since the king had arrived at the House of Ice, Kit Wilding hadn’t understood why the man preferred to dine alone in the ball-room—a cavernous mouth of glass and ice, empty save for a crystal piano covered in dust and a single table large enough to seat twelve. That he’d even bothered to dine with his estranged daughter and the captain of the guard was a mystery, though the man deserved credit simply for trying. From what the Wolf of Winter had heard of their relationship, dining together—let alone being in the same room—was an event worthy of celebration.
Dawn was approaching when Kit was summoned to the ballroom, now empty apart from the king, the two guards stationed at the doors, and the wolf sitting at the king’s feet. And save for a single candle burning in the center of the table, the room was entirely dark.
The king was gorging on a hot pheasant, tearing meat from bone like an animal as Kit strode across the onyx floors. The man was always hungry, it seemed. Kit wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t left his chair since he’d dismissed Avalon and Hadrian hours ago.
Kit took a seat across from him—and tried to suppress the hatred simmering in his veins as he waited for the vile man known by some as the Dark Lord to acknowledge his presence.
The king controlled everything that came in and out of the North. At his word, everyone here would starve. If the Wolves didn’t do their part, if Kit himself did notmakethem do their part, they would all die. Those who were unwillingly serving in the Wolf Pack likely viewed Kit as a monster no better than the king. The truth was, he was singlehandedly keeping them all alive. The harder they trained, the better they were clothed and fed. The faster they found and bonded with their Skins, the less extreme the punishments for stepping out of line.
It was true that a small percentage of Wolves were here by choice, though most had been brought here against their will. Some had adapted soon after arriving, merely accepting the ways of the Dark Army instead of rebelling, choosing life over death, no matter the condition of living. Kit didn’t hold it against them; he knew what it was like to be afraid to die. But he himself had stopped fearing death long ago; the only thing about dying that frightened him now was facing whichever gods still existed. Facing them—and the punishments that would await him for his sins.
After a moment of silence, the king said, “General. I summoned you nearly ten minutes ago.” He paused to take a sip of wine. “Tell me: Which important day is drawing near?”
Kit took a breath through his nose as he tried to hide his impatience. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since the king’s arrival, and tonight he hadn’t slept for a single minute. “The solstice, my king,” he said, his voice edged with the smallest amount of irritation, despite his efforts to keep it contained.
The king drawled, “The summer solstice.” He chucked the bone he was licking clean to the scrawny gray wolf begging at his feet. Kit tried not to look at the animal—or at the iron shackles strapped to all four of her paws—but despite his efforts, his gaze flicked briefly to the eyes thathad become more beast than Fey. The king continued, “We are to retrieve that mask tonight. And you are to do whatever it takes to ensure that no one, not even your best men, knows why.” The king fixed him with a cold stare, his rings of bone shining in the candlelight.
Kit tried not to fidget in his seat as he nodded sharply.
The king’s chair squealed across the floor as he pushed out from the table, wiping his fingers on his expensive dusky cloak. “Come, General,” he barked, voice echoing. “We’re overdue for a visit with the dead.” Over his shoulder, he added, “And the dying.” Kit knew exactly who he meant.
The king had come to the North many times, but this time he planned to leave with the mask in his possession—to guard it for the next few weeks until it was safe to bring it back again. The summer solstice was an important day; it not only marked the anniversary of the entrapment of a very powerful person…
It was also the only day, out of three hundred and sixty-five this tenth year, in which that person could be set free.
~
Avalon’s courage steadily diminished as she marched toward the ballroom, her fingers clenched into fists. Suddenly, confronting her father about why he was sending her away didn’t seem like such a bright idea. No—now it seemed more like a death wish.
If it weren’t for the fact that she was the princess, the servants would’ve paid her no mind as she passed them by in the corridors, though a subtle dip of the head was all she received.
Many kinds of Fairfolk served here in the North. The majority possessed characteristics found on animals, as opposed to the more humanoid Fey and Elves. Those serving here had hair or fur that was either gray or white; antlers or hooves, though sometimes they had both. Frost glinted on temples and hairlines, and the few who were blessed with wings had the feathered kind—snowy owl or raven, mostly. All were clipped to discourage escape.
And compared to them, Avalon was…an outcast. An abomination.
