My lips trembled. “I can’t,” I whispered.
The man shook his head, disappointed, and the stag turned, changing direction. Had he given up on me? Did he realize I couldn’t go any further and decide to abandon me here?
Deflated, all fight left me, my shoulders drooping with exhaustion. They vanished into the blowing snow as Sainte staggered behind me, gasping for breath while supporting the priest’s weight. He stopped, noticing my expression, and I shook my head, sorrow etched on my face. Tears threatened, but would have frozen on my cheeks. Too exhausted to cry, I knelt there, numb.
“Elspeth.”
I stared at my gloved hands, unable to feel them, as if they weren’t my own. I’d come this far, and now blame wreaked havoc inside for entangling Sainte in this mess. Grimm was suffering because of me.
Why did anyone think I could lead?
I lived my life in a coastal city, only to be thrown into a frigid wasteland. They believed me to be chosen by the gods, destined to rule Wynterborne. In reality, I was a street rat. It was nonsensical. Following a man on a deer through a storm was absurd. Little girls who laughed and danced, leaving frozen circles around people, defied logic.
None of this made sense.
“Elspeth—look.”
It dawned on me that he spoke instead of shouted, the storm’s fury having subsided. Frowning, I observed his gaze shift upward, prompting me to turn and discover what had caught his attention.
Wynterborne.
The castle stood before us, its towering walls casting a shadow over the landscape. Its cold banners snapped in the dying gusts of the storm.
“She’s been touched by the gods!”
“Her face!”
“She passed the rite! This is her home, her hearth is here!”
On a white horse, gripping the mane tightly, I navigated through the bustling streets of Wynterborne. The crowd’s collective awe murmured around us, blending into a low, continuous roar.
Beside me, Sainte rode astride another horse. We exchanged weary glances, and I managed a smile. He responded with a faint grin, shaking his head in wonder. I threaded my fingers through the coarse mane, bracing myself as we crossed the narrow bridge to the castle.
Staff whisked me away to my rooms, the shattered window replaced. Sainte collapsed on the cot as priests of Togamar fussed over him. Gilead approached me as I fell onto the bed, two healers trailing behind her.
“That is no mark of Nothar,” she murmured in awe. Her eyes lit with curiosity as she brushed her fingers against my cheek.
“There was a woman,” I sighed, weariness tugging at my mind.
Gilead drew her touch away. “What was she like?”
“Like… summer sunshine.”
“Togamar!” a girl gasped.
“There was a man, too,” I said, trying to sit up.
The healer clicked her tongue. “Easy, Princess. Lie still.”
Hands tugged at my sodden clothes, their urgency palpable as they worked to strip them off and warm my frozen body.
“He rode a stag…” I murmured.
“Whatwas his name?”
Exhaustion tugged at my senses, dulling my thoughts.
“His name, Your Highness?”
