I shivered where I stood.
Was I still on that hill or had I sunk beneath it?
Was I to die here?
Had I not died long ago, on a mist-veiled autumn eve beneath a ribbon-hung elm?
I did not remember life.
I did not remember warmth—
—but I remembered where to find it.
I clasped the still-warm pebble between fingers stiff with death. Warmth bloomed feebly against my frost-adorned palm.
And I remembered… I remembered that I was no longer alone, my tale no longer unheard. That a pair of arms would catch me, when I returned to that hilltop.
I did not falter before the darkness.
I stepped through it, and I was free.
It surged within me like a tide and it trickled like light through my veins: A magic most curious. I gathered it gently in my palms like catching sunlight from riverwaves. I was the seed of a tree, buried deep beneath the frozen earth. I imagined the warmth of spring and the hiss of raindrops burrowing through the soil to quench my thirst. I burst alive, and though it was dark, I knew where to find the light. I was small and young and fragile, but I carved a path through the ice until I breathed air.
I grew there, upon the hill, taking root.
I weaved these roots like golden thread far and wide: Into the soil and around the trees, into the riverwaves and ponds and mudlands. I breathed warmth back into the forest. I breathed it into the ancient oak.
I spun my magic around its bleeding, aching heart. It shivered as I touched it. I imagined settling there among the tangled roots, beneath thick arms and bare branches. Its pain eased. The mists, lingering just behind that ancient tree, halted.
The earth hummed in delight.
The wind brushed my cheek before it settled, a kiss farewell.
I returned—eyes snapping open—to a town bathed in golden light, and to a pair of moss-green eyes.
TWENTY-SIX
Tell me, and I will let you go.
“Ana.”
We knelt face to face in the snow, Adrik and I. He was cradling my hands, pressing them to his lips as if to breathe warmth into something frozen—life into something dead. I glanced past him at the forest. No churning mists. No storm, not a cloud to be seen. Just frozen trees catching the sun and gentle hills under bright blue skies.
The cold was tamed and it was I who held its leash. It was I who had grown the roots that flooded the forest with warmth. I ached under the strain, as if clutching the edge of a cliff, fingers cramping and hands weak from the effort. I knew relief awaited if I just let go. Relief, then death. So, I held on, clenching my jaw. The ache remained an itch at the back of my mind. A black stain on a blank canvas that drew my attention and scattered my thoughts.
“Almira?” I managed to croak.
“She will be fine.”
“The town?”
“Safe.” Adrik cradled my cheek. “You?”
I did not know what to answer. How to speak of such pain and sorrow. How to explain to him the weight of the storm.
If I lost control of it… If the magic slipped from me… “I can manage until… for a while… I can manage until we are prepared to leave.”
A shadow passed over Adrik. “Come,” he said.
