Page 46 of Whisper of Nightmares

Euphemia sucks in a breath and scurries down the lit corridor, praying silently that nothing jumps out from the darkness.

But the place is cavernous. The walls empty. Even though the windows are closed, the breeze billows beside her, chasing after Euphemia and dancing between her strides, weaving through her legs, and up into her unbound hair.

It’s a soothing caress, at first.

Until she feels something like a grip around her ankle.

Cold fingers sliding along her bone.

Sharp nails digging into flesh.

Euphemia trips and leaps down an unlit corridor where the walls are bleak and glaring.

Ice slithers up her spine.

Euphemia catches her balance—but not her breath—and whips back around. She gapes at the place on the floor where she thought something had grabbed her.

Only the bunched ripple of a rug runner stares back at her.

She releases a breath and takes a moment to recollect herself, leaning against the sparse wall.

As she does, one of the sconces down this path ignites.

Euphemia jumps upright and stares. Cobwebs singe away from the flame. The shadows lurch too, ducking into crevices that seem unaccustomed to light ever reaching this part of the manor.

At the end of the hall, Euphemia spies a door. The wood seems thick, even from this distance, and the doorway is arched unlike most of the others in this place. Something strange is pressed into its center, something that looks more like a large ship’s wheel than a typical doorknob.

For a moment, curiosity draws her nearer.

Follow the light.

An instant later, Euphemia hauls herself back.

This is not the light she’s meant to follow.

This is temptation. Weakness of the mind. And she will not be caught tangled in its web again.

With a shake of her head, Euphemia staggers back toward the light, and she follows the sconces all the way back to the great hall.

As Euphemia peeks through the doors, she finds Kelda already waiting inside, just as Asvald promised. Sitting at the long table in the center, underneath antlers and candlelight, she leans over a half-eaten plate of food, her mouth full.

If she notices Euphemia entering the room, she gives no indication.

Euphemia walks through the great hall, watching Kelda and noting the severe lines in her features. Her light hair is pulled back in tightly woven but practical braids. Nothing too intricate. Just enough to keep her hair out of her face.

Euphemia realizes, she is beautiful in the way winter is—sharp, cold, and utterly unforgiving.

It’s not until Euphemia pulls the chair out across from her and sits down that Kelda finally acknowledges her presence. She grabs a pitcher from the table and pours Euphemia a drink.

“What is it?” Euphemia asks when the mug is shoved across the table. She lifts it to her nose and sniffs the familiar scent of hops and herbs.

“Mead,” Kelda replies.

Euphemia lowers her mug, smiling politely. “I think it’s a bit early for me to⁠—”

“Drink,” Kelda says through clenched teeth. “It’ll keep you warm.”

Euphemia stares down at the pale liquid again. Gives it a swirl.