Page 109 of The Fox Heir

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then explain it to me!”

“Why does it matter?”

“Who was it?”

“You know who.”

“Say it.”

“It was me.” His voice is barely a whisper.

My heart fractures like obsidian. “All this time. You knew. You knew I was looking for my grandmother’s killer. You knew what happened. You lied to me.”

He shakes his head. “I never meant⁠—”

I push him full in the chest. He doesn’t stop me.

“It doesn’t matter what you meant, Tristan!” I hit him with my fists, as tears fill my eyes. “It’s what you did. You should have told me!” I’m trembling with fury as I push him again.

“I couldn’t. I’m bound to her, Red.” His breathing is heavy now, his eyes wide, begging me to believe him. He almost looks afraid. “The person who steals the heart of the Dead Queen is changed forever. They’re bound to serve the dead for the remainder of their lives. That sacrifice can never be revoked. Blood calls to blood.”

“I don’t care about your duty to your queen.” Tears are falling in earnest now, trailing down my cheeks. I’m too furious to care who sees.

His voice is sharp, but there’s an undercurrent of regret beneath it. “You can’t possibly understand what that means. I can’t betray her. I can’t tell her secrets.” He lets out a shaky breath. “Not even to the woman I love.”

The word hangs between us, frozen in midair.

“You know nothing of love.” Anger makes my voice tremble. My vision is blurry with hot tears. “You’re a Wolf. I’m the Fox Heir. And this,” I point between us. “This was never more than a fantasy.”

My tears fall as fast as my feet pound the ground. I turn and run.

Chapter 33

Each passing day feels like waiting for an axe to fall. At night, I watch for the telltale flickers of bonfires on the horizon. Until the third evening, when I see them. Fires speckle the nearest mountains. Hundreds of them.

Over the last two days, we’ve trained the villagers in basic combat and fortified the castle walls as best we can. Our defenses are mostly wooden pikes and rudimentary patches made from rubble found on the north end of the castle grounds. An old castle ruin now used in the defense of a castle that’s soon to become a ruin itself.

Everyone operates under an air of desperation. It’s as if we all expect to die. All of this—the extra weapons, the training, the pits laced with spikes—it will merely slow them down.

Each breath burns my chest as I heave a cart of broken timber toward the castle’s crumbling gates. Around me, someone calls for rope, another shouts for more stones. The whole village moves with a frantic, shuddering pulse, as if we can somehow beat back the inevitable by sheer force of will. If Gwyllion is to crumble, we’ll take down as many Fox Soldiers as we can in the process.

Tristan passes me without a word, carrying an armful of rusted spears scavenged from the old armory. He doesn’t meet my eye.

Hunter, not far behind him, hoists lumber over a shoulder. His face is grim, jaw set like stone. He’s the newest member of this rebellion, but you’d never know it by the look of him. He’s just as committed to resisting my father’s army as the rest of us. His was a hard-won loyalty, but he still hasn’t accepted that he might be—is—the Heir to the North.

To be honest, I find it difficult to believe too. The mythical Heir to the North is supposed to be descended from the human kings and queens who reigned long before the Dead Queens. Back when humans and fae lived side-by-side. While the Moon Goddess created the Dead Queens to restore the balance between humans and fae, the legendary Heir to the North is supposed to return the world to a time of prosperity. He’s supposed to save Annwyn. Save us all.

It’s a lot to believe in, especially about your childhood best friend. Hunter is the kindest, sweetest man I’ve ever known. He always wanted to be a great knight, but a legendary king? The man destined to change the world for the better? That’s … a lot.

I shove the cart harder, ignoring the ache in my arms. It lurches forward, wheels catching in the uneven dirt. A mud-covered boy scrambles to help me push the cart. His hands are raw and blistered, but he grins at me anyway, gap-toothed and proud to be useful.

“Thank you,” I say as we park it near the front gate. My voice sounds as tired as I feel. The boy’s smile beams wider, and he darts off, vanishing into the chaos.

Everywhere I look, there’s motion. Women strip linen into bandages and boil water in battered kettles. Old men fashion makeshift spears from broom handles and melt scrap metal into silvery pools. Children scurry, ferrying messages and supplies, too young to understand the full horror of what’s coming. Too young to understand that this might be the last battle they see.

This is all that’s left of Gwyllion. We are an army of misfits.