Page 44

How could the grave remain so bare, as if no one cared to remember her?

She was the First Queen of Faerie, for Dagny’s sake.

Did anyone from the Fae Isles ever visit her?

Anger flares within me. I have half a mind to snap at Riven and tell him he should⁠—

A hand presses flat against my mouth as an arm wraps firmly around my waist, pinning me against a broad chest.

“Don’t move, Gwyn,” Riven commands, his breath hot on my ear. I can almost feel his lips, the graze of his teeth. “Straight ahead, through the trees. Do you see it?”

I squint, trying desperately to make out whatever he’s seen, but I can’t focus on anything with his body pressed against mine like this. It stirs up feelings I’d rather not examine too closely. All I see is the ethereal glow of blue light emanating from⁠—

Black hell.

Winter’s kiss. The flower is unmistakable with its pale blue coloring and the way it glows against the snow like witchlight.

A high-pitched whine echoes in the distance, sounding an alarm in the back of my mind.

One of my coven’s warnings bubbles to the surface as swift as a punch to the gut:

Beware of winter’s kiss, for they are the tears of frost wraiths.

“When I release you, you will return to the gravestones,” Riven demands, his tone brooking no room for argument. “You will not stop. You will not turn around. You will get back within the wards and begin the summoning.”

I hadn’t even realized I stepped out of whatever wards protect Wynterhaven.

As soon as he releases me, a body bursts from the ground, half-female, half-wyrm.

A frost wraith.

Shadows descend all around us. It’s a disorienting sheet of black, there then gone, as Arkyn appears and lunges for the creature. It swiftly dodges him, its lips curling back in a taunting grin as it dives back into the earth, only to pop up directly in front of me.

I stumble backward, one hand pressed to my mouth. It reaches for me, sharp claws stretching toward me in an effort to snatch me up and pull me toward it⁠—

A horrifyingly massive body hurls itself into the wraith, knocking her away from me.

“Achlys?” I gasp at the sight of the bear.

He whips around and nudges his cold snout against my cheek.

A protector through and through.

Riven draws his dagger and moves in tandem with Arkyn, spinning away from the beast’s deadly lunge. He swipes at the creature, blade catching ethereal flesh, and the wraith screams. It’s blood-curdling, bone-chilling. The king spares me one annoyed glance, clearly irritated that I haven’t obeyed and retreated to the safety of the wards, before swinging at the creature again.

I know I should be running away.

But he’s just so… enticing.

He’s honed his battle-trained body and strategic mind into such lethal precision that he knows exactly when to dodge, when to strike. I watch, almost mesmerized, as he grapples with the wraith, bringing her down to the ground and pinning her. Arkyn throws himself over the wraith’s wriggling bottom half as the king slits the creature’s throat with one glorious swipe, black blood spurting across the snow, across Riven.

Quiet descends, broken up by the sound of ragged breathing.

Riven falls back on his haunches, panting, and glares at me. “I told you to run, little witch.”

All the way back to the gravestones, Riven’s pissed I didn’t follow his orders.

His anger emanates from him with every stomp across the snow, in the way he refuses to catch my eye, and even as his hand incessantly massages the back of his neck as if he can coax the rage from his body.