AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You can let me know if I made him accurate enough when we see him.” Eirah grinned.
Bells rang outside, signaling the villagers, who hadn’t already, to come out of their homes and meet for the celebration. Saren hurried to put on her cloak before tucking in her hair and slipping on a pair of black-furred boots.
Petre waited for them in the sitting room near the supper table. He kissed his sister on the cheek and pressed a silver dagger into her hand.
“Petre!” Saren gasped. “I’m not going to kill the king.”
“I don’t give a damn about Frosteria, just you. You’re the only blood I have left. Pray you won’t have to use it, but take it.”
Saren slammed the blade on the table. “I will not be the cause of his warriors seeking vengeance.”
Petre’s brows pinched together, but he nodded.
The bells continued to ring, and Eirah led the way outside into the chilly breeze. A lovely aroma of pastries mingling with meat drifted through the air. The night had arrived, and the torches were lit, their orange glow casting a beautiful aura over the village. It truly was a celebration fit for a conceited king.
Smoke curled toward the moon and stars from the bonfire blazing in the village’s center. Music floated around them, a combination of flutes and stringed instruments, the sound more melancholic than cheerful. Or at least that was how it seemed to Eirah.
Movement above caught her eye, and she stared up, catching sight of snowy-white wings flapping through the darkness. It was too far up for her to see clearly, but she knew it was Adair coming to watch over them this night. Even though a male wasn’t to be chosen as a sacrifice, most of their expressions were tight and grim as they held their loved ones close.
The chieftain stood at the front, near the bonfire, dressed in his fur cloak. He sipped from an iron mug as he whispered into his son’s ear. Desmond nodded and peered around at the villagers’ faces, his usual smile nowhere in sight.
Eirah and Saren lingered at the edge of the crowd near the forest, the birds’ caws the only loud sound besides the crackling of the fire.
“You could hide until it’s over,” Eirah whispered to her friend.
“I refuse to do that.” Saren frowned. “Besides, the king threatened to kill us if we weren’t all in attendance.”
Eirah glanced behind her, finding a bright white spot high in a tree. It was Adair.Thank you for coming. He wouldn’t hear her, but she was grateful for his presence nonetheless.
The instruments stopped, and Eirah whirled back around as the crowd parted for the newcomer. Eirah stepped in front of Saren to hide her friend as best she could without being too obvious.
The form became clearer, a crimson cape billowing behind him. She would have been a fool to not recognize Morozko. His lithe form sauntered across the snow like a god of frost. The king’s ivory hair hung past his chin, one side swept neatly behind a pointed ear. His skin was pale gray, perfect, and smooth as ice. Not a single scar marred his flesh, letting her wonder if anything had ever come close to harming him. But the vicious smirk he held on his face made her want to get close enough to carve it away.
At that moment, she wished she’d taken Petre’s blade for herself, ran through the crowd, and pierced his heart.
“Villagers of Vinti,” Morozko said, his voice deep, arrogant, “you made a grave mistake by not providing an animal sacrifice. We could have avoided this, but now you’ll pay with a human life, andI’mto be the giver of those repercussions. You have no one to blame but yourselves.” He sneered, ugly and beautiful all at once.
“Prick,” Eirah whispered under her breath.
Morozko’s ice-blue gaze met hers and halted, holding. A scowl formed on his handsome face.
Eirah blinked, her shoulders squared, but no words escaped his shapely lips, only a strange game of him continuing to study her.
The crowd remained silent as he walked in her direction, coming to move her aside and claim Saren.
5
MOROZKO
Morozko strode forward, and the ground didn’t crack as it had in his vision. There were no writhing changelings scraping at the ice, trying to break free. He pushed aside the crowd of villagers—none of them mattered at that moment. Only the female in front of him, the one fromhis vision.She washere.He paused in front of her, his brows pinching together as he frowned, considering her. She was pretty, in a plain sort of way. Delicate, doll-like features, full pouting lips, and thick ebony tresses escaped her raggedy braid, framing her heart-shaped face.Pretty, but not a maiden I’d tumble.Yet that wasn’t why he was standing in front of her.
His lips tilted into a smirk as she glanced at a golden-haired female tucked behind her—someone he’d certainly bring to his bed for the evening. When the female shifted, her cloak slid to the side, showing Morozko the curve of her breasts. He didn’t need her to shed the cumbersome layer to know she possessed curves that would tempt a saint. Unlike her friend from his vision. Not that she had eventried. Not with the plain dress. No, this golden-haired woman, he supposed, inspired mortals to write poetry of her beauty, but Morozko wasn’t here for that, either. He was here to select a sacrifice. The lamb that the village would give him to slaughter.
Morozko lifted his hand and dragged a finger beneath the female from his vision’s chin. The pretty mortal jolted as he did, muscles visibly coiling like she was readying to shove him away.Go on, I dare you.The king sneered.
“What is your name?” he cooed.
She didn’t respond, only pulled her chin away.
