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The Winter Prince is dressed in his usual pale blue cape and ice crown, his hair depicted bright royal blue.
My heart jackhammers so loud in my chest I think it’ll wake the Spring Court shadow on the nearest cot as I read below the illustration. The girl was incredibly skilled in both swordplay and elemental magic, and the fight went on for nearly an hour until both their powers were reportedly low.
It was then the girl drew her last weapon—a whip threaded with snowdrops.
Something about the whip caused the prince to cower, stumbling to a knee, and she used a staff to knock his own blade from his hand. Weaponless and magicless, he bared his throat for her to cut, smiling . . . if the text is true.
Only she didn’t kill him. Instead, for reasons not explained in the book, she claimed a truce that let both players keep their dignity, allowing the prince to live on to eventually torment me.
Excitement prickles my skin. I slam the book shut, sending dust flying into my face. The whip . . . why would that have bothered the prince?
A memory bobs to the surface. A story I heard Evelyn tell once during one of her long tales regarding the Winter Prince’s depravity.
She claimed King Oberon made him fight a soldier every evening when the prince was a boy. If he lost, if he showed a hint of emotion or mercy, the Darken tied him up in front of the entire court, stripped his shirt, and hit him with an iron whip until his skin cracked open.
According to Evelyn, wherever the prince’s silver blood touched between the cracks of the cobblestones, snowdrops blossomed. And today an entire field of snowdrops fill the courtyard of the Winter Castle, beautifully sad reminders of his beatings.
Right until this moment, I chalked her story up to another fancy tale.
Not now.
Throwing on my coat and gloves, I shake Ruby awake. “I think I know how to help Rhaegar win!”
One tiny eye flutters open, and she stares at me dreamily. “You and your five brothers, huh?” She giggles. “I’ve always wanted my own harem of human men.”
“What?”
Both eyes snap open and focus on me. “What?”
“Ruby, I need you,” I whisper. “I know it’s a lot to ask . . . but can you still do that invisibility spell?”
A wide grin brightens her face, and she flits into the air, giving a little bow. “Ruby Ricin, at your service.”
The only problem with being invisible in winter is the tracks along the snow. Well, that and my breath, which wafts into the sky in milky bursts once it clears the invisibility bubble Ruby keeps around us.
“How much farther?” I whisper, the book clutched beneath my arm. At Ruby’s suggestion, we cut through the forest to get to the ceremonial meadow where all Nocturi are held.
Ruby darts into the trees and then zips back down into the protective bubble. From inside, the shell looks much like an actual soap bubble, its delicate, clear surface tinged in faint rainbows of color. “It’s just up ahead, but we need to hurry. Looks like it’s about to start.”
Through the gaps in the trees, fire sputters and dances from torches erected to form a circle. In between the torches, a magical boundary of some sort shimmers. To keep the fighters from running away, Ruby informs me.
A crowd of Fae surround the makeshift arena, blocking my view inside.
Leaving me to wait, Ruby zigzags through the trees toward the meadow. I lose sight of her in the crowd. Clutching the book to my chest, I wait, shivering and praying none of the nearby Fae smell me.
What feels like hours later, Rhaegar and Basil come up the path to meet me. Sleek gold armor is fitted to Rhaegar’s chest, and varying shades of green kerchiefs hang from his shoulders, the little bells sewn into them tinkling.
A distrustful look darkens Rhaegar’s normally handsome face. The moment Ruby lifts the invisibility spell and I appear, his eyes widen and he rushes to me.
“What the Fae hells are you doing here?” He shifts his gaze to scan the woods before returning his attention to me. “If another Fae sees you, they could hurt you. I could hurt you. You shouldn’t be here.”
That’s when I notice the green glow smoldering inside his golden eyes. The bulge of fangs beneath his lips. He retreats to keep a wide distance between us, but I make out his nostrils as they flare slightly at my scent.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats in a gravelly tone I don’t recognize. His eyes are now glowing as bright as the torches in the distance, and black talons sprout from his hands.
A twinge of fear spikes my blood, and I retreat a step. “I came to give you this.” Slowly, I hold out the book. Basil takes it from my hands and delivers it to Rhaegar as I quickly explain what I learned.
While I talk, Rhaegar’s face twists and morphs into more beast than Fae; long black muzzle, lupine eyes, and glittering fangs mask any trace of his humanity. The change is so slow I hardly notice until it’s done, and then I can’t stop staring.
