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The scream of a Summer Fae in the crowd pierces the quiet and then abruptly dies.

No one speaks as we all focus on Rhaegar where he lies on his back. A universal question on everyone’s lips. Is he dead?

He tries to lift his head—so hurt but alive.

Icy spikes larger than my forearm shoot from the storm clouds toward Rhaegar. Horrified, I force myself to look at the Summer Fae, sure he’s been impaled. My mind readying itself for blood and horror.

But the spikes instead nail his clothing through the thick crust of snow and into the frozen ground, trapping him like a butterfly pinned to a board by its wings. Two spikes at his shoulders. Two at his waist. Countless more along the leather fabric of his pants. They even pin the top of his pine-green cape, spread out behind him like alien blood.

The snow beneath him becomes alive, white tendrils of ice twisting over his body until he’s practically entombed. Only his face remains uncovered.

And his fear, unlike the prince’s, is absolutely real.

Whistling, the prince closes the distance between them in blood-chilling silence. He playfully twirls the sword that, moments ago, was ready to slice through bone and flesh into his heart, ending him.

When he stands directly over Rhaegar, any humor drains from his features, his jaw tight and eyes emotionless. “What will it be, Rhaegar? Death . . . or mercy?”

A collective gasp fills the cold air. Basil frowns, worrying his fingers. A few of the Unseelie boo at the option, obviously wanting the prince to kill Rhaegar and be done with it.

I look to Ruby, who’s now wide awake, her mouth gaping at the events.

“What happens if he asks for mercy?” I whisper.

Ruby shakes her head, as if the idea is too impossible to fathom. “He would never . . . such a cowardly thing would make him an outcast from his court forever. He would never,” she repeats.

But he does. The entire ring of onlookers goes quiet as Rhaegar’s voice, broken and ashamed, spills into the meadow. “Mercy. I ask for . . . mercy.”

The prince nods; the cage of ice melts away. The Unseelie side goes wild, a victorious cry rising from their ranks while the Seelie turn their backs on Rhaegar and quickly flee into the woods.

Half in shock, I slide down the tree, not caring that the bark tears at my face and clothes. Not caring that someone might see me. Not caring about anything in this moment but the horrifying truth.

He used me.

He tricked me.

The thought worms under my skin as I turn it over in my mind. The way he gave me the book and let me believe, in his arrogance, he hadn’t read it. That same arrogance was used in the arena to goad Rhaegar into thinking he’d used the last of his power.

In allowing Rhaegar to assume his power was gone, he lured the Summer Fae into letting his guard down. But it was more than that.

Any number of times, he could have ended Rhaegar.

Instead he destroyed the one thing that Rhaegar valued over all else: his honor.

Why? What twisted Faerie game is he playing? More importantly, what sort of person can wield their emotions so expertly, like a weapon honed to perfection?

A Fae prince. I should have expected as much.

The moment my boots crunch the snowy ground, I break into a sprint. Ruby dives into my pocket just in time. I crash blindly through the path, overwhelmed with emotion.

He used me. He played me. And I fell right into his trap. My stupidity ended in the one thing I didn’t want to happen: I am the Winter Prince’s slave and shadow.

We are intimately linked for the next four years.

And now that I know what he’s really capable of . . . now that I know how he wields his emotions to make anyone see exactly what he wants . . .

There can’t be a more dangerous Fae in all of Everwilde.

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