Three sharp raps, evenly spaced. Not frantic, not pleading. Official.
I froze, then rose slowly and crossed the room. The wind tugged at the edges of the shutters, whispering against the glass.
When I opened the door, three men stood outside. Two wore the gray-blue of the king’s soldiers, the crest of Rhaenor stitched over their hearts. Between them stood a man in a heavy cloak of dark wool. His boots were clean despite the mud. His eyes were colder than the morning.
“Katria Vale,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
He continued as though I had. “By order of His Majesty King Aldric Vayne, you are summoned to serve as envoy to the realm beyond the Veil.”
The words felt like they didn’t belong in the air between us, like something dragged up from an old story.
“Envoy,” I repeated. “That’s an elegant word. You must be lost. I’m no envoy.”
He reached into his cloak and drew a sealed parchment. The wax gleamed faintly in the gray light—a sword bisecting a rising sun. “You’ve been chosen to accompany the northern delegation to the Winter Court. As an offering of goodwill.”
Offering. There it was—the truth, quiet beneath the politeness.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then Hollowmere refuses,” he said simply. “And Winter will not overlook such insult. You’ll leave at dawn.”
The nearest soldier shifted, his jaw tight. The other avoided my eyes. Behind them, the wind curled off the moor, carrying with it the faintest shimmer of frost.
I wanted to laugh. It came out softer than that, almost a sigh. “Tell your king,” I said, “that I’ve spent twenty-seven years trying to keep this place alive. If he thinks sending me to the fae will save it, then I hope they like their peace seasoned with irony.”
The messenger’s expression didn’t change. “Your compliance ensures Hollowmere’s protection. That is all His Majesty requires.”
His tone was polite enough that I could almost pretend it was mercy. Almost.
“Then I’ll be ready,” I said with a brittle smile. “Wouldn’t want to keep His Majesty waiting.”
He inclined his head, turned, and walked back down the path with his soldiers. Their boots made perfect rhythm on the frost.
I shut the door and leaned against it. For a long moment, I just listened to the sound of my own breathing and the soft crackle of the fire.
Then, slowly, I began to laugh—quietly, disbelievingly. It wasn’t hysteria. It was something sharper, a sound scraped from the edge of exhaustion.
A peace envoy. Me.
The irony was almost beautiful.
After they left, the silence felt heavier than before, like the air itself was thinking.
I stood there for a while, staring at the door as if it might change its mind and open again. It didn’t. The mist pressed against the windows, blurring everything beyond the glass into a smear of gray. Even the fire seemed to shrink from it, burning lower, cautious.
So this was how my life would end—not with a pyre or a noose, as the villagers used to whisper, but with a royal decree written in clean ink.
I pulled off my gloves, tossed them onto the table, and stared at my hands. The green stains along my palms looked darker tonight, the color of bruised leaves. These hands had brought back breath and steadiedheartbeats, stitched wounds, ground herbs. Tomorrow, they’d belong to the Winter Court—if the fae didn’t freeze them off first.
I almost smiled at the thought.
When dusk fell, I walked to the edge of the moor.
The wind had changed; it carried a sharpness that bit at my cheeks. Somewhere across the waterlogged fields, the bell from Hollowmere’s chapel tolled seven slow times. I could see faint lights in the village windows—yellow and wavering, small against the dark. They looked like hope trying to pretend it wasn’t afraid.
I wondered if any of them were thinking of me. Probably not. People sleep better when they believe their monsters are gone.
