Heavy curtains cloak the windows of the vast entrance hall. Frail lamplight offers little reprieve from the shadows.
I was so focused on sparing Elora from this fate I failed to ponder where the Frost King dwelled. This is where I must live? This oppressive, bleak, barren place?
He leads me down a passage to the left. Once my eyes adjust, I’m able to navigate without tripping over anything. What little furniture is present is covered with sheets that may have once been white, but that are now coated so thickly in dust they appear gray.
“Do you live here by yourself?” These deserted halls and abandoned rooms are but a shell. Had there once been life here, as there had once been green things?
“Yes,” he responds without turning around, “though I have an extensive staff that maintains the citadel.”
We soon reach a wide, curving staircase with a tarnished railing. Dust clouds the air as his boots make contact with the steps. How can anyone live like this? And extensive staff? I’ve yet to spot another soul.
A lengthy hallway on the third level leads us deeper into the shadowy interior. Doors upon doors line the walls. They are of variable height, width, material, and décor. I spot handles of pure silver. Round knobs caked in rust, centuries old. One door with peeling white paint possesses a glass knob shaped like a diamond. Ten paces down, another is covered in small, sunny-colored tiles.
“What are all these doors for?” We pass one of intricately carved plaster.
“They lead to other continents, other realms.” The king sounds utterly bored. “But you will not find a way out of the Deadlands through the doors, so I wouldn’t bother trying.”
How intriguing. I’ve always been curious of what lies beyond the Gray. “They’re off limits?”
“No. You may explore what lies behind them, if you wish, though none will take you home.”
After countless twists and turns, he stops at the end of a hall. I hear what sounds like a scream, but it is faint, and perhaps I only imagine it.
“Orla will see to your needs,” he says, producing a brass key and unlocking the door. “These are your chambers. Once you’re settled, you may roam the citadel freely, but you may not pass beyond the wall.”
“You don’t trust me?” I already know the answer. I’m just curious of his reaction.
“No.” His eyelashes lower, dark fringe upon pale cheekbones. “Run, and you will not get far. The forest dislikes my presence as it is. The citadel is warded against outside threats. It is the safest place for you.”
I tuck that piece of information away to examine at a later time. “And where are your rooms?”
“They are located in the north wing, which you are not to enter.”
I hesitate to step across the threshold. “What happens after we are married? Am I expected to share your bed?” I doubt he would be gentle in his bedding. I remember his eyes, that slithering black emotion glimpsed at Edgewood, something feral lurking beneath.
“You will not need to worry about that. We will keep separate chambers.” With that, he nudges me through and snaps the door shut. Soon enough, his footsteps die. I try the ornate handle. It doesn’t budge.
I’m locked in.
My sedate mask slips free, and I grow wild, slamming my fist against the barrier. “You bastard!” But my betrothed does not return.
Breathing hard, I step away to study my chambers, with their vaulted ceilings and distant walls. Furniture sags beneath dripping opulence. A gleaming four-poster bed, a fireplace, rugs, so many rugs, exquisitely plush. Doorways that lead to interconnecting rooms.
A sudden wave of fatigue drags me down, and I sag onto the mattress, scrubbing my chapped hands down my equally chapped face. Curling my arms around my cramping stomach, I hunch forward, rocking back and forth.
I am alone, a mortal woman in a dark god’s realm. I have no family, no support. Am I to remain here for the next forty, fifty, sixty years? Is this how I will die, an animal in a cage? I may never return to my old life. Not while the Frost King lives.
The rocking motion slows, and I stare at the shuttered windows with a frown. Something compels me to stride toward them. With a mighty yank, I tear the curtains from their rods.
The Deadlands is a realm painted in shades of gray. I assess the moonlit courtyard below, noting the stables, the thick, towering wall, the black iron gates, the barren landscape beyond the enclosed grounds.
Not while the Frost King lives.
I came here expecting to die. But I have never been, and never will be, weak.
And so I return to books. I return to knowledge. I return to what I know, information gathered over the years, the tales and stories passed down.
This is what I know: the North Wind is a god, one of four brothers who were banished to the outer edges of our world. The Anemoi, they are called—the Four Winds who bring seasons to the land. The North Wind’s power is limitless. He is immortal, will live forever, invulnerable to illness, unless he is killed. But a god cannot die by a mortal-made weapon.
