“Orla,” I say one evening as she plumps the pillows behind my back. “Are there more books elsewhere in the citadel, by chance?” My current selection tells the tale of a war hero and his decade-long journey home after a ten-year war. His wife sits at home in Ithaca, weaving a burial shroud by day and unraveling her progress by night to keep the suitors at bay.
“Certainly. What do you prefer to read?”
I toss her a sidelong grin. “Do you really want to know?”
Orla blushes. “No?” She sounds unsure.
“Romance.”
She sighs wistfully. “Love, my lady?”
“Sex, actually.” Her eyes pop, and I chuckle. What can I say? I like my stories with copious amounts of sex. Especially when I’m getting none myself.
Love isn’t made for people like me.
After a brief pondering, Orla says, “There might be some in the library. I can check tomorrow.”
I sit up in surprise, and the mattress dips beneath my shifting weight. “There’s a library?”
“Oh, yes. It’s quite superb. The lord collects books from all over the world. He dearly loves to read.”
I suppose I never considered the possibility that the Frost King enjoyed any activity outside of his kingly duties. How curious. How very, very curious.
I take my meals in my rooms because, until my leg heals, I cannot walk down the stairs. Silas bakes me cakes, and not even at my request. Alba, the chief healer, has managed to set my nose, so at least I am not further disfigured. The Frost King never again darkens my doorway. Orla says he has been absent for many days now. An ill-omen? Something stirs in the Deadlands. Dark, wild things.
The following week, when I’m strong enough to eat dinner downstairs, Orla informs me that the king is feeling unwell and has retired to his rooms. The drop in my stomach surprises me. After weeks in isolation, I was looking forward to some verbal sparring.
So I eat alone, picking at my food. I miss Elora. I miss Edgewood. There is an absence in my life, has been for a long time. At this point, I’m not sure what to do. The Day of Harvest came and went, and I was unable to meet Zephyrus. I’ve yet to return to Neumovos. I’ve yet to kill the king.
There is but one saving grace: thousands of doors lining every dusty corridor of the fortress. And if Orla’s story is true, one of the Frost King’s wives managed to escape this insufferable prison.
In the days that follow, I explore the citadel, inking a map of the fortress to keep track of the doors I’ve opened, the lands I’ve searched, seeking a means to return home. There’s no certainty the Shade will fall following the Frost King’s death. A door leading back to the Gray remains the safest option. Only the north wing, where the king resides, remains barred to me.
Door one: a charred field. Soft ash streaks my boots as I wade through the ruin, moving toward the distant horizon, its edges blurred by a warped sun. After a time, the wavering solidifies. A black form spans east to west, and ripples in familiarity: the Shade. Unable to venture farther, I return to the citadel.
Door twenty-three: a room constructed entirely out of wooden planking—floor, ceiling, walls. A deep armchair draped in scarlet cloth lounges in the center. For whatever reason, my entire body recoils in the presence of this chair, and I quickly return to the hallway, slamming the door shut behind me.
Door ninety-one: the base of a massive waterfall, misted air colored by prisms of light.
Door one hundred and eight: the cracked marble of ancient ruins.
Another passage, another wing, door after door after door, but nothing. Every realm is completely contained. No matter how far I travel, at some point I hit the dark wall that is the Shade, which manages to manifest even inside the various lands.
Eventually, my wanderings lead me back to the center of the citadel. As I pass a nondescript wooden door, a masculine voice halts my forward motion.
“Please, my lord. I assure you my intentions were noble.”
“Your intentions,” a cool voice responds, sliding through the cracks in the wood, “were selfish, driven by fear and the greed of men.”
“That’s not true.”
This must be where the king serves his judgment. And it sounds as though the Judgment is currently underway.
I press my ear to the door. The wood vibrates against my temple as the Frost King booms, “These are the facts. You walked into your brother’s home while he slept. Stole the last of his—”
“If you would let me explain—”
“He’s at it again.”
