“Please,” the man blubbers. “Have mercy.”
“Mercy.” Blue eyes glow within that bloodless face. “The gods did not offer me mercy.”
“I didn’t know. Please my lord, I didn’t know she was your wife!”
“You lie.” He raises his spear, the tip digging into the man’s narrow chest.
My stomach pitches sickeningly. When you have nothing, you make poor choices. You become crazed, obsessed by the idea that something could improve your life. As the king draws back his arm, I struggle upright, rush forward as quickly as possible, planting myself directly in the spear’s path.
Horror and fear widen the North Wind’s eyes. It is unmistakable. “Wife,” he barks. “Get out of the way.”
“Spare him.” The man cowers behind me, weeping nonsense pleas under his breath. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“He knew exactly what he was doing. You are a prize he thought to take from me.”
“All right,” I say, lifting my hands. “Maybe he did. But consider that it was the choice of the darkwalker, not the man he once was.”
The Frost King moves so quickly my mortal eyes can’t track it. A blink, and the man lies dead, a shard of ice sprouting from his throat.
“Are you hurt?” Before I can answer, he pats my body down. Touching me. That has never happened before.
When he brushes my back, I flinch away, hissing in pain. He goes still.
“Darkwalker.” My gaze shies from the intensity of his own.
His right hand grazes the curve of my shoulder. Light, gloved fingertips. Gentle, even. “May I see?”
Wordlessly, I turn, presenting him with what I imagine is a horrible sight. He examines me without speaking.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“You will need to see Alba when we return. The wounds are many, but they aren’t deep.”
I absorb this information with slow-growing dread. “Will it scar?”
This silence stretches longer than the last. Perhaps he is thinking of the other scar I bear. “It shouldn’t. I will have her use the strongest salves at her disposal.”
It really shouldn’t matter, but… I am grateful.
“Thank you.” I glance again at the dead man.
The Frost King murmurs, “He wasn’t one of the mortals who infiltrated. He was one of mine. See his skin?” He points to an area near the exposed collarbone. It’s subtle, but there is a certain level of transparency. “He worked the grounds. For the last three days he did not appear for work. I wondered where he had gone.”
He whistles for Phaethon, who has returned to equine form. The king mounts before offering me a hand. After some hesitation, I take it. Strong, calloused fingers curl around mine, and the strength of his arm pulls me into the saddle.
I don’t want to ask, but I must know. “What now?”
“Now, we pay a visit to Neumovos.”
We arrive at Neumovos smeared in filth, remnants of the dead coating our clothes and clinging to our hair. The village appears abandoned, its square empty. Snow piles on the thatched rooftops.
Despite the freezing temperature, sweat slicks my skin beneath the heavy coat I wear. The Frost King holds his spear in his left hand, the reins in his right. “What will you do?” I whisper, swiping my tongue across my chapped lips.
His response stirs the hair at the crown of my head. “I’ve yet to decide. If one of my staff has turned on me, it is likely that others have as well. If the corruption has spread…”
The king nudges Phaethon onward, and we trot down the mainroad, hooves ringing against stone. In the corner of my eye, I spot movement—a window curtain swaying into place, as if someone had momentarily peered out at us.
The Frost King’s arm tightens around my waist, as though to keep me close. “You’re safe,” he murmurs, and I release a slow exhalation.
