My eyes are wet when they find the Frost King behind the thickening cloud of debris. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t think—”
“You never do.” His coat flaps around him, and the whites of his eyes at last succumb to shadow. “You think only of what you can gain, without thought for others.”
It’s not true. I think of everyonebutmyself… don’t I?
But he’s right. I wanted to know what lay behind the door despite Boreas’ insistence that I not enter the north wing. I never, not once, took his wish into account. I didn’t think he was worthy of that respect, and this realization has come too late. “I can explain.”
“You think I remain unaware of how deep your loathing runs?” he growls gutturally. “You think me ignorant of the knives you carry, your desire to drive them into my blackened heart?” Insidious laughter slithers from his mouth.
“That’s not it,” I croak. “It was a mistake. It wasn’t intentional—”
A feeble shriek flies from my mouth as his gloves split apart and long, curved talons puncture through the fabric, revealing grotesque claws that ooze shadow. My eyes dart to his neck. The paleness of Boreas’ skin is gone, overwhelmed by writhing black tendrils.
Boreas is a darkwalker.
I scramble backward so fast I trip over my feet and go sprawling across the floor. His towering form hunches forward, spine and limbs rearranging themselves.It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not—
His roar blasts out with concussive force. “Leave!” He blurs as the grimy shadows gather into a spinning cloud, lacerating the walls with the coldest, harshest, most invasive wind.
I lurch for the doorway. The wind lashes at my heels as I dash down the corridor, taking the stairs two at a time. At the ground floor, I catchthe staircase railing and use my momentum to swing myself into the entrance hall.
“My lady!”
Orla’s shrill voice pierces my fear-addled mind, but I can’t stop. Adrenaline fires my blood, and I’m bursting through the front doors, boots slapping on stone.
The gate opens, and I am through, escaping to the snow-deadened woods surrounding the citadel, and praying to whatever gods remain that my life is not forfeit.
26
IAM GOING TO DIE.
For too long, I’ve avoided looking this truth in the eye. It is too frightening a thing. But there is something to be said about acceptance. The pain dulls and I drift and there is peace.
Since my harrowing flight from the citadel, dusk and dawn have arrived and departed in quick succession. The first two days were a blur. Deeper and deeper I plunged into the forgotten wilds of the Deadlands with no destination in mind. The king demanded I go, and so I went, spurred by the fear of his reprisal, those blackening eyes and lengthening nails.
Sickness hit at the close of the second day.
It arrived with a tearing sensation through my stomach. My feet stumbled, and I hunched over, whimpering as pain flooded my every pore. I grew dizzy, no longer certain of the direction I was going. A wavering, snow-heavy sight before me, and cold, terrible cold. By some miracle, I stumbled upon an abandoned burrow. It was there I collapsed, and it is where I remain days later.
My thoughts circle listlessly. Cracked lips and a parched mouth, the rasp of my tongue felt inside my head. The fever runs so deep it melts my bones. My heart beats like it is struggling to hold on.
I have no cloak, no gloves, no hood. I fled the citadel in only my dress—a paltry warmth. My throat sears. It craves the drink, but my hands are empty. The longer I am without wine, the swifter my decline.
It is so cold I’ve begun to feel warm.
Another cramp in my abdomen. My stomach heaves, and I retch, expelling watery bile from the small amount of snow I’ve ingested, my only meal since fleeing the citadel. I hunch into a tighter ball with a frail cry. “Elora,” I whisper.
But Elora is not here. She is far away, safe at home with her husband. I will not be able to say goodbye.
It is that thought, clear where all the rest are clouded, that shocks something inside me awake. I am as proud as they come, but am I so proud that I would not return to the Frost King, begging for my life?
These are my lies: Elora needs me. The Frost King is my enemy. Nothing can break me.
These are my truths: Elora chose Shaw over me. The Frost King is my husband. I am already broken.
I think I’ve been broken for a long time. I’ve lived with this hole in my chest for so long I grew desensitized to it. I adapted because I hadn’t a choice. What was important? Elora, always Elora. Her health and safety, comfort and prosperity. She, the favored daughter, sweet and docile, the brightest star. If my parents prioritized her wellbeing over my own, she must be deserving, worthy, loved. Not Wren. Never Wren. Any inkling of sadness, fear, unhappiness—I shoved it down, far into the dark. I told myself my feelings did not matter.
And then the North Wind arrived at Edgewood and I decided my life did not matter. I made a decision then: sacrifice. Rash and foolish it may have been, but if I were to relive that moment, I believe I’d choose no differently.
