‘This camp belongs to Princess Rio Hawthorne, of House of Wild,’ the Fae said, his voice warm but cautious. ‘We journey towards the stronghold of King Fannar, your fa—’ He bit the word short, lips snapping shut as though the rest might burn him. ‘Listen… may I lower my hands? They ache from holding them aloft, and I swear upon my antlers I’ve no intention of harming you.’
‘No, do not dare—’ Ylva began, but she never finished.
The Fae dropped his arms and closed the distance between them with disarming ease. Ylva faltered, bow taut in her grip, uncertain whether to fire or flee. Before her instincts could decide, he batted the arrow aside and pulled her firmly into an embrace. The bow slipped from her hands and landed softly in the snow.
Shock froze her limbs. This stranger, with his wild beauty and antlered grace, held her as if she were an old friend long lost. When she found her voice, she shoved him away.
‘What in the gods’ names do you think you are doing?’ she snapped.
‘You’re safe,’ he said simply, relief softening his features.
‘Where is Freya?’ Ylva demanded.
‘Who?’He tilted his head, confusion flashing behind those green, luminescent eyes. ‘We found you on the ground and…’ He sighed, his gaze dipping. ‘You were beside the body of Kage Blackburn.’
‘Who?’ The name struck no chord within her.
‘You truly don’t remember us, do you?’ he asked, and something like sorrow ghosted across his face.
Ylva rubbed the back of her neck, uncertain. ‘Show me.’
‘What is it you wish to see?’ His green eyes twinkled again, a brief spark of mischief despite the gravity of his words.
‘The body,’ she growled.
The light in his eyes dimmed, and he nodded, solemn once more. Together they crossed the camp, its snowy silence broken only by the distant crackle of fires and murmured Fae voices. At last, they reached a tent. He drew back the flaps, and Ylva stepped inside.
She froze.
There, lying in stillness, was a young man with pale skin and dark hair, his beautiful face marked by curling black horns that twisted like living obsidian. A wyverian.
‘Do you know who did this?’ she asked, her voice tight, almost breaking under the weight of an unfamiliar grief.
He shook his head slowly. ‘No. But I’ve offered to return the body to his kin, so they might at least know of his passing.’
‘Why not bury him here?’
‘Wyverians do not bury their dead,’ he replied, his tone soft with respect. ‘They burn them with wyvern fire.’
‘Were you close to him?’
The Fae hesitated, as though combing through distant memories. At length he sighed. ‘I suppose. Close enough. We leave tomorrow for the wolverian castle, to see what has become of them there. Then we travel across the Kingdom of Ice, onward to the Kingdom of Darkness.’
‘I need to find Freya.’
‘I do not know who this Freya is,’ he said, tilting his head with mild curiosity. ‘But what I do know, little wolf, is thatnow that I have found you, you will remain by my side.’
Ylva wrinkled her nose. ‘Pardon? I don’t even know you.’
He cast one final glance towards the lifeless body before taking her gently but firmly by the arm, guiding her out of the tent. She swatted at his hand, irritation flashing across her features.
‘You’re right,’ he said with an unbothered grin. ‘You don’t know me.’ He stopped, turned, and extended his hand with a flourish, his smile brightening like dawn. ‘Then allow me to remedy that. Arden. Arden Briar.’
Ylva arched a pale brow, eyes falling to his hand. Large, calloused, and far too certain of itself.
‘It doesn’t bite,’ he teased, his green eyes alight with mischief when she only stared.
‘I need to find Freya. I really don’t have time for this.’ She turned sharply, white hair whipping in the breeze like a banner, and strode between the rows of tents, silently praying her horse might be waiting among them.
