I come to an abrupt halt, caught in the twisted branches. My view is filled with blackened and burned wood, each dead vine as thick as my arms. The amber light reflects off thousands of glassy, crimson spikes that protrude from the dead greenery.
Visibility is impaired in all directions. All I can see are bony vines. I certainly don’t know where I am. Not that I would dare to move my head to look around right now. The sharp end of a thorn rests a scant quarter of an inch away from my left eye. Another pricks the side of my neck, breaking my skin but not badly enough that I’m concerned for my life. Yet.
Within the thick tangle next to me, I can vaguely make out a shape that doesn’t seem to be vines—a skeleton of some sort of small creature that must have become entangled in this brush and never escaped.
I try not to move in case there are more thorns where I can’t see them. A spike in the back of my neck is not my idea of a fun way to die.
Swiveling my gaze as carefully as I can, I ascertain that the other royals aren’t tangled in this brush with me.
But I’m certainly not alone.
I’m acutely aware of lifeforms around me—both small and large. Some are miniscule—insects maybe. Others are too immense to make sense of from my current position. My wolf’s senses are going haywire, growls growing in my throat. She struggles within me, wanting to escape the trap I’ve found myself in, but I call on my darker side, the colder demon power.
Moving as slowly and as carefully as I can, I angle the fingers of my right hand toward the rune on my left wrist, desperate to trigger the magic so it will extend my suit up and over my head. I gasp when a vine gives way on my left, and my heart nearly stops when the needle pressing into my neck digs deeper.
Calming myself, I manage to brush the rune. “Clothe.”Fully clothe. Even my hands.
My protective suit wraps around the back of my head, gathering my hair up in awhoosh, and descending down my face and neck. The magic cuts through the thorn at my neck, snapping off its tip, just in time before the vines on my left give way.
I snatch hold of a branch at my eye level, grateful for the new protection over my hands, holding tightly so I don’t fall and, luckily, the branch holds.
My muscles bunch as I draw myself upward, determined to figure out where I am.
My ascent through the thick patch of thorns leaves my suit close to ripping, spikes grabbing and tearing nearly completely through the material at times, forcing me to go slowly. I can’t afford to damage this suit unnecessarily.
Finally, I pull myself to the top of the vines, discovering that the thorny patch is more than fifteen feet high. It’s an enormous mound of tangled branches that fills the space within a ring of blackened and burned trees. I’m now balancing precariously on top of it, hoping the vines I’m standing on don’t crack beneath my feet and send me tumbling back down into it.
The air is dry and warm and the few patches of ground I can see through the twisted vines are covered in ashes. The canopy of overhead leaves is so thick above me that only a few rays of moonlight reach me.
My brow furrows as I try to figure out where I am.
If the trees and the vines were green, I could believe that this is the jungle—the expanse of nature that Roman and Esta called ‘the Wilds.’ The jungle had looked lush and green from a distance, alluring, and I’m reminded again of Roman’s warning about illusions.
He also warned me that I wasn’t ready to come here.
I don’t have any way to confirm right now that this is, in fact, the Wilds, but I know that I have to make my way back to the city as fast as I can. Even if Crone may be hoping I won’t make it back at all. It seems extremely convenient that I landed exactly at the center of a deadly patch of thorns that would have sliced me to shreds if it weren’t for my protective suit.
I have no doubt every step I take will carry new threats in this place.
The air is dank and still, but it feels like a deliberate hush, as if I’m not the only one holding my breath right now. My senses continue to fill with the presence of multiple creatures, but nothing I see now explains how immense some of the power around me feels. I still don’t see or hear the other royals…
An intense prickle grows at the back of my neck and my suddenly shrieking instincts tell me to turn around as slowly as I can.
Crouching, my palms down, my arms held out at my sides to keep my balance, I swivel.
Standing perfectly still on top of the thorny patch several paces away from me is a man.
Or, at least, this being looks like a man.
The faint amber glow from the vines behind him reveal only his humanoid silhouette, not his facial features. Even so, the contours of his outline make his skin appear aged and the edges of his clothing are a strangely mottled combination of shades of green and brown. His shoulders are hunched, his arms hang at his sides, and his bare feet barely touch the vines.
His stillness is unsettling.
“Hungry,” he whispers, remaining where he is. “Always hungry.”
As he speaks, a puff of air pushes at his coat, and my eyes widen when the breeze floatsthroughhim, separating his skin and clothing, ruffling his whole body. He splits into leaves and twigs and dirt that settle back into his shape when the breeze stops.
I stifle a gasp.
