The room fell briefly silent. Until the front door creaked open. Hulking and bristling with steam was the form of a bear. One massive paw landed on the first step.
Raveena exhaled. The air hissed with cold. Frost bloomed beneath the bear’s paw, and with a growl, it lost traction—slipping violently, its weight crashing down into the frozen earth with a furious roar.
She turned back to Snow and raised a brow. This was the kind of game she was used to. There was a bit of pride in her chest that her stepdaughter was at least matching her and not making the game boring.
“Your father died in his sleep. He was old. His heart stopped from his… exertions.”
“You lie.” Snow raised both arms, and the trees trembled. Glass shattered. A murder of crows came screaming into the room and aimed at Raveena. They circled her like shadows with teeth.
Wind howled through the cottage, clawing at curtains and sending ash swirling up from the hearth. With the windows open, Raveena pulled the icicles from tree branches into the room. Wind whipped around her. Crystals formed in the air.
The birds shrieked, wings beating frantically against the gale as they tried to scatter. But they were too slow. The first impaled a crow mid-cry, pinning it to the timber beam above with a sickening crunch. Another punched through a raven’s chest, feathers exploding in a wet burst of black and red. Blood streaked the walls. The scent of copper and snow filled the air. One by one, the birds were speared at the end of the frozen blades.
Snow gaped. "Murderer."
"Well, the birds, yes. But not your father. I was beneath him when it happened. I swore the servants to secrecy. Because can you imagine the embarrassment?"
Snow wasn't listening. She flung out her hand toward the open door, commanding the wilderness like a conductor summoning a crescendo. The bear, still frozen at the foot of the steps, bellowed and thrashed, claws carving furrows into the ice-slick ground. Another sound split the air—a long, mournful howl that echoed through the trees like a warning bell.
Between the snow-laden trunks, shapes emerged. Low to the ground, sinewed and silent, the wolves came. Half-seen shadows at first, then flesh and fur—thick coats dusted in frost, muscles rippling beneath. Their eyes glowed with a feral yellow light, twin moons ringed in black. Lips curled back to reveal teeth, white and gleaming like bone, saliva threading between them as pink tongues licked hungrily at the cold air.
They moved in tandem, circling, paws pressing silently into the snow. One stepped forward, shoulders hunched, nose twitching as it caught the scent of blood, of magic, of war.
And then?—
They saw her.
The wolves took one look at Raveena and paused. The one in front, the alpha of the pack, sniffed the air. His gaze narrowedon her. Then he bowed his head and turned. The others followed suit, walking back into the dark forest.
Another howl rent the air, this time from the dark-haired princess. Snow charged. She moved like a tempest of fury and grief, a blade of rage and memory. It was woman against woman now.
Raveena met her head-on. Their hands clashed. Magic surged as their bodies went out the door, over the head of the bear, and fell at the roots of an ancient tree.
Snow’s fingernails tore through Raveena’s shoulder. Raveena’s frost burned red welts along Snow’s arms. They twisted, grappled, eyes locked.
Snow’s boot caught Raveena’s knee. Raveena snarled and threw her off with a blast of snow that knocked them both apart. Snow stumbled, regained her footing, and raised her hand?—
Then froze.
Her face twisted.
She dropped to her knees with a cry—not of pain from battle but something deeper, stranger.
Raveena blinked through the haze of magic. “Snow?”
Snow crawled to the base of a tree and retched.
The forest went utterly still. Even the birds stopped crying.
Raveena rose slowly, her power ebbing. The ice receded, melting into dew.
Aurora and Ariel ducked their heads from their hiding spaces. It was Aurora that spoke up. "She's been irrational like this since she found out she's pregnant."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cold bit at the edges of Graham’s cloak. He didn’t feel it. Not when the scent of her still lingered in the air.
He crouched low at the spot where the carriage had departed, his callused fingers brushing over the faint indentations in the snow. The horses had left clean tracks. No scuffle. No signs of a chase. No blood. Only the sharp, orderly trail of wheels and hooves rolling away from the castle gates like a secret leaving in the night.
