The Withered army waited outside, their voices muted beneath the hush of wind through the trees. At my insistence, Vanya had joined us. She stood quiet as a mouse near the door like she might bolt at any moment. She’d already asked me three times if I needed anything.
Rydian stood near the table where maps were spread open, his shadows curling faintly in the low light. Keres stood on thetable’s other side, arms crossed, looking ready to stab anyone who spoke out of turn. Daegel and Thorne sat opposite each other, a mug of ale in their hands. Slade sprawled in a chair, eyes half-lidded but alert. They’d all found dry clothes somehow, but the contents of our packs—the food Nali had given us when we’d left—were ruined.
And then there was Eirnan.
Clearly a leader among the Withered here, he entered without announcement, tall and spare as a winter pine. His hair was streaked silver, his skin pale, his cheeks and nose bright pink from the cold, but there was something unbroken in the way he moved. Soldier. Survivor. From the looks of his weathered body, his magic was nearly gone, but he held himself as proud as any fae warrior.
“Your Highness,” he said to me with a bow so crisp it belonged to another era. “If titles still mean anything, that is.”
“They don’t,” I said, though part of me still felt the weight of it. “Not out here, anyway. Aurelia will do.”
He nodded once and looked to Rydian. “And you, my Prince?”
I tried not to react to the reference, knowing full well Eirnan meant it for Rydian’s Autumn roots.
“I’ve never liked that title either,” Rydian told him kindly.
Eirnan smiled faintly. “Good. Then we may speak as soldiers.”
“Please,” Rydian said, gesturing. “You have the floor. Tell us what you know.”
Eirnan approached the table, spreading out a crude parchment map of the northern reaches—one clearly drawn from memory. “Heliconia’s army holds the ridge along the Concordian border. Her troops have doubled in the past month, and every village in their path has been leveled to complete destruction.”
“She’s done licking her wounds,” I murmured.
Eirnan nodded. “There’s more than simply war. The ground freezes where her soldiers march. Snow falls, enough to bury home and hearth. Rivers have frozen over. Game has migrated south or succumbed to the frigid temperatures.”
“Winter magic is spreading,” Daegel muttered.
“The rumors are true, then.” Rydian’s gaze flicked to mine. “She’s recovered at last.”
“Our scouts overheard her soldiers talking. They say her strength has been renewed. That the curse she cast on Summer nearly killed her, but she’s come back even stronger. They believe she’s drawing from something ancient.”
“Something more than the power she stole from the gods?” Keres asked.
“We don’t know,” Eirnan said.
The tent fell silent except for the hiss of the brazier. I traced the jagged line of the mountains on the map. “And she plans to use that power against the Autumn Court?”
Eirnan inclined his head. “Her soldiers speak freely of it—how their queen will make an example of King Callan for trying to take a traitor queen.”
Keres’ gaze sharpened on me. “Wow, she really is obsessed with you.”
Slade snorted.
“Heliconia proposed to him,” I said. “Again.”
“What?” Keres’ eyes widened.
Slade sat up straighter. “I heard she did once before. Back before he announced his engagement with you.”
“Apparently, I was his loophole so he didn’t have to outright refuse her,” I said.
“And now?” Keres asked, brow lifted as if she’d already guessed Callan had come here to try that same loophole again.
“She offered him mercy in exchange for his throne,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone. “If he refuses, she marches on his kingdom.”
Thorne leaned forward, brow furrowed. “And will he? Refuse?”
