Alexi of Ghent.
Shared withher.
As snow falls around us, her eyes flutter open. She’s too weak to sign, but I know her face. Every expression.I can read her thoughts in that furrowed brow, see them floating in her deep blue eyes.
“No,” I whisper. “I didn’t save you. I only helped you save yourself.”
I touch the rune on her chest, then press my lipsto it. The truth is that this woman is saving me. She saved me on the green, in the wood, in the ravine, and she’s saving me right now, just by breathing. The power she holds over me still feels inexplicable, but it’s real, and it’s so impossibly strong, as if I were born into this world for her alone.
Her eyes close, but her heart still pounds beneath my touch. In another life, I would’ve tried to know her. I would’ve admired her and read her poems written by my own hand. I would’ve walked with her through fields of stardrops, danced with her in the stream.
But this is not another life.
And I’m beginning to wonder if it has to be.
The first time I rouse, I see nothing but a snowy sky, and it hurts to breathe. I’m alone, but then a body folds around mine, warm and comforting, and for a heartbeat, I think it’s my mother. But a little death thrums inside my chest, nestled away in a deep corner of my heart. It’s him. The sureness of that fact brings overwhelming relief that sweeps me back to darkness. He is exactly where he belongs.
With me.
His deep voice meets my ears. “Come, little beauty,” and I’m dimly aware of being carried away, Frostwater Wood fading from sight.
The second timeI open my eyes, a long, black cloak sweeps over me like a blanket. The world is still white, and I think I’m in the vale in winter, the pale light of morning breaking throughthe clouds. I’m atop a horse, strong arms cradling me while holding fast to the reins. I hear thechink chink clinkof a bridle, the soft thud of hooves, and I notice an unmistakable sway, rocking me back to sleep.
Before I succumb, I look at the bearded face of the man who holds me, and he meets my stare. My head rests on his shoulder, his mouth so close that the warmth of his breath brushes against my lips.
“It’s all right. I’m here. Rest.”
My heart pounds, something inside me fearing that this can’t be real, while another part of me prays to the moon that it is. He shouldn’t be here, and if it’s a dream, I want to cling to it a while longer.
My eyes close—I’ve no command over them anymore—and I drift, curling against the Witch Collector’s heat.
ALEXUS.
His name playing over and over in my head tugs me awake the third time. I open my eyes, and it takes a moment to realize where I am.
And that I’m still breathing.
I lie in an elegant bed with four intricately carved wooden posts, a black brocade canopy with matching bed curtains. The room is so warm. It’s the size of the cottage, with a fire blazing in a massive stone hearth. I’m no longer wearing my bloody bodice or leathers or borrowed boots. I’m dressed in a chiffon shift that’s the color of a blush. My hair is still damp and smells of jasmine and lilac.
I remember everything. The ravine. The Shadow World. Seeing Winterhold—in person—for the first time. Being stripped, bathed, and mended by strangers while in a daze. Explaining to Alexus, Hel, and Rhonin as much as I could about what happened. Holding Nephele by the fire as she cried for the loss of her village, her mother, her king.
Reaching for Alexus when it was over. Asking him to stay. Healing his wounds.
His body curling around mine.
Instinctively, I run my hand across the bed behind me. Much to mydisappointment, the sheets are cold and empty. Alexus and I only slept when he was here, too exhausted to even talk, much less anything else. I find myself regretting that I didn’t find the energy for something more before reality rushed to greet us.
I lost the Northland king and the God Knife to the enemy. Vexx fled the wood unscathed, and the Prince of the East and Neri are free. I have to keep reminding myself that matters could be worse.
The fight isn’t over.
Though I’m achy, I toss aside the coverlet and get up. Deep, silvery moonlight floods the room through a massive arched window. I hadn’t been clear-headed enough to take it all in before. This must be a former library-turned-guest chambers. There are books everywhere. Tall bookcases have been built into every wall, spanning from slate floor to coffered ceiling, each shelf crammed to its fullest.
Being from the vale, the closest thing I’ve seen to a library was Mena’s stash of books she brought from Penrith years ago, volumes collected from her trips to the coast when she was young. She owned a few dozen books—a trove. My parents kept a shelf of twelve works that I read a thousand times. I’ve certainly never seen any number of books likethis. I could live here.
An ornate wooden desk sits a few strides from the bed, positioned at an angle, facing the view beyond the glass. The desktop is covered with fine parchment and scrolls, organized by size, and an array of inkpots and quills, a wax burner, and a seal.
I pick up the seal and study its impression. It’s the same sigil I now bear on my skin.
