Rowena is so trusting. She suspects nothing as we walk arm in arm to the undercroft’s concealed entrance and make our way down the switchback stairs into cold darkness.
But the moment she pulls the hidden lever that opens the door to the secret passage, and I see the terrified faces within, I gesture for her to go first.
Once she crosses the threshold, I reset the lever. Rowena turns, mouth agape, the door closing between us. She rushes forward, but I stare resolutely at her shocked face through the closing gap.
“I love you, and I’ll see you soon,” I promise her. “Get everyone to the safe house.”
The last thing I hear as the door fastens is Rowena’s tender voice calling my name like a plea.
Though the veil is still wavering in my mind, and though I’m struggling physically, I stumble down the hall to the weapons room, pressing on one side of my nose to stop the bleeding.
When I swing open the door, I come face-to-face with the village bowyer, an Icelander by the name of Joran Dulevia. He holds several quivers in his gray-tinted hands.
He tilts his silver-haired head and narrows those matching eyes. “Well, well. You aren’t supposed to be here.”
Clinging to the door handle, I grit my teeth and ball my other hand into a fist. “Are you going to try to do something about that?”
He smirks. “Not at all. We need all the defense we can get, though I can’t say you’re looking your best.” His gaze travels over me without an ounce of empathy, even when he notices the blood I suddenly feel trickling from my nose again.
“Fuck you, Joran.” I swipe at the blood. As if I haven’t been fighting a war of my own since all of this began.
He stalks past, bumping hard into my shoulder, shoving me against the door, still smirking as he steps into the hall. “Anytime, Miss Bloodgood,” he calls. “Anytime.”
Disgusted, I brush at my shoulder where he touched me and move deeper into the room, strapping on daggers, knives, and a sword. I grab a shield, too. I might be too drained to fight with magick, but I can be a bitch with steel. Alexus and Colden have taught me well.
I climb the stairs to the first floor and go outside. The cold is biting, but it chases away the fog hovering over my mind, and the afternoon sun is bright upon the snow, the light providing a renewed sense of alertness.
Our warriors fill the courtyard, armed to the teeth and waiting. Many are on horseback, their swords and shields ready. The watchtowers are guarded, too, and witches line the village wall, singing their magick, helping me hold the veil.
Those witches don’t realize how weak they’ve grown over these last days, because the truth of the matter is this: if I lose my grip on the barrier, it’s going to collapse, no matter how loud they sing.
Head aching as I mentally reweave the faltering threads, I glance up at the ramparts, where the archers have readied three lines of defense. I spot Joran’s silver head easily, and with him, Colden.
Joran points down at me, and I swear Colden’s anger chills the already-frigid air between us. He pushes past Joran and stomps along the rampart in his blue velvet coat, blond hair whipping in the wind.
He’s coming to reprimand me, but I refuse to run.
We don’t get the chance to argue about it. The guards in the watchtowers sound the alarm, horns echoing across the village.
Apprehension ricochets through my chest as I run toward the gate for a better view of Winter Road. And again, the veil wavers, harder than before.
“Hold the veil!” I shout. “You can do it! Hold!”
The other witches look at me. I see the worry etched upon their faces. They’re scared and exhausted, and as their support fades one by one, I begin losing my grip, too.
“No!” I scream, feeling the veil—our last barrier—dissipating like it was never there.
Dizzy and tasting blood on my lips, I turn back to the castle, only to find Colden bursting through the main doors, hands at his sides,his fingers curled like talons. The snow has been shoveled from the grounds these last few days, but everywhere Colden’s booted feet land, the snow seems to slink toward his feet, as if he’s gathering power.
The air between us crystallizes with frost, and snowflake-laden wind swirls around him.
He is the Frost King, and he is a storm.
“Get to the safe house,” he says as he passes me, heading for the main village gate.
I glance around, taking in the battle-ready faces and nocked arrows on the ramparts, the warriors hastening to guard the wall and gate with their swords and shields, the witches who are truly too exhausted to fight but, like me, refuse to cower.
Then I rush to follow my king, like a pup on his heels.
