Frostwyn has always been a desolate place, but tonight it feels worse, angrier somehow. The snow churns violently, wrapping the towers in a white blur that lashes at my skin, each strike burning as I press on. Even Mink and Fitz abandon their mischief, burrowing beneath my cloak to keep from being torn away by the wind while the mare staggers beneath me.
I feel it in the way her stride falters, in the slowing thud of her heart beneath my legs, as though the cold itself is dragging her down. When we finally break through the storm and her hooves strike stone in the courtyard, she nearly buckles.
I’m off her back at once.
I steady her, running my hands over her face, my forehead resting briefly against hers in wordless thanks for carrying me this far, for not giving up when everything else seemed intent on stopping us. But there is no time to linger.
I turn and sprint for the steps.
The great doors stand wide open.
Snow pours over the threshold, the gray twilight bleeding into the hall beyond. Curtains whip wildly in the icy wind, snapping like wounded wings as it whistles through the space, hollow and haunting. Beneath the fresh drift of snow, blood still stains the marble. Goblets lie shattered. Tables remain overturned.
Nothing has changed.
It is as if the castle itself froze the moment I fled.
Fear tightens in my chest. I can only hope Luceran hasn’t worsened. I run first toward the rose garden where I left him, clinging to the foolish hope that he might still be there.
He isn’t.
My gaze darts upward. Upstairs. Maybe in his room.
Then, across the rose garden, through the shattered stained-glass window of the library, I see the unmistakable flicker of firelight.
I slow my steps, moving carefully now, keeping light on my feet, unwilling to disturb the snow or draw the attention of anyone I would rather avoid. I slip through the broken window, mindful this time of the broken glass. The gash on my cheek throbs, a sharp reminder of the last time I was here.
Inside, the library is hushed.
I move between the aisles, keeping to the shadows, drawn inexorably toward the hearth. As I round the final shelf, I see him.
A figure curled in the chair before the fire. A heavy gray fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
My breath catches painfully.
I would know that profile anywhere.
“Luceran,” I breathe.
I rush forward, dropping to my knees before him as the sight of his face undoes me completely. Tears spill freely as I bow my head into his lap, my hands clutching at him.
“Neve,” he rasps, the single word dragged from his throat with effort. “You came back.”
I lift my head. His hand trembles as it slides along my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek with infinite care.
“I should never have left,” I whisper.
I can see the veins beneath his skin, dark, almost black, branching beneath its pale translucence. Shadows bruise the hollows beneath his eyes, gray threads through the ivory of his skin, and his hair lies flat against his face, limp, as if damp with sweat.
“Your heart,” I whisper. My hand drifts up his chest, hovering over it, afraid to press too hard. “I can make something. Something to ease the pain.”
He shakes his head and folds his hand over mine, firm despite the tremor in his fingers. He pulls me closer until I’m sitting in his lap, my body fitted against his as perfectly as ever.
“It’s too late for that,” he says hoarsely. “I only want you now.”
I refuse to give up so easily.
“What are you saying? You can’t just sit here. We need todosomething.”
