Farmers at the next table. Their voices low and defeated.
“…lost the potatoes this week. All black from frost.”
“We’re pulling the children out. Going west to Rethmar. At least the soil isn’t frozen solid.”
“Lucky you can go west,” another mutters. “I’ve gotten so desperate I’m thinking of volunteering at the mines. At least you get three meals a day and a bed at night.”
At that, someone scoffs bitterly. “You’ll be dead before supper. Those tunnels aren’t right. Haven’t been for a long time.”
“They dug too deep,” an older man whispers. “Woke something that should’ve stayed buried.”
My spine stiffens.
Here it is. The ghost tale that’s seeped through these lands as deeply as the whisper that Luceran murdered not just his beautiful wife, but a dozen of his staff, humans and Fae alike.
The darkness within the Aurevault, the mines where Elarium ore is farmed for the great houses.
I sip my soup, pretending I’m not listening, but every word hooks into me.
“Been quiet there lately,” one murmurs. “Too cold even for the evil in those mines.”
They laugh.
“Still. I’ve heard the tales. Men go into the mines and come out… different. If they come out at all. They say there are some shafts they’re forbidden to enter. That there’s something down there.”
“Nonsense,” another grunts. “Just old stories to keep us obedient.”
But not all the men look convinced.
Neither am I.
The cold creeping over the Sundered Kingdoms, the killing frost swallowing farm after farm, didn’t come from nowhere, and the thought that something worse than Lord Luceran might lurk within the Aurevault is too terrifying to comprehend.
When our chests are warm with broth and feeling returns to our limbs, we head back to the horses. I help Father into the saddle, his breath smokes the air in thin, rattling bursts. Pulling my fur tighter around me, I mount behind the blond rider again.This time, he doesn’t offer a hand.
The road grows narrower as we ascend into the mountains. Snow drifts choke the path, frost climbing the cliffs like veins of silver until at last I see it.
House Frostwyn.
The castle rises on the hill ahead. Once, it was a beacon above the rolling green landscape, its pale stone drenched in sunlight, its wolf banners bright against the sky. I remember seeing it as a child, thinking it looked almost hopeful up there, watching over the valley.
But that was before the frost.
Now the sun rarely touches it. The sky hangs heavy and gray, a lid of cloud and sleet that swallows the light long before it reaches the towers. What used to gleam now broods.
The fortress looks carved from winter itself. Stone cracked and crumbling, shot through with veins of ice that glow faintly beneath the storm-dark sky. Spires spearupward like frozen fangs. Even the stained-glass windows, which should be beautiful, are black and hollow, offering no promise of hearthlight, no hint of warmth within.
My father shivers behind the dark-haired rider, and I swallow hard.
This is the heart of the winter that’s killing us.
This is where Lord Luceran Frostwyn waits.
This is where my fate begins.
2
The horses come to a roaring stop at the front steps, hooves skidding across frost-bitten stone. I lift my head and the first thing I notice isn’t attendants or servants waiting to greet us. It’s thelackof them. This place might as well be abandoned.
