It was that same will that drew her to Ískastali, that forced her to her knees at the foot of the throne of the Ice Queen herself. It coaxed the words out of her mouth.
There was a law. An ancient one without a book or a scribe. One passed through the generations in the late, desperate hours, when the lesser, born into ash and heartbreak—not gold and privilege—screamed at the stars.
“Aelphicas leges advoco. Ad veniam proelium. Ad misericordiam certamem. Ad gratiam mors.”
It wasn’t in the common tongue, but she could feel the magic, and even if it didn’t promise freedom, at least it gave her a chance.
“Oh, this is ridiculous. You try waking her.”
Pressure dug into my shoulder. My body jiggled back and forth. Everything was shaking, the volcano was erupting, the monstrous beings were crawling out of it?—
Lids flinging open, I shot up, the air like fire in my chest. The man hovering at my side gasped, sending his clipboard clattering. His circular spectacles fell down his nose as he bent to grab it—Kristjan. A tall, regal figure towered next to him, silhouette lit by flickering candles.
I blinked once, twice. The queen.
“What are you—” A textured throw pillow slipped off the velvet cushion and dropped to the rug. That was right—I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Shit, Olivia. I was supposed to meet her at the archives. “What time is it?”
I looked towards the windows. The curtains had been closed. Craning my neck, I glanced behind the queen to the grate. The fire had gone out.
Hildur stepped into my line of sight. “It’s nearing midnight,” she whispered, a trill lining her normally calm tone.
“Why are you in—” The question caught in my throat as the front door flung open and a line of elves shuffled in.
Their quick steps whispered across the room, gazes fixed on the floor.
Commandeering what was supposed to be my dining area, they draped dozens of black garment bags over the table, filling the remaining space with cosmetics, perfumes, and tubs of glittery paint.
Just beyond the set of double doors, furniture legs ground against the hardwood, making room for a plastic sheet. The kind used for butchering.
The muted whoosh of water came from deeper inside the room. They were drawing a bath.
Eyes wide and unsure, I met the queen’s violet stare. It was bright, glowing, sparkling with magic. Things never, ever ended well for me when she looked like that.
“You’re going someplace very special tonight.”
Jarðarbæli. My heart skipped. It was time.
Twisting my legs off the couch, I scrambled to my feet. “I’m ready, just”—wiping at a thick strand of hair stuck to my cheek, I continued—“tell me what you need.”
Corner of her lip quirking up, she gestured to the bedroom.
I spun around and immediately rammed my knee into the coffee table—that was going to leave a mark—and then followed her silent order.
“Tonight, you’ll be entering the Heimer Töfra, a spirit realm between dimensions,” she said, trailing behind me.
The Heimer Töfra. So that’s where Gaia’s lair was located. Passing the open armoire—the satin and silk, the sparkling and bejeweled dresses hanging in a tight row—I tucked that bit of information away for later.
“To be granted safe passage, we must provide an offering, even if only temporary.”
Her voice was calm—too calm.
“What kind of offering?”
“Your soul.”
I froze halfway across the marble tile of the bathroom. “Pardon?”
I must have heard wrong. The water was running, and I hadn’t shaken off the grogginess of sleep, because there’s no way she actually said?—
