“I didn’t kill them. If I could have died instead of them, I would have.”
Slowly, the tension in Thyra’s body fades. She leans back into me, her hair tickling my chin as she turns her face toward my neck. “You don’t have to talk about it. I won’t ask.”
The scent of her hair is once again like icy roses, but this time, it’s soothing.
“If Lilis was trapped in servitude to the Silversten family,” Thyra says, “how did she get out?”
I welcome the change of focus back to Lilis. “She came after me one night. I gave her a choice other than death.”
Thyra cranes to see me. “‘Came after’ you?”
A cold smile forms. “Lilis had, unknown to Iker, trained herself in combat. She hoped that if she could present my head to him and effectively hand him the throne, he would reward her with her freedom.” My smile becomes grim. “He would have killed her. She knew this.”
I don’t miss the catch in Thyra’s voice. “So she really came to you for a swift death.”
“Which I denied.”
“Because?” Thyra attempts to pin me with her gaze. “Why not kill her?”
Why not, indeed?When I’ve demonstrated to Thyra that’s what I do to my enemies. If only Iker weren’t so careful to stay out of my presence. He’s twenty years older than me, nearing the end of his fifth decade,but he hasn’t come within striking distance of me since I took the throne, and never without multiple fae between us acting as a living shield against aggression.
“Lilis got closer to me than any assassin had before,” I say. “I needed a general to lead my army. My soldiers feared me but didn’t trust me. I saw an opportunity and took it.”
“How did Iker react?”
“He labeled Lilis a traitor and swore he’d get his revenge. Vows like that don’t diminish with time. The men in the field are from Iker’s personal guard. It doesn’t surprise me that they struck Lilis from behind.”
Thyra’s chest deflates. “You weren’t exaggerating when you said Frost Fae don’t hide behind duplicitous smiles. You warned me that the dangers in your kingdom are as clear as they are deadly.”
“Iker has had years to prepare,” I reply. “He’s trained his own personal army. If I die, he will take power.”
Thyra’s exhalation is soft. Slow. “Now I’ve foreseen that the Winter Strife will come into play.”
“I don’t want to make you doubt yourself, but are you sure it was Brunkil’s voice you heard?”
Thyra cranes to look up at me, her pale-blue eyes wide, and this time, I loosen my hold on her, allowing her to twist. It causes her cloak to gape open, and she immediately tugs at it from the inside. Only for another section to gape. She will need to close it soon, as the wind is picking up, but for now, I don’t want to confine her. She can choose to stay warm—or not.
“I want to sayyes, it was definitely Brunkil,” she says, “but now that I understand more about your kingdom… If I’m wrong, and you choose to trust me and believe the threat will come only from the shapeshifters, the consequences could be catastrophic.”
She turns to face forward again, her cloak closing around her.
“No matter who comes for the throne,” I say, “whether it’s Iker or Brunkil, they will want two things: to kill me and seize you. If they’re smart, they won’t try to do both at once. They’ll come for you first. Then find a way to invoke the Strife.”
“Take my visions away from you first.” She nods. “Either by force or…will they try to convince me to ally myself with them?”
“They might. Your power is a significant tool that could work in their favor if you were willing.”
“But if they can’t convince me to work for them, they’ll kill me.”
She frames the outcome as a certainty, not a question, and this time, she doesn’t try to twist to see me as she continues. “Not once have you told me, you want me to break the curse. I’ve spoken about it, and you listened, but you’ve avoided promising anything. It’s only now occurring to me that your people, the Frost Fae, have come to accept this life. And even, for some of them, to want to protect the power they’ve accumulated because of it.” She pauses and now she asks, “Am I wrong?”
Despite the iciness with which she speaks and the hard certainty in her voice, her heart betrays how weakened she is.
She’s hungry and tired, but damn, she’s determined to hide it.
I could have let her believe what I first assumed about the battle behind me—that the Northerners were responsible for the carnage—but I won’t lie to her.
I nudge my cheek to hers, giving her the confirmation she seeks by asking, “What kind of combat training do you have?”
