With every step, I’m aware of Thyra. Her wide, pale-blue eyes. Her lips pressed together.
How quiet she is now.
Her breathing barely makes a sound as if, without me asking, she senses the need for silence.
Up ahead, a thick mist beckons, wafting between the trees, droplets of fog glistening in the dark.
I’ve come to the Alak-Teah only once before, and that was when I was a boy.
Mother brought me and my sister, telling us we were safe because our hearts were innocent, and so the creatures who dwell here could have no quarrel with us.
She told us this forest is called theAlak-Teahand that the creatures who live here are also called theAlak-Teahbecause they are one and the same. It made little sense to me at the time and still doesn’t.
I’ve never seen one of them. Like vampyrs, those who meet the Alak-Teah do not return to speak of it.
But I remember Mother’s lesson well. She showed us the path I’m stealing along now, pointed to the mist, and with her Lethian Voice, she gave a rare command: “Never step foot through that mist. What lies behind the mist is not for you.”
But it must be for Thyra.
Only because of her will I break my vow never to return to this place.
The calming sound of swirling water reaches my ears, a source of warmth that will give Thyra what she needs.
Only here within the Alak-Teah do the hot springs that run beneath the Frost Kingdom naturally reach the surface. Everywhere else, we must tap into their heat, drilling down to harness the steam, but here, the springs run free.
I can hear them, rushing and bubbling, both soothing and agitating.
They could just as easily spell death.
As I approach the mist, I step even more lightly, ensuring my footfalls are quieter than whispers.
With my next step, my boot lands on rock instead of earth, signaling how near we are to the fabled rock pools.
Moments later, we reach the mist, and without hesitation, I step into it.
The mist envelops us.
Warmmist.
Thyra stiffens in my arms, jolting against my chest, her lips brushing my neck, her gasp smothered against my throat. Soft. But dangerously loud in this fraught environment.
I move faster, step after step through the thick fog, seeking the other side.
As I walk, an earthy scent reaches me, accompanied by distant scuffles that any other fae would miss.
According to myth, the Alak-Teah are nearly completely silent when they hunt their prey, but I hear them. Just as I’ve detected every assassin who has ever come after me.
Soft clicks. Softer hisses.
I don’t pause, aware of the impact of the warmth on Thyra—her next moan not so smothered against my neck while her clawed grip against my heart eases.
The warmer air will begin reviving her frozen limbs, but she needs a lot more of its heat. The stark reality is that it’s only warm by comparison to the freezing temperatures outside the Alak-Teah.
She needs the water itself if she’s to survive.
As the mist becomes heavier, turning into a weight around us, pressing back against our progress, the distant scuffling sounds intensify.
Turning my left shoulder, I push through the final step, bracing for imminent attack.
