Page 10 of The Fox Heir

Oh, how I wish I could. I snatch up the paper, crinkle it into a ball, and throw it into the hearth to burn when I light tomorrow’s fire. Even as fear curls tight in my chest, I’m certain of one thing: Gwyllion holds secrets. And if I’m to be trapped here all winter, I may as well uncover them.

Morning comes, but without much light. The darkness gradually shifts to gray, and the shadows soften.

Despite my sore limbs, I get out of bed quickly. My eyes snag on the hearth, searching for the flash of white paper in the ashes, but the note is gone.

When I shiver, it has little to do with the chill. The stone floor is like ice beneath my feet as I tiptoe to the massive windows in my room. The storm has ceased, leaving behind a pristine landscape of immaculate white. It’s beautiful, even if it is deadly.

My thoughts darken as Hunter floats to the forefront of my mind. If he’s alive, he’s out there somewhere in the cold winter, beyond the Spires. I hope with all my heart that he survived the fire and corpse beasts of Ellyll, but I know it’s unlikely. Even if he did survive, we’re now worlds apart. Separated not just by mountains, but by secrets and betrayals too big to overcome.

Guilt sends waves of nausea cascading through me. It was a mistake leaving him behind. Even if he refused to travel into Annwyn with me, I shouldn’t have trusted the Wolf. The price for answers about Grandmother was too high. Now that I know what happened to her, I see how foolish I was. I should’ve let the dead stay buried. But it’s too late now, so I swallow down the guilt.

I can’t survive a winter in Annwyn, simpering and whining about my mistakes. I need to own them and move on. It’s time to take control of my situation. I may have been tricked into coming here, but I refuse to be a captive.

Besides, foxes are famous for outwitting traps.

My door creaks as I make my way out into the empty halls. I note subtle differences in the tapestries and doorways as I create a mental map of my surroundings. This castle is huge. It must have been a place of immense power in centuries past, back when the human kings of the North ruled. Long before the Dead Queens took their place. Now all that remains are the Wolves and the servants of the Dead Queen.

This is disorienting, considering the tales I grew up with. I’d always believed Annwyn was filled with armies of death-wielding warriors with shadow power, killing every living thing in their way. In Llwyn, even children know the Dead Queen raises corpses from their graves to continue fighting for her. But I haven’t seen a single undead human in Gwyllion, apart from the queen. And then there were the borderlands. Each time we were attacked, it was by corpse beasts. Not men. And certainly not human corpses.

Realization blooms within me. The Wolves here are all wounded, and there are very few servants for a castle this size. Now that I’m here in Annwyn, I see the truth. There aren’t many Annwyn fighters left in this desolate land. If Wolves refuse to revive dead humans, as Tristan swears is true, then they have no choice but to rely on beasts. And they won’t be able to keep my father’s soldiers out of Annwyn for much longer.

Hinges groan in protest as I push against a door that leads outside. It presses into a snowdrift, but I manage to open it just enough to slip out. The snowfall is up to my knees, but I high-step my way out to the perimeter of the castle anyway.

The world is so quiet, it feels as though my head is underwater. The air hovers around freezing, but it’s not so cold that I must return indoors.

I push through the snow, carving a path along the castle’s edge. Beyond the battlement wall, the Spires rise to the south. As I continue, my feet grow numb in my soaked boots.

I’m just about to turn back when I stumble upon a long glass building, half-buried in snow. A narrow path has been cleared, leading from a castle door to its entrance. I push my way through the snow, nearly spilling onto the cleared path. My legs burn with exertion, and my heart is pounding. After catching my breath, I reach for the glass door and step inside.

It’s a greenhouse. But unlike the ones back home filled with exotic flowers, this one holds planter boxes lined with vegetables. Carrot greens, fennel stalks, and curly parsley rise from the soil in neat rows. Lettuce and herbs cluster together in varying shades of green, white, and purple. Overhead, bundles of chamomile, lavender, and other drying plants hang from the rafters, likely for teas and tinctures. No doubt they were gathered to last through the long winter.

I stare at all the colors in awe. So far, Gwyllion has felt like nothing more than the empty husk of a castle, cold and dead. But here, in the middle of a harsh winter, plants bloom.

“They’re medicinal,” a voice says.

I jump and turn. An old woman watches me through narrowed eyes, her skin wrinkled and browned from the sun. She’s standing at the far end of the greenhouse, her posture wary.

“Though I doubt a lady such as yourself would recognize such plants,” she says, her voice thick with contempt.

“I know a thing or two about healing,” I say. Her words sting because she’s right. I don’t know what these plants are used for. My bloodline is gifted with the greatest power of healing in Llwyn. What use were plants when I could cure a fever with a touch, or knit flesh and sinew back together in moments?

The old woman eyes me warily. “I’m sure you do.” She sniffs. “But not what those plants are good for.”

After a moment, I concede. “You’re right.”

She nods, her face still wary. Her hair escapes from beneath a worn scarf. It’s white and wild like the landscape. She wears layers upon layers of worn wool, everything the color of dried leaves and earth. The curve of her back and the lines on her face hint at a life of harsh winters and laboring summers, but her eyes are clear as a mountain stream.

“You’re the Fox Heir,” she says. It’s not a question.

I say nothing.

Her hands are gnarled, with fingers twisted like roots. She digs them into the planter box in front of her, then pulls up several small beets. She knocks them against her thigh to shake the soil loose, then tosses them into a waiting basket.

“I’m Sienna.”

She pauses, eyeing me again for a long time before she says, “Tabitha.” She plucks a curved knife off a nearby potting bench. She ignores me as she grabs handfuls of kale and cuts them at the stems.

“Can I help?”