Page 118 of The Fox Heir

Several yards away from me, the Dead Queen waits. She faces the horizon, veil rippling in the wind, her presence as cold and unmoving as the mountains. Below her, the castle gates stand sealed, and Gwyllion’s fighters line up along the castle walls, waiting to hold back the Fox Army for as long as they can. The Dead Queen’s Wolves are peppered throughout the mix, a few well-trained warriors among the farmers and townsfolk. Somewhere down there, Hunter and Tristan wait to fight alongside them.

My throat tightens. I try to spot Hunter’s golden hair or Tristan’s dark shadow among the others, but they’re lost in the crowd. I tell myself they’re strong fighters. That they’ll make it through. But the words sound desperate, even inside my head. My only comfort is the fact that Hunter chose not to wear his copper armor, so he won’t be mistaken on the battlefield for a Fox Soldier.

Down below, all is silent. The only sounds are the wind and my own pulse hammering in my ears. Every soul waits, staring toward the distant tree line.

And then—they come.

The first glint of copper flashes between the trees like a spark. Then another. Then hundreds. The Fox Army begins to march forward, their copper-plated armor glittering like beetle shells in the late afternoon sun. They move in perfect formation, row upon row of faceless soldiers, their swords rising and falling with every synchronized step. The earth shudders beneath them.

Below my battlement wall, white-knuckled hands clench around makeshift weapons. Old men stand shoulder-to-shoulder with boys barely strong enough to lift a blade.

And then I hear something … Voices—no, screams—carried on the wind.

Corpse wolves.

They must be attacking the remains of the Fox Soldiers stationed in the trees at the base of the Spires. My eyes dart to the Dead Queen, but she shows no reaction. Her black veil blows behind her, blocking the late-afternoon sun where it falls toward the forest in the west. The silver moth on her chest glints in the sunlight.

On the battlefield below, the shimmering line of copper soldiers crests the final rise like a wave about to break.

And then it does.

The field explodes into motion. Shouts, war horns, and the thunder of a thousand boots echo as the Fox Army surges forward. Their front ranks break into a run, shields raised, arrows whistling ahead of them. The villagers brace behind overturned wagons and hastily built barricades. Just before the Fox Soldiers reach the Annwyn fighters, smoke and shadows swirl outward, blinding the Fox Army.

It’s Tristan’s power. I know it is. The shadows curl low and hungry, swallowing copper whole. Relief flickers through me, but it fades just as quickly.

The darkness doesn’t hold them all back. A group of soldiers push through the wall of shadows, emerging into the sunlight, squinting. The villagers attack, using pitchforks and makeshift shields to push them back, but the soldiers recover quickly. Swords flash; screams split the air. The scent of blood rises almost instantly, sharp and metallic.

My hands tremble against the stone wall. I press them flat until my knuckles whiten.

Hold. Just hold.

If I break focus now, I’ll ruin the element of surprise. My power builds and roils inside of me in anticipation. My eyes flicker to the Dead Queen a few yards away on the battlement wall. She stands emotionless as her people are slaughtered below. Her veil catches lazily in the breeze.

Below, wooden shields splinter beneath the force of bronze blades. One of Gwyllion’s fighters drives her makeshift spear through the gap in a Fox Soldier’s armor, only to be struck down by another before she can pull it free. An old man swings a scythe too wide and loses his grip; it clatters to the dirt. The air fills with the clash of swords and the thud of bodies hitting the ground. It’s all motion and noise in a blur of mud, copper, and blood.

The Fox Soldiers advance step by step, driving the villagers backward toward the barricades. Arrows hiss through the air. A woman with a broken pitchfork throws herself at a soldier twice her size and takes him down. Black-clad Wolves dart in and out of the chaos, blades flashing like silver lightning, but even they’re being pushed back.

Gwyllion villagers fight desperately. The sight claws at something inside me, hope and horror tangle together. I’m proud to be standing alongside them, and terrified that this is the end for Gwyllion.

My eyes search frantically for a copper banner or a white horse among the masses. I spot Father and curse. He’s at the rear of the army now, where he can watch from afar as his Fox Soldiers murder innocent men, women, and children. Rage floods through me, burning away the fear, leaving only fire. I reach for my power, feeling it build inside me like a storm about to break.

“Wait.”

It’s the first word the Dead Queen has said since the battle began.

“But I see him!”

The Dead Queen doesn’t look at me. “Wait.”

I scramble to grab control of my power, to smother it back down. My heart pounds in my throat. What are we doing up here, standing around while our people are slaughtered?

Down below, another wave of pitch-black shadows erupts from the chaos. Screams follow. As the shadows move, several copper soldiers lie crumpled on the ground. Tristan uses his power to kill only if it’s absolutely necessary for survival. Worry prickles my skin. We’re losing this battle faster than I’d anticipated. I turn to the Dead Queen, ready to argue, but she’s staring at the sky, her black-gloved arms outstretched.

“What are—” But I don’t finish my thought.

A low hum builds from behind the castle, from the north. It grows louder as I turn to squint toward the trees, only to find them moving. A large, dark mass emerges from the old forest, twisting and turning like the wind. My breath catches in my throat. For a moment I think it’s smoke. It isn’t until the mass crests over the castle that I realize what it is.

Insects. Millions of them. All newly thawed from their winter graves and burrows beneath the once-frozen ground. They’ve been summoned somehow by the dark powers of the Dead Queen. Their wings thrum the air like billions of instrument strings. The sound is maddening, an undead symphony that claws at my skull. I flinch, covering my ears.