Page 129 of The Fox Heir

Good. A vicious grin spreads across my face. “I’m going to kill him now.” My voice is firm, certain. If I’ve learned one thing this winter, it’s this: I am a force to be reckoned with, even without my power.

The Dead Queen nods again.

“I’m coming with you.” Nalina steps forward, unsheathing her sword.

I shake my head. “No.”

“No?” she asks, as if she’s not sure she heard me correctly. She shakes her head. “This isn’t about vengeance. It’s about the Fox Throne. You can’t inherit it if you’re dead.”

“I need you to trust me.”

Nalina turns to the Dead Queen. “My queen, it’s too risky.”

We both watch the Dead Queen, bathed in the light of the full moon.

“Please,” I whisper. “I need to do this. By myself.”

“Go,” she says finally. “Make your grandmother proud.” For the first time, I hear the echo of her true voice beneath the shroud of death. Even if it was only for a moment, I know I’ve finally heard the voice of my grandmother. And she’s telling me to kill the Fox King.

I grip my moth knife tighter in my fist and nod. Nalina doesn’t say another word as I walk out of the tower door to confront my father …

And finally kill him.

Chapter 39

I ride out from Gwyllion’s splintered gates on the first saddled horse I can find. He’s fast and dark as midnight. The copper pommel on his saddle tells me he’s well-trained in battle, likely the horse of an officer. No doubt his soldier is dead now, lying in a heap on the blood-soaked battlefield. The horse leaps over mounds of fallen Fox Soldiers and Gwyllion fighters alike as his hooves gallop through pools of blood.

The wind blows my short, choppy hair across my face. It’s surprisingly freeing not to have a storm of auburn flowing around me anymore.

“Red!” a voice yells from the battlefield. “Wait!”

My heart splinters with relief at the sound of Tristan’s voice, but I don’t slow. Nothing matters more than this.

I can feel the Dead Queen’s eyes on me as I ride across the ruined battlefield to meet my father. She’s watching us from her tower of moths, waiting to witness the bloodshed that I have craved for so, so long.

Up ahead, the Fox King’s orb glows, hovering at the crest of the distant hill. It’s a beacon for me to come find him. When I draw near, I slow my horse to a trot.

My father and five King’s Guards watch me approach. The king isn’t wearing his famous copper armor anymore. He looks almost like a normal man, sitting there atop his white stallion. But his casual posture makes me grit my teeth. I pull my horse to a stop in front of him.

“Father.”

“Daughter.” He nods. “I see you’ve had a haircut since this morning.”

I don’t give him the pleasure of engaging. In one swift movement, I swing down off my horse. I pull the silver moth knife out of my boot and step into the defensive position Tristan made me practice a thousand times this winter. “Let’s talk.”

Father gives me the briefest of smiles before he gets down from his own horse. He walks toward me with lazy steps.

“What has become of my Little Fox these past few months, hm? You’ve grown quite feral.”

“I’ve learned the truth. The truth that you tried so hard to keep from me.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what truth is that?”

“That it was you who killed Grandmother. That she was fighting against you, leading the Sympathizers. That we, Llwyn, were the aggressors all along.”

“We?” He tilts his head like a dog hearing an odd sound. “Do you still consider yourself from Llwyn?” He sucks his teeth. “You sound more like a flea-bitten Wolf to me.”

His words make me pause, but only for the briefest moment.