Page 131 of The Fox Heir

But he does not die.

Finally, Tristan releases me. He jumps to his feet and unsheathes a bronze sword. He rushes toward Nalina, and together the Wolves fight, side by side.

Nalina runs at the Fox King again. She doesn’t get far before the large King’s Guard pushes her back. He swings his sword, his strong arms matching her brutality in a way that should leave me impressed. I know what a force Nalina is. But right now, she’s worn down by battle. Sweat glistens at her temples, and the dried blood along her arms is dark. Her muscles tremble as she blocks each attack. Tristan is too busy with the other remaining King’s Guards to help her.

I leap to my feet, finally snapping out of the horror-struck trance. I run at the guards attacking Nalina.

One guard breaks away from Tristan and runs to help my father up onto his white stallion. Nalina and I fight as the escaping guard gallops away with my father. Except he isn’t my father any longer. He isn’t even the Fox King.

He is a rogue dead king. And the entire realm is in peril.

I’m watching my father escape when I hear footsteps rush toward me. I whirl around to see a King’s Guard, his bronze sword raised to strike me. Before I can react, Nalina throws herself between us, slicing her sword clean through the guard’s neck. For a heartbeat, he simply stands there, stunned. Then, blood bubbles from his mouth. It fountains from the deep gash in his throat as his eyes go wide with horror. He collapses sideways with a thud.

Relief makes me dizzy. “Thank y—” But the words die in my throat.

Nalina turns toward me, a copper blade sticking out from her stomach.

“No!” Tristan yells behind us. He stabs his sword straight through the remaining guard and sprints through the mud, toward Nalina.

She sways, mouth parting soundlessly, and drops to her knees. She crumples to the muddy ground, scarred face slack with shock.

I scramble over to her at the same time Tristan reaches us. From around the blade, Nalina’s stomach pulses with crimson blood. It’s a death blow. I’ve seen enough of them to know.

Her eyes stare wide at the fox stamped into the end of the copper-plated sword. “Take it out of me.” Her voice is strangled.

“We can’t. You’ll bleed out,” Tristan says.

She gives him an impatient glare. “I’m dead anyway, Tristan. Don’t make me die with a Fox sword buried in my belly.”

He hesitates, his eyes darting between hers and the sword. After a beat, he nods, defeated. In one quick movement, he pulls the sword from her gut. Nalina gasps, blood spurting from her mouth. Her eyes are glassy with pain.

Tristan drops to the ground and lifts her head into his lap. “I’m here, Nalina. I’m right here.”

He looks to me, panic clear across his face. I’ve never seen him like this, even in the middle of battle, even when faced by corpse wolves and foxhounds. I’ve never seen fear like this in Tristan’s eyes.

I swallow hard and place my trembling hands over her wound as I try to call my power. It barely flickers in my core. I can tell by the defeat on Tristan’s face that he already knows. I’ve used my power up fighting the Fox Soldiers. There’s nothing left to save her. Gently, I remove my bloodstained hands from her stomach.

Nalina’s face is pale, her eyes wide as they settle on me. She reaches up to touch a lock of my short auburn hair. “I see her,” she whispers. “I see all of them.”

It’s her sister, I know. And all the other women sacrificed to Moribund to save what’s left of Gwyllion.

Her eyes flicker to Tristan’s. “Isadora, too.”

Tristan closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Nalina’s. He lets out a shaky breath. “Take care of them,” he whispers.

“Always.”

She drops her hand as her chest rises once, then stills. Remarkably, her face transforms. Her muscles relax and her eyes close. Her face grows peaceful in a way I’ve never seen it.

When death takes her, it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Nalina smile.

Chapter 40

No funeral should ever be this large.

All through the night, Gwyllion’s survivors labor in silence, gathering the broken bodies of the dead. The old move stiffly, stooped with grief, hauling their neighbors and kin through ash-choked air. Children collect sticks and dried grass to build the pyres. Their small hands shake as they place offerings beside their siblings, their grandparents, their friends.

By the next afternoon, the eastern side of Gwyllion Castle is stained black with soot from so many fires. The wind carries the pyre smoke westward in a veil of ash that clings to everything. I wonder if the black scar will remain here forever, etched into the castle like a curse. Like a memento from when the Fox King invaded Gwyllion and was reanimated as the Rogue King.