Page 35 of The Fox Heir

I blink hard, and the space comes into focus.

The room, it turns out, is more of a courtyard, hidden in the depths of the castle. High above, a glass ceiling rises in peaks and valleys, its panes buried under snow like distant mountains. No sunlight could reach this place. And yet, moments ago, it had glowed.

I peer through the gray and my breath catches in my chest.

Lichen-covered boulders are scattered across the ground, etched with carvings eroded by time. Gravel paths wind between them, circling up a central mound. At the top, a gnarled, black tree twists upward, as if reaching for the sky. Silver windchimes sway from the branches, echoing a low, hollow hum that reverberates in my bones.

The singer, whoever she was, is gone.

Disappointment wells up in my chest. It feels as though I just missed something important, and the opportunity may never come again.

Behind me, I hear slow, heavy footsteps. I whirl around as Tristan steps through the wooden doorway. He doesn’t look surprised to see me here.

At the sight of him, my guard snaps back into place, though slower than it should. This courtyard and the music have weakened my resolve. There’s a sense of peace here, as if nothing bad can happen.

“I wondered how long it would take you to find this place,” Tristan says. His face is drawn, like he hasn’t slept in many nights. My heart stirs, wondering what’s kept him out of bed … or maybe restless within it.

“Are you following me?”

He merely shrugs, confirming my suspicions.

I sigh. “I suppose the queen doesn’t trust me.”

“You are her mortal enemy, Red. A Dead Queen can’t trust a Fox.” He says this lightly, as if it’s of no consequence.

“Hm.” I purse my lips. “And here I thought I was her treasured granddaughter and biggest weapon.”

He steps closer, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Two things can be true at once.”

The space between us hums with that truth. I know too well that I am many things, and not all of them good. Heir to the Fox Throne, yet granddaughter to the Dead Queen. Selfish enough to abandon a friend at the edge of the world, yet guilty enough to punish myself for it. Furious at the Wolf who tricked me, yet inexplicably drawn to him despite it.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

His tired smile tugs something low in my core. This Wolf affects me in ways I’d rather not think about.

I turn away from him, fixing my attention on the nearest carved boulder. It’s hard to make out the details, but there was a symbol here once. The other stones around the courtyard have them too, each one unique.

“What are they?”

“The crests of ancient families.” Tristan leans close to look at the pattern. He runs one finger over the cuts and grooves on the stone. “These monuments represent powerful fae who did great deeds. Returned the sun from endless night, calmed storms that threatened to flatten entire coastlines, ravaged monstrous foes … you get the idea.”

I nod. “We tell similar stories about the Fox Kings and Queens in Llwyn.”

One side of his mouth turns down at the mention of my ancestors, but he doesn’t berate me. Those so-called “great deeds” usually resulted in the deaths of hundreds of Annwyn people over the past centuries.

I step away from him, toward the tree in the middle of the courtyard. Oddly, the wind chimes aren’t the only decoration hanging from the tree’s branches. Dozens of mirrors of all shapes and sizes dangle from its limbs. Some are faceted and some are framed with silvered edges, dulled and tarnished with age. Others are little more than broken shards hanging from rusted chains. Below the tree, glass speckles the ground surrounding the tree’s roots.

“It represents the Tree God,” Tristan says. “Protector of the northern forests. You’ve seen him before.”

“In the temple at the abandoned village, in Llwyn.”

He nods. My cheeks flush with the memory of the faded tapestry. Two deities tangled in lustful abandon, the goddess in a sheer white gown, exposing her breasts to the moonlight. I look away too quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“But where’s the Moon Goddess?”

He tilts his chin upward. “The glass ceiling. It was meant to let her light through.” He studies the filthy windows overhead. “Back when the fae priestesses still cared for this place, they would’ve kept the glass clear, so the lovers could be reunited each night.” His eyes flick briefly to mine.

I look away, toward the ceiling, though the press of his gaze lingers on my skin. The story of the God and Goddess hangs between us—two beings kept apart, reaching for each other within fragments of light and shadow.