Page 41 of The Fox Heir

My breath comes too fast, and my brain can’t keep up. It must be another trick. “No.”

He only nods, stepping back toward his smoke-filled nest. “They know better than to keep me waiting. All I must do is bide my time. Sooner or later, the mens always bring me my next dinner.” His shoulders twitch with a shiver of delight. “And it will be a good one, after all the trouble you caused.”

My voice sounds hollow in my ears. “And if they don’t?”

His face hardens. “Then they break a promise.” A growl rumbles in his throat as he steps back into the smoke. “And fae do not tolerate broken promises.”

I turn and run down the corridor and up the spiral stairs. The smoke claws at my lungs, but I force myself to keep going. The fae doesn’t follow me.

Through the dusty corridors, I retrace my steps, my mind reeling. I nearly died, so I should be furious at the wraith for bringing me down there. But even so, something gnaws on me. The wraith meant to show me the fae. The thought leaves me feeling sick. Someone in this castle feeds blond women to that creature. And they’ve done it for years.

Does the Dead Queen know? Does Tristan? If so, why haven’t they mentioned this to me? If there’s a reasonable explanation, it seems like something they’d warn me about. Unless they don’t want me to know. And if that’s true, what else aren’t they telling me?

When I reach my room, I’m not surprised to find another message. But this time it isn’t left on a wrinkled piece of paper. The stone floor is covered in ash from the hearth. Letters spell out the message.

“Run!”

All around the room, tiny black footprints leave a trail from the intruder.

Fae.

I stare down at the letters for a long time. The messages weren’t meant to intimidate me. They were intended to warn me.

Across the room, my eyes catch a glint of silver. My grandmother’s silver moth knife waits at the center of my pillow. I pick it up, gripping it hard. Damn wraith.

From now on, I’ll keep the knife on me at all times.

Chapter 14

At dawn, I tie my auburn hair into a tight braid before I pull on my leathers. Yes, it’s practical, but the real reason is I can’t stand the feeling of hair touching my face after last night. It takes all my willpower to push away the mental image of the fae rubbing strands of my hair all over his wrinkled, pale skin.

My head aches, and my limbs are stiff from the cold as I walk through the castle’s echoing corridors. Outside the tall windows, the sky is only barely beginning to pale with dawn.

When I arrive, Tristan is waiting in the stone archway, his silver sword sheathed at his hip. One foot is braced behind him against the wall, and he arches an eyebrow like he’s been expecting me.

“Let’s go,” I say. “We’re wasting daylight.”

The Wolf smirks. The sun has barely risen, but it seems he approves of my impatience. If he notices the scent of smoke on my skin or the scratch on my cheek from the wraith, he doesn’t mention it. We both have secrets, and he knows it.

Tristan tosses me the heavy practice sword that’s resting near his feet. I fumble but manage to grasp the hilt without dropping the dull blade on the flagstones. Wordlessly, he leads me out onto the frozen castle grounds.

When we reach the frost-covered training yard, the snow sparkles like shattered glass in the pale morning light. Long shadows trail behind the straw-filled dummies where they lean, their heads dusted in last night’s snow. Someone must’ve been out here before dawn, because the ground at the center of the yard is already cleared in a wide circle. My grip tightens around the hilt of my sword.

Tristan pauses in front of me and unsheathes his silver sword. Tendrils of smoke-like shadow dance along the blade.

My eyes widen at the sight.

He holds it up to give me a better look. All along the blade, shadows swirl and dance against the silver. “A weapon can be enhanced with power, making it even more lethal.” He spins it in his hand, and the shadows twist and bend with his movement. “But you’ll need to master the weapon first.”

My heart sinks. “And my power.”

“Yes, well. First thing’s first.” Tristan clears his throat. “You need to learn how to handle your weapon properly.” He demonstrates, holding out his sword so I can mimic his grip on mine.

“Then, two positions.” He shuffles his feet, bracing his sword in front of him. “A basic block.” He pivots, turning his sword to the side in a graceful arc. “And a basic attack.” He nods toward me.

I do my best to move between blocking and attacking, but the movements feel awkward and the sword feels heavy and clumsy in my hands. Each movement makes my wrists and shoulders ache. How can anyone stand to fight with a sword? Knives are far more graceful.

Tristan nods as I repeat the steps again and again. “It takes years to master the footwork involved in sword fighting.”