25. Death’s Cold Embrace
25
DEATH’S COLD EMbrACE
GAbrIEL
P ain has infiltrated every part of my being. The fire has its own heartbeat as it pulses through me. There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t fucking hurt.
Whatever the little bird gave me was potent, and even now, its lingering effects are still running through my system.
My chest aches, and my legs feel like they’re twigs, one harsh kick away from snapping in two. The jostling of the horse beneath me isn’t helping ease the pain at all, but it’s a necessary evil.
As soon as I regained enough strength to walk, I returned to Mora with the sole intent of purchasing a horse. The city guards had been in an uproar, talking about how a Given had gone missing overnight.
Another one .
There is no doubt in my mind: this is the little bird’s doing. I’m not sure why she didn’t run—after all, she’s an outlaw, and she knows I’m here, chasing her—but I know she has something to do with the missing gods-blessed.
I can’t get her eyes out of my head. They’ve been haunting me ever since she left. My memories of last night are hazy. I know she was talking, but I can’t remember what was said.
I have to find her and finish this hunt.
This isn’t because of my promotion or my bond with Mist anymore. Wren drugged me, and now, this feels personal.
I need to see this through.
That thought has me leaning forward in my saddle and whispering in Steadfast’s ear, encouraging her to move faster. The chestnut mare was the fastest the stable had available, and I’ve been riding for several hours.
True to her name, Steadfast hasn’t faltered once, galloping down the Stone Road like she was made for this.
Two gates lead out of Mora: the Iron Gate and the Stone Gate. Mist was watching the former, having arrived minutes after Wren left, licking my face and waiting for me to heal. I know the little bird didn’t go that way. Mist would’ve scented her. Which leaves the Stone Gate, and therefore, the Stone Road.
For hours, Steadfast gallops, leaving a trail of dust behind us. I’m curved over the saddle, and the rising suns are warming my back when a smattering of paws catches my attention. I look to my right, my lips creaking up into a smile.
Mist bounds down the road towards me. Our bond hums with delight, and I send waves of warmth towards her.
I’m glad to see you , I tell her. Once I was strong enough to get up this morning, Mist left to cross the mountain passage and meet me on the other side of Mora. Our forged bond gives her strength and speed, which allows her to move quickly.
My panther keeps her distance, careful not to spook Steadfast. Even so, our connection thrums steadily with her nearness. Tension seeps out of me, and strength returns to me more quickly now that my bonded familiar is nearby. I’m not sure what magic the bond contains, but I’ve always healed more quickly when Mist is close by. Today is no exception.
The Stone Road is well-traveled. It connects Mora to Mivat and Saltwater, before heading further north and eventually leading to Rosebridge. Every time we pass another rider or merchant carting goods, Mist darts into the woods. Occasionally, she’s gone for a few minutes, while other times, she disappears for longer.
Our bond hums, the connection never faltering. By the time the suns are high in the sky, I’m feeling much better.
That is, until an eagle’s cry shatters the stillness of the afternoon.
The leather reins cut into my hands as I clutch them with white-knuckled fingers. A tremor courses through my back, and my breath comes in short bursts.
I lift my gaze, scanning the horizon.
At first, I don’t see anything amiss.
The sky is blue, as it often is near the end of the giving season. A final gift from the gods before the winter brings snow and ice. Even the twin suns can’t stave off the bitter cold of those months.
A few clouds dot the sky, but they don’t stop the suns from shining their brilliant light upon the land.
Then I see it. A black speck is careening straight towards me, a dark stain on the horizon rapidly growing larger.
The eagle opens its beak, and another cry reaches my ears. A predator’s call. A warning.
“Gods-damn it,” I groan.
I’d known this was a possibility, but I’d hoped to have Wren firmly in my grasp before it happened. Vile curses slip from my tongue as I quickly lead Steadfast off the road.
My usually smooth dismount is rough, my foot catching in the stirrup as nerves race through me. I wobble like a child learning how to ride for the first time, swearing as I struggle to free myself. It takes far more effort than it should.
Once I’m back on two feet, I slip Steadfast’s reins over a nearby branch. Wiping my sweaty palms on my trousers, I move away from the horse. When the Stone Road is barely visible through the trees, I stop.
No one else is around, which is good. There will be no witnesses.
My stomach twists in knots, and the strength that I’ve regained doesn’t feel like enough to handle what’s coming next.
I hate this. The nerves coursing through me. The helplessness. The memories of my childhood that I’d worked so hard to suppress. I hate it all.
A nose bumps against my left leg, and I look down. Mist is sitting next to me, her silver eyes sweeping through the forest. My familiar’s head reaches my hand in this position, and I scratch behind her ears as the eagle descends.
You cannot show fear , I remind myself.
My body bears the reminders of what happens if I do.
Drawing my shoulders back, I inhale deeply and straighten as the eagle lands on a branch above my head. The creature is as deadly as it is violently beautiful. This close, its crimson eyes are like blood rubies, drilling into mine. The eagle spreads its majestic wings and caws three times, never breaking eye contact with me.
My blood chills, and I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears. The rhythm is loud and erratic, betraying my nerves. I don’t draw my sword because that will end poorly. Instead, I dig my fingers into Mist’s fur and let her ground me as we wait for what feels like an eternity.
Then I see them.
Crimson sparks dance on the ground in front of me. At first, there are just a few. Each ember bears a promise of power and pain. They multiply quickly, and inadvertently, I take a step back as they morph into red smoke.
I flatten my hands on my sides, keeping my sword within easy reach, even though drawing it now would be futile, and force myself to breathe. Despite my desire to show no fear, my back aches with phantom pains. Another tremor runs through me.
Mist stiffens, growling as the crimson-tinged smoke swirls in front of us. Layers of dark red ribbons stack on top of each other until they form the rough shape of a being an inch shorter than me.
The smoke solidifies.
Leather boots that seem to absorb the light of the midday suns appear. Two legs clad in black form. A torso. Clenched fists. Finally, an entire body that glows a muted crimson.
A reminder of his power. His strength.
And my weakness.
There’s no time to wallow in it, though. The smoke hardens, and I get a good look at the man in front of me. Pale skin, black hair, and malice-filled eyes that lack all traces of kindness. A black crown inlaid with rubies rests on his brow. The Ruby Crown is a marker of his power and position, as if the blatant show of power wasn’t enough of a sign.
My heart races. I clench my right hand, place my fist over the pounding organ, and drop to my knees.
“Your Majesty,” I say, staring at the tip of his boots.
Gods, I hate those boots. The number of times I’ve seen them painted in my own blood is enough to make anyone quake in fear. I don’t, though. I hold still, remaining on my knees as the king’s gaze bores into the back of my neck.
Minutes pass.
The forest is eerily silent, save for the sound of someone riding by on the Stone Road. They don’t stop.
That’s probably for the best.
“I thought you understood the importance of the giving season.” The king’s voice is darkness and death and everything wrong with this world. Leaves crunch as he circles me slowly, and I stare at the spot he vacated. “I thought you knew that each gods-blessed bearing a glowing Mark must be returned to the gods during their twentieth year.”
Of course, I know that. Who doesn’t?
Our entire country is built on the foundation of the Giving. Everything we do, every custom we hold sacred, revolves around the gods-blessed.
The Given are the reason Myreth exists as it does today.
Silence stretches as the king continues circling me. The air thickens, and the rushing in my ears gets louder as I wait for the king to continue. He hasn’t given me permission to speak, and I won’t dare risk his ire by doing so out of turn. Not now, when my body still carries traces of Wren’s drug.
It feels like endless lifetimes pass before the king places his hand on my shoulder. Even through my cloak and tunic, I can feel the ice in his touch. He’s never been warm, but now it’s like he bathed in the glacial waters of the northern Frozen Sea.
“Do you recall the words you spoke when you took up the mantle of your position?” King Andreas’s grip tightens on my shoulder, his nails digging into my skin like claws, and I grunt. “Speak, Hunter Moreau.”
There is no peace that comes from hearing the king address me by my title. No calm. No pride. Just frigid fear, settling in my stomach.
My eyes are trained on the ground, but my mind is back on my Bonding Day.
A heavy black cloak had been placed on my shoulders, the fur lining tickling the back of my neck. I kneeled before His Majesty with three other initiates, waiting to take our vows and finally become Hunters.
That day, I’d been surrounded by my brothers and sisters in the chase.
Now, I’m alone.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I rasp.
“Remind me of them,” he commands.
My voice is rough as I recite the same words I spoke that fateful day. “I, Gabriel Charles Aiden Moreau, vow to keep the suns-blessed Kingdom of Myreth safe at all costs. As a Hunter, I will protect Myreth from those who wish to harm it, and I will hunt those who seek to disrupt the balance. I am a servant of the crown, a weapon to be wielded. Above all else, I vow my loyalty to the Ruby Thrones and those who sit upon them.”
I exhale, remaining still as I close my mouth.
Mist is unmoving next to me, but our bond is filled with discontent. I know she’s holding herself back from trying to tear into the king’s throat—trying being the operative word. She wouldn’t get close enough to nick the king, let alone draw blood.
I push waves of calm through our bond, hoping to ease her discomfort and encourage her to stand down. The king and his eagle are too powerful for us to go against, and doing so would spell certain death for Mist.
The longest moment seems to pass before the king lifts his hand from my shoulder. I remain on the ground, even though internally, I’m sighing in relief.
There is little in this world that I hate more than that man’s touch.
“I’m surprised you recall those words so well.” King Andreas steps back. “I would’ve thought you’d forgotten them since the woman you’ve been tasked with hunting is still roaming free.”
Wren.
I’m not the only Hunter in the lands, and I’m sure others are searching for her, too. But apparently, I’m the one who is bearing the brunt of the king’s displeasure. I’d suspected as much, based on the never-ending nightmares that have been plaguing me.
They were too real, too similar, and too dark to be anything but messages from the king. He’s all but confirmed it now.
I drag my gaze upwards and instantly wish I hadn’t. The king’s eyes are empty black pits flecked with crimson, and they’re drilling into me.
“ Why is she still free, Gabriel?”
The way he says my name makes me want to scream to the heavens. I despise the way he forms the syllables, despise the sneer he adds as he directs the question to me, despise the way I’m instantly reminded of his true feelings for me.
Because she’s different.
The answer to the king’s question forms in my mind, but since I don’t have a death wish, I stop my mouth from forming the words. It doesn’t keep me from thinking about her, though.
The little bird is persistent, and her ability to evade capture longer than most is impressive. That’s not the only thing that sets her apart from the others I’ve hunted. She has a compassionate heart and a fire in her that burns brighter each time we meet.
It’s more than just the way she saved me in the forest, more than the fire in her eyes when she refused to come easily, more than the fact that she’s made things personal now.
I’m drawn to her in a way that I’ve never been drawn to anyone before.
But I don’t tell the king any of that.
“Mist and I are tracking the gods-blessed to Mivat, Your Majesty.” I keep my voice steady. “We will catch her and bring her back to the temple before the giving season is up.”
The king steps towards me, balling his fists at his sides. Each movement is deliberate. A threat. A reminder of his strength.
“There isn’t time to return her to Grenbloom, Gabriel,” he warns. “She must be Given before the end of the season, and any temple will do.”
I stare at him, my brows knitting together. I’ve never heard of a Giving taking place away from the gods-blessed’s home temple.
This feels strange. It’s more than the king’s demand that I catch Wren. It’s the way he’s pushing for this so hard.
Before I can stop myself and remember who is in front of me, I ask, “Why is it so important that she’s Given this season? What happens if she isn’t apprehended until the new year?”
There are four seasons—winter, spring, summer, and giving—but the ceremonies that return the Marked Ones to the gods only happen during one of them. I’ve never thought about why that is, but something about the king’s insistence on this matter has me paying attention.
King Andreas is moving before I realize what’s happening. A swarm of magic bursts from his hands, yanking me off the ground and slamming me into a tree. Wood splinters behind me, and the force of impact steals the breath from my lungs.
The magic has me pinned, helpless as the king’s hand finds my throat.
“You dare question me?” he snarls, his fingers digging into my neck. “I am your gods-damned king .”
I’ve never hated that fact more than I do right now.
Gasping for breath, I struggle against his hold. It’s no use. His magic is strong, and ropes of power wrap around me like crimson snakes. They bind me to the tree, the rough bark digging into my back. The more I struggle, the tighter the ropes become.
Here I am again, trapped and at the king’s fucking mercy.
Mist growls and snaps her teeth at the royal. Even though worry and fear pulse through our bond, she won’t come closer.
“I just thought?—”
He slams my head into the tree twice. My brain shakes in my skull from the impact. I bite my tongue. Copper floods my mouth as black spots appear in my vision. I groan, fighting to stay alert and keep my guard up.
“That’s your fucking problem.” King Andreas sneers. His skin takes on a red hue that has icy fear coursing through my veins. “Your job isn’t to think, Gabriel. If I wanted you to do that, I never would have allowed you to become a Hunter. Your job is to pursue those who have broken the law and return them so they can face their punishments. No more, no less.”
Malice is a crimson flame burning bright in the king’s eyes. All it does is fuel the bitter hatred at the back of my throat.
King Andreas abhors me, and the feeling is fucking mutual.
The royal’s nails dig into my throat, breaking the skin and drawing beads of blood. “I thought I taught you better than that, son .”
The term drips with so much revulsion that I could drown in it.
The king calls me son, but he’s never let me forget that I’m just a bastard. The fruits of his fling with a maid, I was dropped at the foot of his throne the day of my birth.
He took me in and raised me, but he never let me forget that I am here only because of his benevolent grace. He’s never considered me his own.
I’m only half-royal, and I don’t have the same blessings from the gods as my half-brother or the king and queen.
Hunting is the only thing I’m good at, the only thing that makes me feel wanted. That’s why I’ve worked so hard to become a Master Hunter. And now, if I don’t catch Wren Nightingale by the end of this giving season, that will be taken from me.
Who will I be if that happens? The king’s bastard, stripped of all his titles. Magicless. Penniless. Bondless.
Fucking worthless .
Growing up, I lost count of how many times the king reminded me of my position—or lack thereof. Most of the time, he forgot I existed. But when he didn’t, when someone or something reminded him I was there, I always paid the price for his hatred.
I’m nothing in his eyes. Worse than a commoner, I’m a failure on all counts. A mistake . Someone who never should’ve existed, a black smear on the crimson tapestry that is his life.
For a time, I thought I could prove him wrong. I thought that by becoming the youngest Master Hunter the kingdom’s ever seen, I could show him I have use.
Suns save me, but even though the king hates me, and I hate him, I used to yearn for his love and affection. I would watch as he showered my older brother with all the care in the world while I was told I was nothing.
The perfect prince in every way, Severus is the fucking apple of my father’s hatred-filled eyes.
The king’s hand still circles my throat, and his curling lip tells me everything I need to know about his feelings.
I wish I’d never been born to him. As a child, I was swept into corners, sneered at by the queen and her ladies, and hated by my father and brother. When my grandmother crossed the Veil, even the small semblances of love she’d given me vanished. I was alone, save for a few friends.
The king’s grip tightens, tightens, tightens, until death’s embrace brushes against me. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in death’s cold presence—my father has a propensity for executions.
Today is different because I’m no longer a spectator. Death is coming for me, and this time, I don’t think I can avoid it. I fight against the king’s binds, refusing to give up, but his powerful magic presses me harder against the tree.
There’s a deep sense of irony in the fact that the man who played a part in bringing me into this world will be the one to end my existence.
My lungs contract, trying desperately to draw breath. Nothing gets past the king’s grip on my throat. My fingers claw at the tree, searching for purchase in a desperate attempt to save me from my fate.
I should probably be praying for mercy for my soul, but I don’t bother. Death will release me from having to deal with my prick of a father, and maybe that’s all I can ask for. Maybe the end of my life will bring me peace.
I’m waiting for death to swallow me whole when the king’s hand loosens around my neck. Wordlessly, he releases me. His magic falls away, and I collapse onto all fours.
My lungs burn, guzzling air greedily. Mist is there, licking my face. The rough pad of her tongue is a cool, comforting balm as I gasp for air.
I can feel the king’s eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.
It feels like an eternity passes before I muster up the strength to drag my gaze up to his. He’s standing over me, his fists clenched as my blood drips from his nails onto the leafy ground.
It’s not the first time my blood has decorated his hands, and I have a sick feeling that it won’t be the last.
“Did you get my messages?” His glowering stare never wavers.
The nightmares.
“Yes,” I choke out.
A long moment passes as the king circles me once again. A true predator, watching his prey. “I’ve been lenient with you, Gabriel.”
That’s a fucking lie, and I don’t even bother responding.
“You will deliver Wren Nightingale to me personally by the Winter’s Eve Ball, or you will never hunt anyone again.” The king’s voice is filled with the promise of unfathomable levels of violence. “I’ll send other Hunters after the foolish Given who escaped Mora today, but I am holding you responsible for Wren. If she isn’t returned to me, you alone will bear the weight of your failure. Do you understand?”
I have no choice here. I’ve never had a choice where the king is involved. But what can I say? What can I do?
He has death at his fingertips, and all I have is my sword. I’m well-trained with weapons, but steel cannot win against the most powerful magic wielder in the land. I’ll never get close enough to hurt him.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The words are rough as I force them out of my dry mouth. “I understand.”
“Do not fail me in this task,” King Andreas snarls.
The vicious sound echoes through the forest, and Mist growls back. The king’s attention snaps to my familiar. A long moment passes as he stares at her, malice painted on his features.
I grab Mist, hugging her to my chest as the king laughs cruelly. He steps back, his eagle cawing. Crimson sparks rise, swirling around him.
“Bring me Wren Nightingale, Gabriel.” He holds my gaze as his body returns to smoke, his eyes the last to disappear.
The king vanishes, but his eagle remains. It stares at me through crimson eyes.
As though it knows what its cry does to me, it opens its beak and caws. The sound is deep and unnatural, utterly unlike a regular eagle, and it echoes through my mind. That sound…
I’ve heard it far too many times.
Memories I buried long ago shove their way to the front of my mind. I dig my fingers into Mist’s fur as past and present collide.
Hundreds of lashings merge. My back aches at the countless memories of pain and blood and having my skin flayed from my bones. Every time, I’d bleed. Every time, I’d be healed by the queen’s salve, ready to take another beating whenever the king saw fit.
The king’s curses race through my mind as though he’s still here, shouting at me. Magicless bastard. Weak, like my whore of a mother. Good for nothing.
He has hundreds of ways of making me hurt, and he’s called me thousands of names over the years. They all amount to the same thing.
He hates me more than he’s ever hated anything else.
For years, I’ve kept his hatred close. If the king hates me, it means I must be doing something right.
Long ago, I vowed that I would be better than him if it were the last thing I ever did. Becoming a Hunter allowed me to leave Rosebridge and all the memories of my awful childhood behind.
I can’t escape him, though. Not entirely. But my vow remains. I will be better than him if it’s the last thing I ever do.
After what feels like an eternity, the king’s eagle flies away.
I remain crouched on the ground for a long time, my fingers digging into Mist’s coat as I hold her close. I’m not sure why the king is so insistent about his timeline, but in the end, it doesn’t matter.
Wren Nightingale is my prey. No matter how enticing I find her, I cannot forget that.
And so, when I’ve wiped away all traces of blood on my neck, I return to Steadfast and remount. Whispering a few commands in her ear, I bend over the saddle as she takes off in a gallop.
There’s no time to waste. I have a little bird to hunt.