Wicked Prince of Frost (Wicked Princes #5)

Chapter One

VIOLET

I have a broken heart, and one day soon, it will kill me.

The steady ticking of the clock on the mantel is an ever-present reminder that I am living on borrowed time.

Blinking my gritty eyes, I rise from my seat and stretch. My muscles are stiff and aching after hours of bending over a book, taking meticulous notes as I dissect each sentence, looking for any possible hidden meanings.

Despite the fire burning in the hearth, the early spring chill clings to the air in the study.

I cross over to the window and gaze past the frost-rimmed glass to the street beyond the drive.

Night gives way to twilight, and the outside world quiets with the dying howls of wild demons as they go into hiding.

Pale, watery light leaks over the edge of the horizon, signaling the approaching dawn, and silhouetting the forest west of the city’s border.

Determination and desperation have kept me going long past the time I should have gone to bed, and throughout the night. It would be easy to crawl under the warm blankets and stay there until midday. A few pages left to go over, followed by a full day’s work ahead of me. Sleep will have to wait.

I glance back at the book open on the desk.

It’s not a particularly thick text, but it’s from a time when language still held traces of a more archaic style, and medicine was believed to be magic that only the fae could perform.

Any human practicing it either learned it from the fae themselves or stole that knowledge.

The pages are yellow with age, and the leather binding is dry with flourishes of cracks.

The title itself is innocuous: A History of Winter’s Flora.

Other than needing a rebinding within the next few years, nothing about its appearance hints that it’s special in any way. Let alone that it’s one of the forbidden fae texts.

Taking it from the archives was a risk. It should have been returned centuries ago when the fourth king divided the fae and mortal lands, and along with it, he created the Old Laws.

No human shall possess one of the ancient fae texts.

No human shall trespass onto fae land uninvited.

No human shall take from the fae what is not given.

A human found in violation of any one of these laws is to die at the hands of the fae.

The fae may come and go as they please without consequence, though few do. Save for the Crown Prince with a heart made of ice, who they say is as handsome as he is wicked and cruel.

I’ve never met anyone who has personally seen him. It’s always a friend of a friend of a friend who has. While the truth of his looks is unknown, there is not one person in all of Arum who is not familiar with his cruelty.

The likelihood that someone will discover it in my possession is minimal. They would have to know it existed and go looking for it first.

And if I don’t find a cure, I’ll be dead soon anyway.

With renewed purpose, I return to my seat and get back to work.

The remaining pages are a mix of passages written in ink that is too faded to read and entries on common plants or those that haven’t been seen in ages.

When I am finally satisfied that I’ve gleaned every potentially useful word, I gently close the old leather-bound book. I read over my notes that barely fill a small handful of pages in my journal.

It has been over a year since I came across a promising lead. One entry in particular stood out to me while reading, holding a glimmer of hope.

Excitement races along my spine as I study the sketch from the book that I copied along the edge of my notes. It’s a simple white flower with six rounded petals and long, slender leaves.

The frost bloom is a rare species, found as a small cluster that produces one to three flowers per plant.

The period from the first sprout until full maturity is approximately a decade, followed by three to five years between viable harvests.

It is said to have the ability to hold the effects of a curse at bay.

I press a palm to my chest and frown, wondering at the exact meaning of the word curse as it’s used here.

The book was written in an age when it was widely believed that the majority of maladies were caused and cured by magic and often referred to as curses.

There have only been a handful of true curses recorded throughout the Arum kingdom’s history, as the victim is not the only one to bear the price.

The methods of how curses are cast and broken are a closely guarded secret.

It’s equally possible that the entry refers to a malady as it does to an actual curse.

Since the mortal lands were cut off, humans have made significant advances in understanding illnesses and injuries.

After years of studying all known plants with medicinal properties, I have never found a record of anything like this. Not that I, or anyone else in Firnhallow, for that matter, would have reason to possess knowledge of anything of fae origin.

I refocus on what matters now. I tap the tip of my pen at the end of a twice-underlined sentence.

The frost bloom grows nestled between the roots of other plants where magic is thin.

On this side of the border, there is a stretch where magic still seeps from the fae lands. Which means, there’s a possibility of one of these plants growing on this side of the border. Getting there is simple enough. It’s only a little more than an hour’s ride at a leisurely pace.

I don’t see what harm it would do to at least scout the area.

I have time to cover a small segment before work if I leave within the half hour.

If there is no sign of the frost bloom, then I can search the next section another time until I can determine whether this plant exists or is simply beyond my reach.

Closing my notebook with a snap, I decide to go over the rest later, after I determine whether the frost bloom is real or a thing of legend.

I fill my satchel with gloves, flower shears, and a small tin box with a silk handkerchief folded inside. I dress in woolen stockings and a warm riding skirt that will block most of the morning chill without being cumbersome, then don my long coat.

The click of my bedroom door closing behind me accentuates the emptiness of the otherwise silent house. I hesitate for a brief moment, then stride toward the bedroom on the other end of the hall. I knock as I open the door just wide enough to speak.

“I’m leaving to get a few things I need before work.” I pause. “I will try to be back in a few hours.”

There is no answer.

There never is.

It’s still early by the time I near the border.

The late spring morning feels refreshing.

However, even on perfect days, one must always be prepared in case a nasty winter storm comes out of nowhere.

They are unnatural and come regardless of the season, fueled by the wicked prince’s tumultuous moods and his cold magic for the past fourteen years.

While I’ve gone to the forest many times in the past to gather herbs and roots, and though I’ve come close, I have never ventured quite this far.

Curiosity sparks within. Do the fae know the moment someone sets foot on their lands?

Are there guards hidden by glamour right out in the open, waiting for humans foolish enough to break their law?

Is being close considered a violation? Or so much as one toe over the line?

Or are they lenient and only consider it breaking the second law if both feet are planted firmly on the other side?

There is no use worrying about the consequences of something I haven’t done.

While I am curious, I have no desire to risk my neck to find out.

Even without a signpost or barrier to mark the line between the two territories, the border is unmistakable.

The trees on the other side are massive and pale, as if most of the color has been leached out.

They look as if they belong to another world entirely.

Without crossing, it’s hard to tell if they gradually become ice or if they are covered in frost that thickens the further in they grow until they are armored in a thick sheet of it.

Slowing my mare Zasu into an easy walk, I guide her as close to the perimeter as I dare, then begin scanning both sides for any sign of the flower.

With a slight shift of my weight, Zasu obeys my commands as if she can read my mind.

She was a gift from my parents when I was five.

They tried to persuade me to give her a typical horse name like Thunder, Victory, Cinnamon, or Midnight, but I insisted on Zasu Moon.

Though I can no longer remember how I came up with it, the name stuck.

After several miles, the trees grow closer together. The frost on both sides has grown thicker. Everything ahead and on either side appears the same for as far as I can see, blurring the line. I have to look closely to spot the boundary.

Halting my mare, I dismount and loosely tie the reins to a low branch, then make my way into the grove. The frosted ground crunches lightly beneath my boots as I wander between the trees, avoiding the patches of snow that pepper the loam.

The snap of a small branch comes from behind, sending my heart hammering painfully in my chest. I whip around, gaze darting in search of the source. But nothing is out of place. All I see is Zasu, exactly where I found her waiting, calm and patient.

I take a moment to slow my racing pulse to avoid having an unnecessary episode.

Stop overreacting, Violet, I scold inwardly.

“It’s not as though I’m doing anything wrong. I come into the forest all the time,” I lecture myself under my breath.

Ducking under low branches, I weave my way forward.

A low plop comes from the side, slightly behind me. I blink, and as I turn, I catch the shift of a shadow from the corner of my eye.

I release a deep sigh that’s part nervous laughter.

It was only snow falling from a branch, partially melted from the gradually warming morning.

Being so close to the fae lands has my nerves on edge.