Chapter Nine
I have heard whispers that the wolves that roam the Kingdom of Ice are not beasts at all, but spirits, sent by a god to observe the world in his stead.
I have never encountered this god myself, nor do I know his name.
Yet the idea does not strike me as impossible.
The Sun God sends his angels into the mortal realm to watch, to listen, to gather what knowledge he desires.
Why, then, would the god who shaped the lands of ice and endless snow not do the same?
Why would he not let them wander across his frozen dominion?
Tabitha Wysteria
Bryn Wynter had travelled for days upon the back of a giant wolf, leading the remainder of his army homeward. They had left a portion of their men behind in witch territory—wyverians among them—to watch over the land of magic, should its sorcerers dare to return.
The rest pressed on, returning at last to prepare for the inevitable war creeping towards them.
Bryn dreaded what awaited their arrival.
Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, and all he longed for was the sanctuary of the castle.
He would face his father, recount every cursed detail of what had transpired, and together they would determine their next move.
But he needed to find Kage Blackburn as well as his sister Wren.
It had been so long since he had last seen them that he had taken to closing his eyes and tracing their faces in his dreams. He could almost taste the joy of it—pulling Wren into his arms, holding her tight against his chest, and being met by Kage’s eternally severe expression.
He missed them more than he could say.
He missed all his family. He could see his younger sisters—Gwyneira and Gwyneth—hurtling towards him the instant he returned, loudly complaining about how dull everything had been in his absence, then fretting about the king’s health moments later.
And little Eirwen would surely be tucked in a corner somewhere, quiet and gloomy as he always was.
The thought of them tugged at Bryn’s heart.
His attention drifted towards the king’s second-in-command: a commander revered by every wolverian, something made evident by the intricate difficulty of the braids woven into his hair.
Commander Caldwell was a massive man, his thick white beard and long, intricately braided hair the envy of every wolverian.
Only the king bore designs more complex.
One day, Bryn might wear such braids when he became king.
The thought made him tense. His father’s health was failing, and swiftly.
Crystallised lungs was a cruel affliction, one that claimed countless wolverian lives: a disease breathed from the winter air, turning the lungs to frozen stone until they simply ceased to work.
Ash Acheron had promised to inform Bryn of the king’s death, should it come, but before the message could be sent, part of the northern wall had shattered.
The ancient barrier that imprisoned witch lands had fallen, its binding magic gone.
Now Bryn did not know if his father still breathed…
or if he would return home only to mourn.
Soon, he would learn the truth.
He had been so lost in his thoughts that he failed to notice the sudden halt of the men ahead, or the way the wolves lifted their noses, sniffing the air with wary growls.
Bryn slid down from the back of the white wolf—not his own, for that one he had lent to Kage Blackburn—and strode forward to see what had stopped them.
Bodies.
Bodies hanging from the trees of the snow-laden forest.
Bryn’s blue eyes widened, horror tightening in his chest as he found his people suspended by ropes, their throats swollen, their eyes frozen wide open, eternally staring into the sky above.
‘Sire!’
It took Bryn several heartbeats to tear his gaze away—only when a soldier tugged at his sleeve, urging him forward. Even as he walked, he continued to stare at the hanging bodies above, his entire frame held rigid beneath a crushing dread.
And then he saw the heads.
Dozens of them, arranged atop the wooden fence marking the boundary between forest and village.
His legs nearly gave beneath him at the sight of the children, little faces frozen in terror, mouths open in silent agony.
But Bryn refused to look away. He forced himself to witness each one, to carve their expressions into his mind.
He would remember them every night until their deaths were avenged.
Only then would he allow himself to rest.
‘Witches,’ Commander Caldwell growled through clenched teeth.
‘How do ya know—’
‘Who else?’ Caldwell cut in with a low rumble. Bryn nodded, stumbling forward until his strength deserted him and he collapsed to his knees, tears spilling freely down his face.
He ignored Caldwell’s stare, ignored the way the commander’s blue eyes seemed to harden with something that promised future trouble.
‘We must bury them,’ a voice called from somewhere behind. Bryn nodded, gesturing weakly for the men to begin. He needed a moment, just a moment, to pull himself back together so he could stand and help.
‘We should take a small company and return to da castle at once,’ Caldwell said. ‘We don’t know what’s become of da king.’
Bryn’s chest cinched tight with fear. He had been so focused on the dead before him that he had not yet considered whether the witches had already reached the castle or his family.
With shaking hands, he forced himself to stand.
‘Da rest will remain and check da neighbouring villages,’ Caldwell said, voice heavy with command. He signalled to a small unit of his most trusted warriors, men Bryn knew placed more faith in Caldwell than in the king himself. ‘We must make haste.’ He motioned for Bryn to ride at the front.
And Bryn obeyed, though unease tightened like frost along his spine. He could not shake the suspicion that leaving with Caldwell and his chosen men might be a grave mistake. Yet fear for his own life paled beside the dread clawing at him for his family. That worry smothered every other thought.
So, with reluctant resolve, Bryn mounted the white wolf beside him and followed Caldwell onward.
Straight towards whatever doom awaited him.