Chapter 4
Moonlight pools across the floor, turning everything to silver and shadow. I can’t sleep. The fire in the hearth has long since gone to embers, and the silence is too thick.
“Trapped.” The word echoes in my mind like a prison sentence.
As much as I hate it, the Dead Queen was right. There’s no traveling through the Spires back to Llwyn, now. Not that I’d be welcomed back.
I slip from beneath the fur-lined covers, my bare feet cold against the stone floor. Outside, the storm still rages. I trace my fingers along the frozen windowsill as I ponder my situation.
If I return to Llwyn in the spring, I’ll be on the run.
My father wants me dead so my illegitimate brother can grow up to inherit the Fox Throne instead of me.
Do I let him? I never wanted to rule to begin with.
Do I just disappear into some forgotten corner of the world, always looking over my shoulder? Always afraid he’ll find me?
The Fox in me recoils at the thought of running.
Submission has never been my nature. I must find allies, fight, and challenge a throne I’ve never loved, in a kingdom that never felt like home.
Even as I think it, I know it’s not the kingdom I hate.
It was my father poisoning everything in it.
What if Llwyn could be different? What if I could build something better?
I’ve never loved my kingdom. But perhaps I can love what it could become …
After I kill my father.
The storm outside seems to whisper seductively ... Kill the Fox King. Take the throne … Be the true Fox Heir.
Winter stretches before me. Months of waiting. Months of not knowing what’s going on in Caerwen. Months of wondering what happened to Hunter after I crossed the Annwyn border without him.
A sting of grief and regret seizes my chest. I swallow it down like bitter medicine. After all, I deserve this pain. But these months will feel unbearable if all I do is wallow in it.
Instead, I need to use this time more productively. I need to prepare for whatever will come with the spring thaw. My fingers curl into fists against the cold glass. The storm continues, indifferent to my resolve. I may be trapped, but I am not defeated.
My red cloak hangs by the door. I pluck it from its hook but pause before putting it on.
Something about it is different. I hold the fabric up to the moonlight to examine it.
It’s … clean. The rips from the forest have been finely mended with red thread.
Tiny stitches run here and there, like veins.
Even the mud stains have been washed off.
But how? No one came into my room. Had I fallen asleep after all?
Even if I had, it’s not possible that someone could’ve retrieved the cloak, washed it, dried it, and mended it so quickly.
It seems I still have much to learn about Gwyllion Castle.
I pull the cloak around my shoulders. There’s no point in pacing in this room all night.
The hallway outside is lit only by moonlight. The pale glow filters through frost-laced windows, and the light casts strange patterns across the flagstones. The wind howls outside like a vulture circling low over the castle.
As I roam, every corridor looks the same. Shadows stretch across the walls as the moon shifts behind clouds. The tapestries lining the halls seem to breathe with each draft, their heavy fabric stirring. It feels as though they might reach for me if I walk too close.
Then I hear a new sound, small and quick, like footsteps. The skin on the back of my neck prickles and I hold my breath as I listen.
Silence.
I turn, but there’s no one there. Only the empty hallway behind me, stretching long and cold. Could it have been mice? My gut twists. No. My dormant power stirs uneasily beneath my ribs in a subtle warning.
My steps are more cautious as I walk now. I scan the dark corners where moonlight doesn’t reach and strain my ears against the shrieking wind.
Around the next corner, at the far end of the corridor, a door slowly closes.
I rush forward, heart hammering in my chest. My hand reaches for the door, pushing it open.
Inside the room, white cloths drape over furniture like shrouds. Dust coats everything, thick and undisturbed. Even the floor is covered in a layer of dust, not a single footprint in sight.
And yet, I know I’m not alone.
Still, I tell myself it was the wind. Just another draft slipping through the stonework, making the old bones of this castle creak and groan.
As I stand in the doorway, clouds swallow the moon and the room grows dark. I wait, staring. The darkness grows so thick, it feels like a living thing pressing against my skin. My heart pounds wildly, echoing in my ears.
But still, I am alone.
I fumble backward, one hand pressed to the cold wall as I feel my way blindly back toward my room. Once my bedroom door is latched, I spin around to search the room. Another winter storm rages outside the large windows, the bedcovers are rumpled, and the room is still.
But one thing is not as I left it.
My eyes snag on a flash of white on the bedside table. It’s a note. The paper is wrinkled and the handwriting is scratchy, but the message is clear.
“Leave.”
Oh, how I wish I could. I snatch up the paper, crinkle it into a ball, and throw it into the hearth to burn when I light tomorrow’s fire. Even as fear curls tight in my chest, I’m certain of one thing: Gwyllion holds secrets. And if I’m to be trapped here all winter, I may as well uncover them.
Morning comes, but without much light. The darkness gradually shifts to gray, and the shadows soften.
Despite my sore limbs, I get out of bed quickly. My eyes snag on the hearth, searching for the flash of white paper in the ashes, but the note is gone.
When I shiver, it has little to do with the chill. The stone floor is like ice beneath my feet as I tiptoe to the massive windows in my room. The storm has ceased, leaving behind a pristine landscape of immaculate white. It’s beautiful, even if it is deadly.
My thoughts darken as Hunter floats to the forefront of my mind.
If he’s alive, he’s out there somewhere in the cold winter, beyond the Spires.
I hope with all my heart that he survived the fire and corpse beasts of Ellyll, but I know it’s unlikely.
Even if he did survive, we’re now worlds apart.
Separated not just by mountains, but by secrets and betrayals too big to overcome.
Guilt sends waves of nausea cascading through me.
It was a mistake leaving him behind. Even if he refused to travel into Annwyn with me, I shouldn’t have trusted the Wolf.
The price for answers about Grandmother was too high.
Now that I know what happened to her, I see how foolish I was.
I should’ve let the dead stay buried. But it’s too late now, so I swallow down the guilt.
I can’t survive a winter in Annwyn, simpering and whining about my mistakes. I need to own them and move on. It’s time to take control of my situation. I may have been tricked into coming here, but I refuse to be a captive.
Besides, foxes are famous for outwitting traps.
My door creaks as I make my way out into the empty halls.
I note subtle differences in the tapestries and doorways as I create a mental map of my surroundings.
This castle is huge. It must have been a place of immense power in centuries past, back when the human kings of the North ruled.
Long before the Dead Queens took their place.
Now all that remains are the Wolves and the servants of the Dead Queen.
This is disorienting, considering the tales I grew up with.
I’d always believed Annwyn was filled with armies of death-wielding warriors with shadow power, killing every living thing in their way.
In Llwyn, even children know the Dead Queen raises corpses from their graves to continue fighting for her.
But I haven’t seen a single undead human in Gwyllion, apart from the queen.
And then there were the borderlands. Each time we were attacked, it was by corpse beasts.
Not men. And certainly not human corpses.
Realization blooms within me. The Wolves here are all wounded, and there are very few servants for a castle this size.
Now that I’m here in Annwyn, I see the truth.
There aren’t many Annwyn fighters left in this desolate land.
If Wolves refuse to revive dead humans, as Tristan swears is true, then they have no choice but to rely on beasts.
And they won’t be able to keep my father’s soldiers out of Annwyn for much longer.
Hinges groan in protest as I push against a door that leads outside. It presses into a snowdrift, but I manage to open it just enough to slip out. The snowfall is up to my knees, but I high-step my way out to the perimeter of the castle anyway.
The world is so quiet, it feels as though my head is underwater. The air hovers around freezing, but it’s not so cold that I must return indoors.
I push through the snow, carving a path along the castle’s edge. Beyond the battlement wall, the Spires rise to the south. As I continue, my feet grow numb in my soaked boots.
I’m just about to turn back when I stumble upon a long glass building, half-buried in snow.
A narrow path has been cleared, leading from a castle door to its entrance.
I push my way through the snow, nearly spilling onto the cleared path.
My legs burn with exertion, and my heart is pounding.
After catching my breath, I reach for the glass door and step inside.
It’s a greenhouse. But unlike the ones back home filled with exotic flowers, this one holds planter boxes lined with vegetables.
Carrot greens, fennel stalks, and curly parsley rise from the soil in neat rows.
Lettuce and herbs cluster together in varying shades of green, white, and purple.
Overhead, bundles of chamomile, lavender, and other drying plants hang from the rafters, likely for teas and tinctures.
No doubt they were gathered to last through the long winter.
I stare at all the colors in awe. So far, Gwyllion has felt like nothing more than the empty husk of a castle, cold and dead. But here, in the middle of a harsh winter, plants bloom.
“They’re medicinal,” a voice says.
I jump and turn. An old woman watches me through narrowed eyes, her skin wrinkled and browned from the sun. She’s standing at the far end of the greenhouse, her posture wary.
“Though I doubt a lady such as yourself would recognize such plants,” she says, her voice thick with contempt.
“I know a thing or two about healing,” I say.
Her words sting because she’s right. I don’t know what these plants are used for.
My bloodline is gifted with the greatest power of healing in Llwyn.
What use were plants when I could cure a fever with a touch, or knit flesh and sinew back together in moments?
The old woman eyes me warily. “I’m sure you do.” She sniffs. “But not what those plants are good for.”
After a moment, I concede. “You’re right.”
She nods, her face still wary. Her hair escapes from beneath a worn scarf.
It’s white and wild like the landscape. She wears layers upon layers of worn wool, everything the color of dried leaves and earth.
The curve of her back and the lines on her face hint at a life of harsh winters and laboring summers, but her eyes are clear as a mountain stream.
“You’re the Fox Heir,” she says. It’s not a question.
I say nothing.
Her hands are gnarled, with fingers twisted like roots. She digs them into the planter box in front of her, then pulls up several small beets. She knocks them against her thigh to shake the soil loose, then tosses them into a waiting basket.
“I’m Sienna.”
She pauses, eyeing me again for a long time before she says, “Tabitha.” She plucks a curved knife off a nearby potting bench. She ignores me as she grabs handfuls of kale and cuts them at the stems.
“Can I help?”
She pauses, watching me. “You? Want to ‘help’?”
I nod.
She scoffs, shaking her head. “Well, that’s a new one.”
Her sharp dismissal stings. “We’ve only just met.”
“Aye,” she says, cutting the greens more vigorously. “But I know you, Fox Heir. I’ve known you all your life.”
My stomach drops. “How could that be true?”
“I know your people.” She tosses her greens on top of the beets in the basket, then kicks it further down the line of vegetables.
She scoots to follow it as she continues working.
“The Fox King, and the Fox King before him. The greedy, selfish Llwyn royals, intent on taking the lands of my people. No matter the cost.” Her hands are shaking, her knife cutting less carefully with each new handful.
“I’m not like my father.” I lift my chin, even though I’m not so sure she’s wrong about me.
She scoffs again, ignoring me.
I watch as she moves on to cutting stalks of asparagus. Each slice is crisp and precise despite the gnarled hand holding the blade.
My voice is quiet and earnest when I ask, “What has it cost you?”
She looks up at me. “Everything.” Her voice trembles with emotion. “Your bloody throne has cost me everything.”
She slices another bunch of greens, but her knife slips, slicing into the palm of her hand. The knife clatters to the ground. Her eyes are wide with shock as she takes in the trickle of blood, dripping down her fingers and onto her feet.
I rush forward on instinct. “I can help.” Before I even touch her skin, she pulls back, her eyes alarmed.
“Don’t you touch me!”
“It’s alright,” I say, reaching for her hand again. “I can heal you.” It’s only now that I remember I can’t. My power is still infuriatingly unreachable inside of me.
“I’d rather die of infection!” She scrambles back, smearing blood on the potting bench behind her. She scurries around the planter bed, watching me with anxious eyes. “Don’t you dare touch me with your filthy hands!”
I freeze in place, confused. “I only meant to help.”
Her face is dark with rage that I don’t understand. She spits, her saliva hitting me in the cheek. I’m too shocked to do or say anything before she slips out the door and back into the snow.