Chapter 33
Each passing day feels like waiting for an axe to fall. At night, I watch for the telltale flickers of bonfires on the horizon. Until the third evening, when I see them. Fires speckle the nearest mountains. Hundreds of them.
Over the last two days, we’ve trained the villagers in basic combat and fortified the castle walls as best we can.
Our defenses are mostly wooden pikes and rudimentary patches made from rubble found on the north end of the castle grounds.
An old castle ruin now used in the defense of a castle that’s soon to become a ruin itself.
Everyone operates under an air of desperation. It’s as if we all expect to die. All of this—the extra weapons, the training, the pits laced with spikes—it will merely slow them down.
Each breath burns my chest as I heave a cart of broken timber toward the castle’s crumbling gates.
Around me, someone calls for rope, another shouts for more stones.
The whole village moves with a frantic, shuddering pulse, as if we can somehow beat back the inevitable by sheer force of will.
If Gwyllion is to crumble, we’ll take down as many Fox Soldiers as we can in the process.
Tristan passes me without a word, carrying an armful of rusted spears scavenged from the old armory. He doesn’t meet my eye.
Hunter, not far behind him, hoists lumber over a shoulder.
His face is grim, jaw set like stone. He’s the newest member of this rebellion, but you’d never know it by the look of him.
He’s just as committed to resisting my father’s army as the rest of us.
His was a hard-won loyalty, but he still hasn’t accepted that he might be—is—the Heir to the North.
To be honest, I find it difficult to believe too.
The mythical Heir to the North is supposed to be descended from the human kings and queens who reigned long before the Dead Queens.
Back when humans and fae lived side-by-side.
While the Moon Goddess created the Dead Queens to restore the balance between humans and fae, the legendary Heir to the North is supposed to return the world to a time of prosperity.
He’s supposed to save Annwyn. Save us all.
It’s a lot to believe in, especially about your childhood best friend. Hunter is the kindest, sweetest man I’ve ever known. He always wanted to be a great knight, but a legendary king? The man destined to change the world for the better? That’s … a lot.
I shove the cart harder, ignoring the ache in my arms. It lurches forward, wheels catching in the uneven dirt. A mud-covered boy scrambles to help me push the cart. His hands are raw and blistered, but he grins at me anyway, gap-toothed and proud to be useful.
“Thank you,” I say as we park it near the front gate. My voice sounds as tired as I feel. The boy’s smile beams wider, and he darts off, vanishing into the chaos.
Everywhere I look, there’s motion. Women strip linen into bandages and boil water in battered kettles.
Old men fashion makeshift spears from broom handles and melt scrap metal into silvery pools.
Children scurry, ferrying messages and supplies, too young to understand the full horror of what’s coming.
Too young to understand that this might be the last battle they see.
This is all that’s left of Gwyllion. We are an army of misfits.
I catch sight of Tabitha, her aged back bent over a sack filled with herbs.
She tosses a few into a large mortar, then nods to Jona.
He lifts the heavy pestle into the bowl and begins to crush the leaves.
At their feet are small jars filled with oils and tinctures.
No doubt they’re preparing medicines for the wounds that we’re bound to face.
This isn’t Llwyn. There are no healers with power here, except me.
But I can’t spend my time and energy healing the wounded when I need to fight.
I am, after all, the Dead Queen’s weapon.
My heart aches at the sight. People will die. There’s no question about that.
Beyond Tabitha and Jona, a line of villagers hand stones, buckets, broken pottery, and any heavy scrap up to the battlements, to be thrown down when the soldiers arrive. My eyes drift to the distant Spires, where smoke from the Fox Army still drifts above the trees.
Someone places a gentle hand on my elbow. I turn to find Elisandra studying me.
“Here,” she says, handing me a cup of water. “You look like you need it.”
I take the dented tin cup in my shaking hands. “Thank you.”
Elisandra surveys the scene while I drink the cool water. It tastes like the well, but Elisandra was right; I needed to drink. I feel my head grow clearer with each sip.
“We’re a sorry sight, aren’t we?” Elisandra says with a sigh.
“No,” I say as I wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist. “The opposite, actually.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You’ve seen the Fox Army, so you must know we’re a pitiful sight compared to them.
We’ve grown up with tales of their skill and strength.
Their copper-plated armor and their training.
” She waves a hand out over the courtyard filled with villagers. “What would you call this?”
I study her for a moment, considering what to say. I settle on the truth.
“You’re right that the Fox Army has greater numbers, better weapons, and years of training.
But—” I hand her the cup with a meaning-filled look.
“We have the conviction of knowing that we’re right.
Every person here is willing to sacrifice everything in order to protect their home.
” I huff. “Sure, Fox Soldiers can follow orders. But they don’t think for themselves.
They don’t have something to fight for beyond the will of the Fox King.
” At the mention of my father, my stomach wrenches with anger.
So many people will die. All because of him.
Elisandra sniffs, and I realize her eyes are wet. She throws her arms around my shoulders and squeezes. I’m so shocked, it takes me several breaths to remember to wrap my arms around her too. We stay there, embracing, for a long time.
“Thank you, Sienna. For everything.”
I squeeze her tighter. “I wish there was more I could do.”
Slowly, Elisandra lets me go. “I know.” She takes a deep breath and wipes the hair out of her face. Her cheeks are wet.
“What will you do when they arrive?”
“I wish I could fight those bastards.” She points to her clouded eye. “But I’m a liability out there. I can’t aim straight to save my life. So, I’ll be in here.” She points toward the castle. “Tending to the children. At least until the wounded arrive. Then I’ll help Tabitha mend whomever we can.”
“It’s as noble a job as any.”
She nods. “I know. I just wish I didn’t feel like such a coward, staying back.”
“Bravery takes many forms, Elisandra.” I place my hands on her shoulders. “And you are one of the bravest people I know.”
She gives me a weak smile before hugging me again. “I hope this isn’t goodbye, Fox Heir. But if it is, it was an honor being your friend.”
“I feel the same about you.”
Elisandra straightens and tightens the apron tied behind her back. “Well, duty calls.” She gives me a weak smile before she walks back toward the well, to bring water to the next weary soul.
Tristan’s voice cuts through the noise. “Red, over here.” It’s not a request. It’s barely even polite.
I hesitate, just long enough for it to show.
He hoists a splintered beam across a gap in the battlement wall. He’s reinforcing it, though we both know it’s a fool’s hope. Still, I cross the yard toward him, heart hammering unevenly against my ribs.
Hunter is already there, driving iron spikes through the wood and into the wall’s remaining mortar with quick strikes. He doesn’t glance up as I approach, though I feel the tension in the air. It’s thick enough to drown in.
Just look at us now, a Fox, a Wolf, and a knight. All barely on speaking terms. We’ve fallen a long way since our travels through Llwyn last autumn. I never thought I’d long for the days when we were running for our lives. At least as fugitives, we were a united front.
“We need more beams to brace the west wall,” Tristan says, his back to me. “Someone needs to fetch more from the old stable.” His words are clipped.
I nod, even though I know he can’t see it. “I’ll go.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them acknowledges the offer. The only sounds are the steady thud of hammers on wood and the sharp hiss of whetstones as villagers sharpen blades.
Finally, Hunter says, “I’ll go too.”
He tosses his hammer to the ground and wipes sweat from his brow. His jaw is clenched. He doesn’t want to come with me, but we both know I can’t carry that timber alone.
We fall into step without speaking, weaving through the crowds toward the old stables. The ancient stone buildings are half-collapsed with gaping roofs, but the heavy beams inside are salvageable.
Inside what’s left of the old stables, dust hangs in the air like mist. Hunter grabs an axe from the threshold and sets to work hacking at a beam already half-split by rot. I follow his lead, yanking the boards loose, piling anything that might work to patch the castle wall.
The silence between us stretches. I can feel it pressing down on me, the weight of everything we haven’t talked about. How all along he’s been the prize the Dead Queen wanted … and I was just the trap that lured him here.
Finally, Hunter breaks. “I’m sorry.”
I freeze; a board clutched in my hands. Those were not the first words I expected to hear from his lips. A lesser man would have had choicer words for me, chief among them being “liar,” “backstabber,” “traitor,” and maybe even “whore”.
His voice is tight. “None of this has been easy to wrap my head around.”
“You think it’s been easy for me?” I snap back before I can think better of it.
His mouth twists, as if he’s biting back another sharp retort. Instead, he turns back to his work. Splinters of wood fly under each swing of his axe.