Chapter 126
“Your wolves are beautiful,” she observes softly.
“They are. I rescued them when they were pups, and they never left my side. It pains me to think they were alone for so long when I was sent to the human realm.”
Both wolves press in on each side, and warmth floods our unique bond.
“I could only imagine what it was like being sent away. One day, I would love to hear your story, but for now, we are here.”
I frown, confused. There is nothing in front of us but the snowy valley. I can’t even see any trees.
Iridessa waves her arm in the air in a fluid motion, and suddenly, the white markings that lace her skin blaze to life with a powerful, ethereal glow.
The light sweeps outward, washing over the landscape with a pale brilliance that seems to seep into every corner of the world around us.
I stop in my tracks so abruptly that Zaria bumps into me.
She stumbles back, catching herself, and we both gasp as the snowy, barren landscape that stretched endlessly before us just moments ago begins to shift and ripple.
In an instant, the wilderness transforms, as though a veil has been lifted.
Huts materialize, nestled beneath icy boughs, their chimneys whispering smoke into the cold, crisp air.
A market comes into view with vibrant stalls overflowing with strange goods, their canopies fluttering softly in the winter winds.
The fabrics, woven in colors that seem almost too vivid for this snowy mountain range, sway like soft mirages, inviting us into this hidden realm.
“Oh, wow,” I murmur, barely able to believe my eyes.
“Yeah . . . ” Zaria breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. I glance at her and catch the same mixture of awe and disbelief mirrored in her eyes.
Before we can take it all in, Iridessa’s voice slices through the wonder with a tone as cold and unyielding as the snow beneath our feet.
“You may keep your weapons,” she instructs, her gaze sweeping over us with a quiet but unmistakable intensity.
“But if you raise them against us, you will be killed on the spot.”
I see Raiden stiffen out of the corner of my eye, but I step forward and smile, giving a slight bow of my head. “You won’t have any trouble from us.”
Iridessa dips her head and her shoulders relax. “Come. My father isn’t a patient man.”
The fae villagers stop what they’re doing, their movements freezing mid-action as they turn to stare at us. Their expressions range from open-mouthed shock to narrow-eyed distrust, the tension thickening as more and more eyes fall upon us.
Each fae here shares the same striking coloring: icy-blue skin that seems to shimmer faintly in the cold light, hair so white it almost blends with the snow, and piercing blue eyes that glimmer like shards of glass.
They are beautiful in an otherworldly way, like living statues carved from ice, each one uniquely crafted but unmistakably bound by a common essence.
Beside me, Zaria shifts closer, her arm hooking in mine.
Finally, we come to a stop in front of a large structure that stands apart from the others, rising imposingly against the snowy backdrop. It’s a curious blend of styles: part ancient hut, part conical tent, with a peaked roof that stretches upward in an elegant taper.
Two fae women step out, coming to an abrupt halt, their vivid blue eyes widening on our group. Iridessa and Onora ignore them and open the heavy wooden doors, motioning for us to follow.
The warmth inside is heavenly, and I sigh audibly, feeling my muscles relax.
I didn’t realize I’ve been holding myself so rigid.
Spinning slowly, I let my eyes trail upward, tipping my head back to take in the vast rafters overhead.
Wooden beams crisscross high above, their edges softened by time and wear.
The faint scent of pine and something older—earthy and ancient—fills the air.
My steps falter as an unexpected wave of familiarity washes over me.
This place . . . it feels like something I’ve known before, though I can’t place why.
Valric steps up beside me, his presence solid and steady. He tilts his head slightly, watching me as though he knows exactly what I’m feeling. “You recognize it, don’t you?” he inquires softly, his voice careful, almost reverent.
I tear my gaze from the ceiling and turn to face him, furrowing my brow. “What?”
Before he can answer, a sudden wave of magic sweeps through the room. It’s strong and commanding, yet wild, like a storm breaking free. My own magic stirs instinctively in response, curling and coiling beneath my skin as if answering a call.
“Princess,” a deep voice booms, echoing off the stone walls, “or should I say, Queen.”
I whip around, the words striking like a thunderclap. Two males have entered the room, their imposing figures framed by the doorway. My first thought is that they’re warriors—everything about their stance radiates power and discipline.
They’re both tall and broad-shouldered, sturdier than the high fae I’m used to seeing, though not quite as massive as Raiden. There’s something primal about them, something ancient and unyielding. They remind me of the Vikings I’ve read about in stories, their presence larger than life.
The first male wears a heavy pelt draped over his shoulders, the dark fur contrasting sharply with the worn leather straps and belts crisscrossing his chest. His white hair is braided tightly, falling over one shoulder like a cord of silver, and the scar running down his jaw gives him a harder edge.
The second male mirrors him in many ways, though his hair is tied back loosely, and he carries several daggers at his waist.
Their eyes are striking—a pale blue so piercing they seem to look straight through me. But there’s something else there, too, something familiar.
I can’t stop staring. These men don’t just look like warriors—they look like the kind of beings who belong to stories, myths, legends. Their presence makes the room feel smaller.
The one with the scar steps forward with a grin stretching across his face.
“Valric, you’re looking good for your age, old man,” he greets him like an old friend, his voice warm and teasing, before slapping Valric on the shoulder with enough force to make the older fae shift slightly.
I stand there, mouth agape, trying to process what I’m seeing.
What is happening right now?
Days we have been planning, endless hours of discussing strategies and contingencies, Valric never once mentioned knowing the Skythari Nomads—or, apparently, their leader. This wasn’t just an oversight; it was an outright omission.
My gaze flicks to Raiden, and the storm brewing in his eyes tells me he’s thinking the same thing. His lips press into a tight line, and the tension rolling off him is palpable.
“Sorry,” I interject, my voice harsher than I intend as I interrupt their reunion. “How do you two know each other?”
Valric and the man both turn to face me, their expressions so similar in their mix of surprise and calm composure that I almost roll my eyes.
“Vera–” the nomad begins, but I cut him off, holding up a hand.
“It’s Everly,” I correct him. Vera was only used by those closest to my family. Was this man in my parents’ inner circle?
The scarred man’s grin softens into something more respectful as he dips his head. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he replies smoothly.
Before I can respond, Raiden steps up beside me, his arms crossing over his broad chest. The imposing stance only adds to the simmering irritation radiating from him. “It would have been nice to know you knew the Skythari Nomads, Valric,” he chides, his voice a low rumble.
Valric’s eyes shift briefly to Raiden, his expression unreadable. “Forgive me,” he replies, though his tone suggests he doesn’t feel particularly apologetic. “But this was Everly’s journey. She was leading the way with the frostflare. It was not my place to intervene.”
Raiden lets out a low grunt, clearly unimpressed with the answer, while I shake my head. Being left out of the loop doesn’t sit well with me, and I doubt the others will appreciate it either.
The scarred man steps forward again, his posture commanding yet open, and when he speaks, his voice carries the weight of authority. “My name is Barak, Chief of this tribe in the Ethereal Peaks.”
Then, with a slight turn, he gestures toward the second man who entered with him.
“Do you remember my son, Kaden?” Barak’s voice is softer now, though it still carries the weight of the room.
“You and Fenris used to play with him whenever you visited. My daughters weren’t born until after .
. . well, after the tragedy that led to your parents’ deaths. ”
The air seems to still as his words settle over us. My stomach tightens, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. The memories he speaks of linger at the edge of my mind, hazy and fractured, like the remnants of a dream. Kaden.
The name stirs something faint, but the images are elusive.
Before I can chase the threads of recollection further, my focus shifts to the fae standing beside Barak.
He’s tall and lean, with the unmistakable bearing of a seasoned warrior.
His sleeveless tunic reveals arms corded with muscle, and a well-worn leather belt cinches his waist, supporting a deadly-looking axe that rests at his hip.
His silver hair is tied back loosely, a few strands falling free around his angular features, and there’s an ease to his stance that speaks of confidence and readiness.
When his gaze meets mine, a faint smirk tugs at the edges of his mouth. His eyes, the same piercing blue as the other Skythari Nomads, seem to take me in all at once, as if he’s weighing and assessing me. But there’s no challenge in them, only respect.
With a smooth motion, he bows slightly, pressing his fist to his chest. “Vera,” he addresses me, his voice low and warm, the smirk softening into something closer to familiarity. “It’s been a while.”
I swallow hard, resisting the surge of frustration that rises in me.
The spell locking my memories feels crueler in moments like this, when the pieces are so close yet just out of reach.
I wish, more than anything, for it to break completely and release the flood of names, faces, and moments I’ve been denied.
But wishing doesn’t make it so, and I refuse to let my disappointment show. Instead, I square my shoulders, forcing those feelings down. “I wish I could say I remembered,” I admit.
Kaden’s smirk fades, replaced by a flicker of understanding. “You will,” he says simply, as if it’s a certainty.
Barak’s gaze flickers between us, his expression unreadable. “You’ve come this far, Everly. The rest will come when you’re ready.”
A half-huff, half-growl falls from my mouth. “We are in need of your assistance.”
Barak winks. “Straight to business then.”
“The Shadoweaver has the king, and I was told you have something that could help rescue him.”
Barak rubs his jaw and motions us with his head to the seats around the fire. We follow, and I’m surprised by the sheer size of this place; from the outside it didn’t look that big.
“We will get some food and drinks sorted.” Onora links her arm with Iridessa, who looks ready to argue.
“Thank you, daughters.” Barak offers a grateful smile.
Kaden stands near the fire, his tall frame silhouetted by the dancing flames. He’s positioned just to the side of his father’s chair, his stance similar to the way Tristan and Kian stand near mine.
Raiden, Zaria, and Valric take their seats without hesitation, their postures varying from relaxed to wary. I slowly take a seat, nerves buzzing like a swarm of bees running riot through my body.
Barak’s intense gaze flicks to me, assessing. “So, Your Majesty. What is it you think we have that can aid your rescue mission?”
I hesitate, my eyes flicking to Valric, who nods. “I was told,” I begin carefully, “that you possess beasts capable of avoiding detection by the Shadoweaver’s magic—creatures strong enough to break the chains holding the king captive.”
The words leave my mouth with more confidence than I feel, but inside, I’m guessing. The riddle the Witte Wieven gave me is maddeningly unclear, and this theory has been the only conclusion I’ve been able to draw.
Barak’s expression changes subtly, his eyes widening for a brief moment before a small smile curves his lips. He leans back in his chair, the firelight casting shadows across his weathered features.
“I have no such thing in my possession, young one,” he says calmly, and disappointment coils tight inside me.
Before I can respond, he leans forward, his hands resting on his knees, his voice lowering. “These creatures you speak of cannot be tamed. They are not ours to command. No one owns them.”
The flicker of disappointment sharpens into curiosity, my hands clenching in my lap. “So, you know what I speak of?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Aye,” he replies, his tone weighty. “But if you want their help, you must prove yourself worthy.”
“And how do I do that?”
Barak and Kaden exchange a look, something unspoken passing between them. The moment feels heavy with significance, but before Barak answers, Onora and Iridessa return, each balancing trays laden with food and drink.
“Thank you,” I murmur as Iridessa passes me a steaming mug.
She dips her head slightly, stepping back to take her place at her father’s side.
Barak turns back to me. “You’ll need to complete the Gauntlet,” he says simply.
I stiffen, the unfamiliar term sparking both intrigue and apprehension. “The Gauntlet?” I echo, my voice wary.
“If they find you worthy,” Barak continues, “they will approach you. They choose their allies, not the other way around.”
Raiden bristles at my side, the tension radiating from him almost tangible. “What is the Gauntlet?” he demands, his deep voice cutting through the moment.
Barak shifts his attention to Raiden, his expression blank. “A trial,” he explains. “A test of strength, will, and spirit. Only those who pass are deemed worthy.”
“And those who fail?” Raiden presses, his jaw tightening.
Barak’s smile returns, though it holds no humor. “They don’t return, and if they do, they bear the brunt of the trials,” he answers bluntly, his words settling over the room like a heavy blanket.
The air is thick with unspoken questions, but I refuse to let the gravity of his statement dissuade me. “Then I’ll do it,” I say firmly, my voice cutting through the silence.
Raiden tenses beside me, clearly wanting to argue, but he doesn’t speak. Barak’s eyes meet mine, and something in his expression shifts—approval, perhaps, or respect.
“So be it,” Barak accepts, his tone final. “The Gauntlet awaits.”