Realization hits me in the chest like a vicious punch.
He’s absolutely right.
I would have been…
Dead. Or worse.
“No time for worrying about what might have been,” I snap. “What about Aderick? What’s wrong with him?”
Kastel dismounts. Garan does as well. He unrolls a blanket and lays it on the ground. As gently possible, they pull Aderick off the horse and lay him down.
To my relief, my brother is breathing, but his face is a worrying shade of pale; almost blueish. Deep shadows encircle his eyes, which are closed. A blanket is crudely tied around his belly.
“One of the brigands got him,” Kastel says, a tremor entering his voice. “Stabbed him with a sword. Right in the gut, through his leather armor. He’ll bleed out if we move him any further by horse. We’ll have to put him in the carriage and hitch the horses to it. Find a healer.”
“Tyron Castle shouldn’t be too far from here.”
“We are not going to that castle, Fin. We heard the truth from a maid. She listened in on the whole thing. You should have told us what father was planning. I can’t believe he would give you to that man against your will. We were going to steal you back and hide you away… I’m sorry, sister.” Kastel’s lower lip is trembling. Beneath the shadow of his helmet, it’s so obvious that he’s still a boy; just on the cusp of manhood.
So young.
Young enough to do utterly reckless things.
He shouldn’t be here. None of them should. What in the goddess’s name possessed them?
I turn and look across the woods, following the snow-covered road.
There is a road. It’s hard to make out at times because it’s covered in snow, but it’s there; compacted, trodden earth where nothing grows, cutting a swathe through the skeletal trees.
The road we’ve been traveling all this time.
If I follow that road, I’ll reach Tyron Castle.
All of the things we think we know about Corvan Duthriss…
They’re just rumors.
“Kastel.” My voice is hard and quiet. I sound like a stranger. “You and Garan will take the greatest care when moving our brother to the carriage. Be careful of the broken glass. Keep him warm at all costs. Layer him in blankets and keep strong pressure on the wound. One of you will hitch your horse to the carriage. The other will keep guard, in case any other brigands appear. I’ll go ahead—to Tyron Castle. Mark my words, the Archduke will render assistance.”
This time, it’s Garan that protests, holding up a gloved hand. “Better that I go. You aren’t—”
I glare at him. “Aren’t what? I am Corvan Duthriss’s betrothed. If not for me, you wouldn’t be here. The least I can do is try and do everything in my power to save someone that saved me. Besides, I can ride faster.”
For whatever reason, the horses have always chosen me above all others. The stablehands say I have an affinity. I’m a naturally excellent rider, and it drives my father mad.
Time to put this ability of mine to good use.
“Stay the course,” I order. “Maintain a slow pace. Aderick’s in no state to be subjected to rough travel until we have the right kind of bindings on his wound. I will return.”
I stare down the road, which is lined with the skeletal forms of hibernating trees. A mist hangs across the forest, ghostly and ephemeral.
The horse snorts uneasily. I give him a gentle squeeze with my calves, easing him into a walk.
“Wait for me,” I call, glancing over my shoulder. The boys’ faces are ashen and grim.
I’ll just have to ride as fast as this horse will take me and pray that no monsters cross my path.
7
CORVAN
I walk to the edge of the trap and stare down at the pure, undisturbed snow.
Nothing.
The tripwire hasn’t been triggered, even though I’ve placed a shaman’s potion in the center of the circle as bait. It contains a scent that’s supposed to be irresistible to lycans—something called a pheromone. I know it works, because I’ve had some luck with this method before.
But this time, nothing. Maybe the shaman sold me a dud.
Or maybe the lycans are growing wise to my tricks.
Above me, the winter-stripped woods are silent. Wan sunlight filters through the branches, but I’m shielded from it by the edge of my hood and the silken scarf wrapped around my lower face.
It’s a weakness of mine now. I can’t stay in direct sunlight for very long before it scalds me. My body is different in so many ways—faster, stronger, quickly-healing—but these powers of mine come at a price.
I’m no longer fit to inherit the Empire.
It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t mind it out here; in the cold, in the silence.
After the horrors of war, the silence puts the mind at ease.
But silence can be quickly broken.
Just like now.
Across the clearing; across the woods, I detect a familiar sound.
A sound I’m intimately familiar with.
It’s the sound of a horse’s hooves on snow and hard ground.
Galloping; pounding the earth.
A lone rider, approaching fast. Whoever they are, they must be in serious trouble, because that horse is being ridden to death.
They’re heading in the direction of my castle.
Friend, or foe?
Best if I intercept them before they reach the gates. If they’re in genuine distress, I’ll help them.
If they’re an enemy, I’ll decide whether I need to interrogate them or kill them.
I move with unearthly speed; silent across the snow, my footfalls barely making an indent.
I’m at the road in an instant, standing in the middle, staring down the lone rider.
They’re not in view yet.
Soon.
I inhale the scent of fresh snow and earth and woodiness; of approaching horse and…
What is that?
It coils around me like a vine’s tendril; a little at first, invading my senses, growing quickly until it engulfs me completely.
My thirst intensifies a hundredfold.
The pounding of my own blood becomes a roar in my ears.
I’m already starting to move, even though I don’t completely comprehend it. I look down at the snow. The sunlight reflects back at me, momentarily blinding me with its dazzling intensity.
I can’t see.
I don’t care.
I don’t need to see.
The scent grows ever stronger, drawing me toward it like a beacon in a storm. I can’t get enough of it. It consumes every last part of me. The sounds meld into a symphony; of trees swaying in the wind and hoofbeats and the delicate rasp of a human’s breathing.
Her breathing.
The horse bears down upon me… then stops.
My vision clears, but the thirst does not.
The horse is panicking, rearing up onto its hind legs as it lets out a shrill whinny, throwing its rider out of the saddle.
I move.
I’m there.
She’s in my arms—caught.
The horse bolts—gone.
I look down.
At a face that’s so lovely I have no right to be staring at her like that, but her scent has driven me mad.
I’m no longer in control.
My body is moving of its own volition.
I can’t stop.
Can’t. Stop.
8
FINLEY
There’s a man standing in the road.