Page 13 of The Fox Heir

She shakes her head only once. “You haven’t answered my question.”

I look at Tristan again, but his expression is stoic. Distrust looms at the back of my mind. I may not trust the Dead Queen, but I’m not exactly in a position to bargain.

“I don’t know how I accessed it,” I admit. “It happened twice. We were facing death both times.”

Tristan catches my eye. He nods slightly, urging me to continue.

“It happened first when wraiths chased us in a battle-sacked village.” I swallow hard. That night, my power exploded out of me in a blaze of light, and I was burned out for days after.

As far as I know, this newly awakened power was only triggered by need. I had to save the Wolf, because he was the only one who could help me discover what happened to my grandmother. Even if he brought me here under false pretenses, I can’t ignore that he nearly died trying to rescue me from the wraiths.

And if I’m being honest with myself, I needed to save him because I couldn’t stand to watch him die. And that is why his betrayal cuts me so deeply.

“Go on,” the queen says.

“The second time was on an old battlefield. Among the dead who didn’t know ...” My voice fades.

They didn’t know they were dead. I swallow hard. The dead had been cursed to remain trapped there eternally. Lost. Abandoned. And rightfully angry.

And she did it to them.

I clear my throat. “We narrowly escaped. My power has refused to cooperate ever since.”

The Dead Queen nods, perhaps sensing the anger rising in me over what she’d done to those people. “It is regrettable, war.”

“Regrettable?” I stare at her in disbelief. “Those souls will be punished forever. Both Llwyn and Annwyn fighters.”

Tristan’s eyes dart between me and the Dead Queen, his expression neutral. He was there on the battlefield too. He should be as outraged as I am, but he says nothing.

I narrow my eyes at the Dead Queen. “There is nothing regrettable about what you did. It was abhorrent.”

“Yes,” she says. “It was.” The Dead Queen watches me for a long time as I try to regain my composure. “Sometimes creatures can be saved. Other times …” She leaves the rest of her explanation hanging, like a criminal at the gallows.

Her dismissal of the living leaves me feeling ill. But, I need to remember I’m not speaking with my grandmother, I’m speaking with the Dead Queen. Perhaps it shouldn’t be so unexpected.

Another gust of wind whistles through the narrow slits in the wall. I glance toward the sound and catch a flicker of movement. Something small is forcing its way through one of the gaps in the stone. It’s not until the creature takes flight that I realize what it is. A moth, pale as bone, drifts on the draft. Its ragged wings look too damaged to fly, yet somehow it does. It glides over the Dead Queen and settles on her shoulder, delicate as snowfall. For several heartbeats, it rests there, its tattered wings fluttering open and closed. Then, silently, it lifts into the air and flies toward the rafters above us.

I watch it rise before I notice something that makes me gasp. Far above our heads, the rafters are moving. At first glance, it looks like a living, breathing ceiling. I squint at it, trying to understand what I’m seeing. It’s not the rafters themselves that give the illusion, but countless pairs of wings.

Moths cover every surface above us. Brown, gray, striped and solid. Cabbage whites, speckled leopards, fuzzy silks, orange atlases, and even great lunas. They crowd the beams, fluttering for better purchase. Their wings—some whole, some ragged as crumpled leaves—stir softly in the draft. For a moment, it feels like they’re watching us. Thousands of unblinking eyes, casting judgment from the darkness above.

I stare up at them, amazed. “Impossible … it’s winter. They should all be⁠—”

“Dead?” the queen asks.

Of course. Here I am, in a crumbling tower owned by a dead regent who rules legions of corpse beasts, and I’m surprised that she has a menagerie of undead insects?

“I give them refuge,” the Dead Queen says nonchalantly.

“But why moths?” My voice comes out strained.

I think of the silver moth blade tucked into the ankle of my boot. Moths were Grandmother’s favorite creatures. For some reason, seeing the Dead Queen with them makes my stomach turn, like she’s defiled Grandmother’s memory somehow, just like she’s defiled her corpse.

The Dead Queen studies me. “You know why.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe it. “My grandmother had a connection with moths when she was alive.”

“I had a connection with them, you mean.”