Page 3 of The Fox Heir

I close my eyes and take a steadying breath. If I’m to face whatever waits for me inside the snow-battered walls of Gwyllion, I’ll need every ounce of strength I have … because this is the castle of the Dead Queen.

And a Fox Heir must keep her wits about her if she’s to survive in a den of Wolves.

Chapter 2

Beyond Gwyllion’s walls, the storm has lessened, though the brutal wind still stings my cheeks. My skin is numb, and I blink against the falling snow to see where we are.

Behind us, silhouetted against storm-black clouds, rises a castle that shouldn’t exist. Its towers lean at angles that defy nature, and at least two of the wings have collapsed under the weight of time. Here and there, broken windows gape like mouths with jagged glass teeth. One turret lists so far to the side, its spire nearly kisses the tower beside it.

But its decrepitude isn’t what’s most alarming. Gwyllion Castle stands on a precipice. To the east, a cliff face reaches over a churning sea. I hear the waves crashing hundreds of feet below in an endless attack against the shore.

“It can't possibly stay standing in this storm.” My words are torn away by the howling wind.

Beside me, Tristan’s laugh is brittle as dead leaves. “It’s stood for a thousand years, and it’ll stand for a thousand more.”

I want to ask how he knows this, but the question dies in my throat. My knee aches as I stand, taking in the full horror of this place.

A boom of thunder cracks through the air, and I flinch. It’s a grim reminder that I’m not safe, not even close. But there’s no turning back. I gave up everything for this: my title as the Fox Heir, my kingdom, my position as a healer in the battle-wrought borderlands … Hunter.

Guilt scrapes at the walls of my chest, but I steel my spine. Somewhere inside this black and rotting castle lies the truth I set my world on fire to uncover. I just hope it’s worth it.

Tristan and I press against the wind and swirling snow, toward the castle.

I’m truly in enemy territory now. Worse, the only assurance I have that I won’t be killed on sight is the word of a single Wolf, Tristan. A Wolf who already betrayed me once. Those aren’t great odds.

It feels like a lifetime ago since Tristan was sent to Caerwen Palace to sniff out rumors that the Heir to the North has returned. A lot has changed since then. Not the least of which is the fact that the Wolf is coming back empty-handed, without the Heir to the North in tow. Instead, he has me. A scrappy ex-Fox Heir that no one asked for.

Tristan misinterprets my unease. “It must look like a ruin compared to your palace in Caerwen and your copper-plated city.” Tristan shouts against the wind. “Some say Gwyllion is cursed.”

I squint over at him. His hair and clothes are covered in snow, like he’s a fae creature made of ice.

“And why is that?” I shout back. “Is it the corpse wolves at the gate? The decaying castle? Or maybe it’s the ghosts in the woods?”

He pauses mid-step and blinks at me a few times, dislodging snow from his eyelashes. “Ghosts?”

I shake my head and push through the snow. The last thing I need is Tristan thinking I’m seeing things that aren’t there.

We’re nearly at the castle doors when another crash echoes from the forest beyond the battlement wall. The sound is followed by a chorus of eerie howls. I turn back toward the castle and press on. Whatever horrors wait inside these walls, we're out of options.

As if on cue, the storm front swallows us in sheets of white again. In the last moment before the snow takes everything, I see movement in one of the highest towers, a pale figure behind shattered glass. The ghostly woman is watching us. She knows we’re coming, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s been waiting.

Tristan pulls the heavy castle doors open, and I nearly tumble inside. He slams them closed behind us. The sound echoes low, like a sealed tomb, as silence envelops us. Tristan crumbles to the ground, breathing heavily with relief and exhaustion.

I stomp the snow off my feet, wiggle my toes, and rub my hands together. Gradually, sensation returns to my limbs as my skin burns like fire. I pray against frostbite, not that the old gods have ever done much for me.

After the howling winds outside, it feels as though my ears are stuffed with cotton. It’s so quiet here. The entrance hall is empty. No rugs, no furniture, no lamps, no people. The only muted light comes from the tall windows on either side of the door. Outside, all I see is a sheet of white beyond the filthy glass.

Tristan stands up with a grunt, then limps toward me.

“Are you all right?” His voice is edged with what sounds like genuine concern. But with a traitorous Wolf, one can never be too sure. I wave away his fussing and stand tall, ignoring the ache in my knee.

My eyes search for any sign of life in the hall. When I find none, my chest tightens. In the Fox King’s palace in Caerwen, you’re hard-pressed to find solitude anywhere, let alone at the grand entrance. But here, the quiet is ominous. Even the air feels wrong, as if the castle is tainted with age and decay. Each breath tastes of metal and ancient stone.

“Are you sure we’re welcome here?” I whisper to Tristan. I fight the urge to reach for the knife now tucked away in the sheath strapped to my ankle.

He grabs a torch from an iron sconce nailed into the stone wall and returns to me. “Hold this?”

I take it, confusion muffling my thoughts until I remember that here, in Annwyn, no one has the power of light, not even the noble-born. Here, everyone must rely on fire.