Page 4 of The Fox Heir

I watch as he strikes a match and lights the oil-soaked linen fibers wrapped at the end of the torch. The flame catches. Dread fills my chest as I watch it flicker and burn. It casts shadows across the great entrance hall. It’s a reminder of just how vulnerable I am without access to my powers. And how out of place I am in the Dead Queen’s kingdom, where shadow power rules.

I follow Tristan through the dark halls and empty chambers. Wind whistles down the chimney of a fireplace, scattering ashes across the floor. I shudder.

Out of the corner of my eye, something stirs in the shadows. I snap my head toward it, but there’s nothing there except a ragged curtain that sways in an invisible draft. At the end of the long hallway, an open doorway yawns like the maw of a beast. Someone is watching from the darkness. I can feel it. And yet, we don’t encounter a single soul until we reach what must be the heart of the castle.

Outside a set of giant wooden doors, two men stand at attention. They look nothing like the guards in Caerwen. My father’s King’s Guard always took pride in their immaculate copper-plated armor. These men are dressed in worn leather and fur. Their only decoration is a pin on their chest—a silver wolf, the sign of the Annwyn court.

My gut tells me these aren’t normal guards. They’re Wolves, like Tristan. The Dead Queen’s most skilled warriors.

For a moment, I wonder why they aren’t fighting in the borderlands with the rest of the Annwyn fighters. Then I realize one of the men is missing an eye. The hole in his face is flesh-colored and hollow. When I look closer at the other guard, I realize his right hand is a jumbled mess of scar tissue and missing fingers. These Wolves did fight at the border. This is just what’s left of them.

I watch the men warily, but they don’t step aside. Either they don’t know who I am, or they’ve been forewarned of the Fox entering the castle. One guard stares at the silver moth around my neck. He lifts an eyebrow at Tristan.

“We need to see the queen,” Tristan says, his voice authoritative.

I swallow hard, waiting to see how the other Wolves will react.

After a beat, the men step aside and pull the heavy doors open. Tristan leads me into the room, his hand hovering against my lower back in a gesture that could be protective. Or possibly possessive. I decide not to dwell on that thought.

The throne room feels like a massive tomb. Our footsteps echo throughout the cavernous space. Shadows cling to the vaulted ceiling, and impossibly tall, arched windows line the eastern side. Along the left wall, ceiling-high tapestries sway in the frigid draft. They depict twelve variations of gnarled trees, from hardened cedars clinging to cliffsides to severed stumps in snowy meadows. Their branches shift and writhe in the flickering torchlight.

At the far end of the space, the Dead Queen sits upon a throne of blackened wood and molded iron. Her skeletal fingers twitch on the knotted armrests as we approach.

I straighten my spine.

She’s dressed in voluminous silks of midnight that drape over the throne’s weathered roots. Satin and brocade cover what I know to be a broken body of rot and decay. I’ve seen it only once, but the memory is forever seared into my mind.

Her white opalescent eyes bore into me from behind her sheer black veil. I swallow, unable to say the word that struggles at the tip of my tongue: Grandmother. The knowledge is still too new, and the pain of betrayal cuts deep in my chest.

Behind her stands a large woman, magnificent in her rugged beauty. She’s not dressed in corsets and silks like the ladies of the Caerwen court. Instead, she wears breeches and a weathered leather vest, all in earthy shades of brown. Her posture is rigid, and her dark blond hair is a wild tangle of curls escaping from a thick braid. But her most striking feature is the scar that cuts across her face, like she once kissed a blade and lived to tell the tale.

I don’t miss how her eyes linger on the thin scar across my throat. I’ve met blades too.

No one needs to tell me this woman is a Wolf. Everything about her presence screams power and brutality. Her emerald eyes narrow as she regards me with open hostility.

Tristan kneels before my grandmother. “My queen.” He nods toward the woman behind the throne, his body language tense. “Nalina.”

I stand firm. I crossed Llwyn and the Spires for my grandmother, lost everyone and everything I held dear—only to discover she betrayed me. I loved my grandmother so deeply, it nearly killed me. That love that kept me alive all those years is now a hard, putrid stone in my chest.

Now, I hate her. It’s a hatred that burns so hot, I’d kill her a second time if I had the chance. And this fury has no time for pleasantries.

“Why?” The word tears from my throat before I can think better of it. “Why did you leave me without an explanation? Why torture me like that?”

Behind her, Nalina stiffens, her hand ready at the silver sword on her hip.

The queen studies me through her sheer veil. Slowly, she stands, her bones cracking like popping coals. When she speaks, her voice is raspy and dry. “Sometimes, the path we walk requires great sacrifice.”

I step forward, but Tristan places a hand on my arm.

“Sacrifice?” I balk. “You abandoned me to that monster! To a father who hated me, who made my life miserable.” My voice breaks, but I refuse to cry. “You knew what he was, what he was capable of. And you still left me with him.”

Nalina’s gaze darts toward Tristan, narrowing further. The unspoken tension between them is almost palpable.

My fury burns through me, fueled by years of unanswered questions and bitter resentment. “I loved you. And you left me.”

The Dead Queen’s voice is maddeningly calm. “I did what I had to.”

Bile burns my throat. Suddenly, the weight of the silver moth hanging around my neck feels unbearable. I grab it and tug, breaking the chain. I throw the necklace onto the ground. It clangs and skitters toward her feet. For a long moment, everyone in the room stares at it.