Page 8 of The Fox Heir

Tristan nods once, then turns and walks past me. The brush of his hand against mine as he turns feels deliberate, like one last defiance. As if he knows he’s leaving me with nothing but my misery and the howling wind beyond the castle walls.

The castle’s corridors twist like the discarded skin of a serpent. Passages branch out in multiple directions and lead down darkened halls lined with tapestries. Their faded threads tell old stories that I can’t fully understand. Knights in silver armor battle beasts and wolves. Fae creatures with black eyes watch from the shadows. Ladies dance naked in forests illuminated by moonlight. Each frozen image is but a glimpse of a story long forgotten. Annwyn heroes and monsters watch me as I wind through the unfamiliar corridors, like a fool stepping through a nest of vipers.

Before long, I’m lost. Completely, utterly lost. Pride keeps me from turning back and retracing my steps to the throne room to ask for help. My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since yesterday. Even then, it was just raw nuts and mushy apples. Very little still clung to the trees this late in the season.

Now, all I can think of is warm bread and hearty stews. It’s the sort of meal you’d expect from a castle kitchen on a freezing winter day, but nothing in Annwyn has been what I’d call “expected.” For all I know, these cold people with their grim frowns and sharp words eat nothing but snow and ice.

I’m hit with a sudden pang of homesickness, not for the palace in Caerwen, but for the kingdom in general. Llwyn, the southern lands where flowers bloom and heat caresses your skin on summer days. My eyes skitter over the endless snow-covered windows, most of them cracked. Wood planks block the light from coming in where the glass is broken entirely.

My footsteps echo down the empty hallways, each one swallowed by silence. Somewhere in the distance, something creaks. It could be a door or a floorboard. I can’t tell. I don’t see anyone, but the feeling clings to me like eyes watching from the shadows and from behind cracked doors.

I hear the kitchen before I see it. Pots clatter, knives cleave, and someone shouts orders in the distance. Then, the smell hits me: meat, herbs, and the warm sweetness of freshly baked bread. I follow my nose down a flight of stairs.

The kitchens, when I find them, are alive. Black cast-iron pots hang from thick hooks along the ceiling. A hearth large enough to roast an entire stag dominates one wall. Finally, here’s the mess and noise of a great palace. Kitchen staff chop and shout, stir and wash. Voices rise over the din as chefs give orders and chastise slow kitchen maids. I stand in the doorway, watching the chaos. Heat from the ovens radiates clear across the room. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly warm in weeks.

No one notices me until a young woman in a damp apron freezes mid-step. Her eyes grow round and her mouth drops open in a silent “O.” The spoons in her hand clatter to the ground. The entire kitchen grows silent and still as every pair of eyes finds me.

I hold up my hands in what I hope is a universal sign of peace. “I apologize for interrupting. I … um … was looking for …”

They all stare.

Apologizing again, I turn and run back out into the corridor. Around the corner, I slump against the stone wall and slide to the ground in defeat. Eventually, the noise of the kitchens returns, muted this time and laced with whispers. I wrap my arms around my knees and rest my head, staring at the worn flagstones.

Footsteps echo down the hall, but I don’t look up until a pair of brown leather boots stop in front of me. The toes are scuffed and worn, but they’re not Tristan’s. I raise my head and squint up at the intruder.

Nalina stands like a warrior, her feet apart and shoulders back. She’s watching me with narrowed emerald eyes. “You’re lost.”

I lift my chin, defiance rising despite my hunger and exhaustion. “I know exactly where I am.”

Nalina’s laugh is quick and unexpected, more of a bark. I get to my feet, wincing as my bones creak. We stare at each other for a long time.

Up close, I can see that Nalina is objectively beautiful, scar notwithstanding. She’s a large woman whose broad stature belies immense strength. She’s clearly not the type to care about primping or dressing to impress. Her clothes are worn and practical, allowing for easy movement. Her leather vest and breeches are scuffed. Her only adornment is a silver wolf brooch pinned to her chest, a reminder that Nalina isn’t any ordinary guard. She’s a Wolf, like Tristan, and just as deadly.

“Come,” she says. “The guest rooms are this way.”

Too worn down to protest, I rise from the cold stone floor and follow her. The hallway she leads me through is colder than the rest of the castle, if that’s even possible. Drafts slip through cracks in the mortar, stirring the thin tapestries that hang limp along the walls. A sense of unease tightens in my chest, and I start to wonder if I’m walking straight into a trap. But then Nalina pushes open a heavy wooden door and my breath catches.

The room opens to a wall of tall, arched windows, their glass blurred with frost. Even through the drifting snow, I can see the Spires in the distance and the mountain path home to Llwyn.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.

Nalina watches me with an unreadable expression.

The room itself is utilitarian. There’s a single chair, an empty hearth that whistles with wind, and a massive bed covered with thick furs. But with that view, who needs gilded sconces or elaborate portraits?

I clear my throat, remembering myself. “Thank you.”

Nalina’s lips pinch, as if she’s trying to decide whether she should speak her mind or not. She nods. “I’ll ask someone to bring up firewood and a meal.”

My stomach growls in response.

Her eyes flicker over my soiled red cloak and mud-caked boots. She turns to leave before pausing. “And warm water to bathe.”

I’m far too grateful to care whether that’s a veiled insult or not.

Chapter 4

Moonlight pools across the floor, turning everything to silver and shadow. I can’t sleep. The fire in the hearth has long since gone to embers, and the silence is too thick.