Page 9 of The Fox Heir

“Trapped.” The word echoes in my mind like a prison sentence.

As much as I hate it, the Dead Queen was right. There’s no traveling through the Spires back to Llwyn, now. Not that I’d be welcomed back.

I slip from beneath the fur-lined covers, my bare feet cold against the stone floor. Outside, the storm still rages. I trace my fingers along the frozen windowsill as I ponder my situation.

If I return to Llwyn in the spring, I’ll be on the run. My father wants me dead so my illegitimate brother can grow up to inherit the Fox Throne instead of me. Do I let him? I never wanted to rule to begin with. Do I just disappear into some forgotten corner of the world, always looking over my shoulder? Always afraid he’ll find me?

The Fox in me recoils at the thought of running. Submission has never been my nature. I must find allies, fight, and challenge a throne I’ve never loved, in a kingdom that never felt like home. Even as I think it, I know it’s not the kingdom I hate. It was my father poisoning everything in it. What if Llwyn could be different? What if I could build something better? I’ve never loved my kingdom. But perhaps I can love what it could become …

After I kill my father.

The storm outside seems to whisper seductively ... Kill the Fox King. Take the throne … Be the true Fox Heir.

Winter stretches before me. Months of waiting. Months of not knowing what’s going on in Caerwen. Months of wondering what happened to Hunter after I crossed the Annwyn border without him.

A sting of grief and regret seizes my chest. I swallow it down like bitter medicine. After all, I deserve this pain. But these months will feel unbearable if all I do is wallow in it.

Instead, I need to use this time more productively. I need to prepare for whatever will come with the spring thaw. My fingers curl into fists against the cold glass. The storm continues, indifferent to my resolve. I may be trapped, but I am not defeated.

My red cloak hangs by the door. I pluck it from its hook but pause before putting it on. Something about it is different. I hold the fabric up to the moonlight to examine it. It’s … clean. The rips from the forest have been finely mended with red thread. Tiny stitches run here and there, like veins. Even the mud stains have been washed off. But how? No one came into my room. Had I fallen asleep after all? Even if I had, it’s not possible that someone could’ve retrieved the cloak, washed it, dried it, and mended it so quickly.

It seems I still have much to learn about Gwyllion Castle.

I pull the cloak around my shoulders. There’s no point in pacing in this room all night.

The hallway outside is lit only by moonlight. The pale glow filters through frost-laced windows, and the light casts strange patterns across the flagstones. The wind howls outside like a vulture circling low over the castle.

As I roam, every corridor looks the same. Shadows stretch across the walls as the moon shifts behind clouds. The tapestries lining the halls seem to breathe with each draft, their heavy fabric stirring. It feels as though they might reach for me if I walk too close.

Then I hear a new sound, small and quick, like footsteps. The skin on the back of my neck prickles and I hold my breath as I listen.

Silence.

I turn, but there’s no one there. Only the empty hallway behind me, stretching long and cold. Could it have been mice? My gut twists. No. My dormant power stirs uneasily beneath my ribs in a subtle warning.

My steps are more cautious as I walk now. I scan the dark corners where moonlight doesn’t reach and strain my ears against the shrieking wind.

Around the next corner, at the far end of the corridor, a door slowly closes.

I rush forward, heart hammering in my chest. My hand reaches for the door, pushing it open.

Inside the room, white cloths drape over furniture like shrouds. Dust coats everything, thick and undisturbed. Even the floor is covered in a layer of dust, not a single footprint in sight.

And yet, I know I’m not alone.

Still, I tell myself it was the wind. Just another draft slipping through the stonework, making the old bones of this castle creak and groan.

As I stand in the doorway, clouds swallow the moon and the room grows dark. I wait, staring. The darkness grows so thick, it feels like a living thing pressing against my skin. My heart pounds wildly, echoing in my ears.

But still, I am alone.

I fumble backward, one hand pressed to the cold wall as I feel my way blindly back toward my room. Once my bedroom door is latched, I spin around to search the room. Another winter storm rages outside the large windows, the bedcovers are rumpled, and the room is still.

But one thing is not as I left it.

My eyes snag on a flash of white on the bedside table. It’s a note. The paper is wrinkled and the handwriting is scratchy, but the message is clear.

“Leave.”