PART 1

HOUSE OF THORNS

1

THE SKY FORETELLS A COMING tragedy.

It is the palest of grays, yet a red stain clots the eastern horizon—evidence of the rising sun. The stain expands, sopping the clouds and dripping farther westward. Huddled in the thicket of snow-laden trees, I watch the day waken with fear running cracks through my heart. The sky is red, like bloodshed.

Like revenge.

I have been expecting such a sight for days now. It is as the stories claim: first come the budding cones from the old cypress tree growing in the town square. Three decades the tree has lain dormant, and the emergence of new blooms sent the townsfolk into a frenzy, the women into hysterics, the men stoic with grim-faced defeat. The buds, then the bleeding dawn. At this point, there is little I can do. Because if the sky is correct, Edgewood is expecting a visitor, and soon.

Encased in its white, icy skin, the land lies in muted silence, the snow soft, fresh from the storms that blow in as frequently as the moon cycles. For now, I will not think of what may come. My task lies here, in this uninhabited stretch of wood, with the black trees and their rotting cores, and my stiff, gloved hand clasped around my bow.

Peering around a moonlit trunk, I scan my surroundings. Three days prior, I stumbled across a game trail, still fresh. The tracks led me here, fifteen miles northwest of home, but I’ve yet to spot the elk.

Where are you? I whisper.

A harsh wind rattles the bare, finger-bone branches. Despite tugging my patchwork coat tighter around my body, the invading cold manages to slip between the openings. Desperation sent me deeper into the forest’s heart, beyond that small pocket of civilization—north, where the River Les gleams, where no one dares dwell.

Movement snags my eye. The animal limps into sight, alone, separate from any herd. Its slow, laborious gait evidently caused by its twisted left foreleg. The sight sickens me. It’s not the animal’s fault it suffers. That responsibility belongs to the dark god who squats beyond the Shade.

Hardly daring to breathe, I slide an arrow from my quiver. One seamless pull, a full draw, and my hand grazes the underside of my jaw, the string brushing the tip of my nose as an additional reference point. The elk paws at the snow, seeking something green, something that is like hope but that never will be.

But I am not alone.

A deep breath drags traces of the forest into my lungs: ice and wood and a smell of burning. It is a warning, and it comes from the north.

My senses still. My ears strain for any unusual sound. Tension winds knots through my limbs, yet I force my mind to calm, to return to what I know, and what I know is this: the scent is faint. Enough distance separates me from the darkwalker that I have time, but I’ll need to move quickly.

When I return my attention to the elk, I notice it has shifted far enough away that the likelihood of striking its heart has drastically decreased. I can’t risk moving closer. If the animal flees, I’ll never catch it, and I haven’t enough supplies to extend this trip any longer. Back home, the bread grows hard as tack, the last of the jerky reduced to crumbs.

So don’t miss.

Adjusting the angle of my bow, I tilt the arrow a few inches higher. Exhale and—release.

The arrow screams against the frigid air, burying itself deep into living flesh and a still-beating heart.

Today, my sister and I will live to see the morrow.

The last of the elk herds vanished decades ago, yet this one managed to wander back into our realm. The poor animal is naught but old skin and warped bones, and I wonder when it last ate. Little flourishes in the Gray.

Quickly, I begin skinning the animal with the knife I am never without. Steaming chunks of meat hacked from the carcass, packed as tightly into my satchel as I can manage. Blood saturates the hide. Every so often, I glance over my shoulder, scan my surroundings. The sky’s red tinge has cooled to blue.

The smell of a forge still lingers beneath the copper stench. Reaching into the body cavity through the split stomach, I slice another chunk free, pack it with the rest. Hot blood coats me from fingertips to elbows.

I’m severing the liver when a distant howl lifts the hair on my body. I cut faster. With the abdomen hollowed out, I shift my focus to its flanks. I’ve a small pouch of salt hanging from my beltloop, but that will only protect me from one darkwalker, maybe two if they are small. As the howl mutates into a roar, my body stiffens, my pulse careens, on the crest of a black wave.

I’m out of time.

In a single motion, I peel the heavy coat from my sweat-soaked body, then remove my blood-stained gloves. My teeth clench as an agonizing shudder runs through me. It’s too damn cold. A killing cold. I unwrap a dry woolen tunic from around the wine flask inside my pack and tug it over my head in rough pulls. By the gods, I did not travel two weeks in this barren wasteland just to die. If I do not return with this food, Elora will meet a similar fate.

With my soaked clothing removed, I stuff everything beneath the bleeding carcass, then scramble up the highest tree I can find. The frozen bark bites into my chafed palms. Up, up to the tallest branch, which groans beneath my weight. My knuckles crack as I curl them into fists and shove them against the warmth of my gnawing stomach.

The darkwalker lurches into the dell moments later, though I’m not given a clear view of its form. Snatches of shadow, wisps bleeding black against the white. It investigates the fallen elk for a time before prowling the surrounding area. A sloped, uneven back, that wisped, lashing tail. I clench my jaw shut to contain the chattering of my teeth.

The Shade—the barrier separating the Gray from the adjacent Deadlands—is supposed to keep the darkwalkers bound to the afterlife. Yet the townsfolk speak of holes in the barrier, splits that allow the beasts to reenter the land of the living and seek the souls that sustain them.

The beasts are not alive, not truly, but the darkwalker can sense the elk’s newly departed soul. I only hope that this will be enough to distract it from my presence. I had hoped the hide would make a new coat for Elora, never mind the torn seams in mine. But there’s no time to skin the beast.

Eventually, the beast moves off. Ten minutes I wait, breath held, until the burning air clears. Only then do I scramble down the tree.

Steam rises from the elk’s carcass. Half the meat still awaits butchering—two months’ worth of food. As much as it pains me to leave anything behind, I can’t risk finishing the job with the darkwalker so near. One month of food will have to suffice, and if we’re careful, Elora and I can stretch it further. Maybe another half-starved animal will stumble across the remains.

After donning my coat and gloves, I heave the satchel across my back and begin the fifteen-mile return trek to Edgewood, grunting beneath the weight of my cache. By the third mile, my feet, face, and hands have lost sensation. The wind does not relent no matter how many gods I pray to, but they must know of my lost faith.

It takes the day. Evening unfolds and darkens the wood to a violet-rich tapestry. With less than two miles remaining, I hear it. The low, lamenting peal of a ram’s horn climbs through the valley and kicks my pulse into a perilous sprint. The sky foretold a coming tragedy, and it was right.

The North Wind has come.

2

LONG AGO, THE GRAY WAS known as the Green. Three centuries ago, the land, this earthen ground, was an image of vitality: lush and verdant, with clear water singing over rocks, and herds of elk and deer, and songbirds like the wren for which I was named. Hunger did not exist, for there was no famine. Cities prospered, and that fortune spread to the outlying towns. Even the rivers were plentiful, their currents rushing south to the lowlands, swollen with trout and freshwater clams, which were caught and sold along the banks.

The change did not occur all at once. It cycled like the moon: ripening, waning, dwindling to an extinguished light. Over the years, the summers grew short, and winter stretched and deepened. The sky blackened. The ground froze to stone. The sun slipped behind the horizon and was not seen for months.

Then the Shade appeared, as if erected by phantom hands. No one knew its origin or purpose. The darkwalkers materialized, nightmares made flesh. We drove them off, yet they returned in droves, in amassing shadows. Eventually, winter encased the land, and not even the sun could thaw its icy skin.

Edgewood and the surrounding towns starved, for the crops withered, the rivers iced over, the livestock perished. Rumors came alive in those darkening years. Supposedly, a god lived in the Deadlands beyond the Shade. He calls himself Boreas, the North Wind: he who calls down the snows, the cold. But to all who live in the Gray, he is known as the Frost King.

I reach Edgewood as twilight slips into true blackness. A low stone wall heaped with salt encloses the humble town of thatched roofs and frozen, mud-packed dwellings. Darkwalkers may roam the forest, but so long as I am inside the protective ring of salt, I am safe.

Nothing stirs inside the barrier. Shutters have been pulled, lamps have been doused. Shadows pour into the cracks of the rutted stone road.

As I pass one of the communal salt buckets hanging from a post, I quickly replenish my supply. Narrow walking trails snake through the snow surrounding the cleared square, the earth gray and wet with frequent tread. The sight of the cypress tree’s round cones propels me across the deserted area. My sister and I don’t have long to prepare.

Our cottage huddles atop a knoll shielded by long-dead trees. I hurry through the entrance, calling out as I kick the door shut behind me. Elora?

Heat from the burning hearth thaws the stiffness in my face. The wooden floorboards groan beneath my boots as I deposit my bow and quiver at the door and move through the cramped space. Since the cottage is only three rooms, my search ends in less than ten heartbeats.

The house is empty.

A glassy terror roots my feet to the floor. The Frost King could not have arrived yet. It is too soon.

A horn blares, warning of the king’s crossing into the Gray. The Shade is hours away, even on horseback, and our cottage is farthest from the town entrance, minor and overlooked. Unless I am mistaken? If he took Elora, I am left with nothing.

I shuffle to the kitchen, lean against the rickety, three-legged table for support. My blood-soaked satchel hits the floor with a wet squelch.

If he has chosen Elora as his victim, when did they depart? They would have traveled north. I could still reach them if I run, though there is always Miss Millie’s horse. I have my bow. Five arrows in my quiver. Throat, heart, gut. If I shot them all, would it be enough to kill a god?

The back door opens, and in steps my sister, shaking snow from her woolen hat.

Relief sucks me dry. My knees fold, cracking against the floorboards. You— The word deflates. Don’t do that!

Elora pauses in the middle of closing out the cold, her sweet round face wrinkling in puzzlement. Do what?

Disappear!

Nonsense, Wren. She sniffs, brushes flakes from her shoulders. A long, messy braid the color of pinecones hangs halfway down her back. We’re running low on firewood. The axe is still broken, by the way.

Right. Yet another task on my list. It needs a new handle, but in order to cut the handle, I need a working axe. Elora, of course, would never attempt to repair it herself.

With a heavy exhalation, I drag myself to my feet, glance at the cupboard. At Elora’s look of disapproval, I turn away from the sight, though my throat aches to do so. Promise me you won’t disappear without telling me. I begin to pace. It’s something to do, a way to feel in control. I thought he’d taken you. I was prepared to steal someone’s horse. I was considering the most effective way to kill a man who cannot die.

You’re so dramatic.

As if fearing for my sister is a meaningless thing. I’m not. I’m… Livid comes to mind. According to Ma, I didn’t enter this world quietly. No, the midwife had to yank me bodily from the womb because I fought so hard against it.

Purposeful, I finish smoothly, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

Elora scowls. I’m certain she learned it from me. Though we appear nearly identical, our hearts sing to different beats. Her dark eyes are life-giving coals. Mine are aloof, mistrustful, wary. Her skin, a deep umber, is flawless, a stark contrast to the raised, puckered scar mutilating my right cheek. Elora’s dark hair is straight as a pin while mine has the frustrating habit of curling. She is my twin, and she is the opposite of me in every way.

Looking at Elora is akin to looking into a mirror—one that shows the person I used to be, prior to finding ourselves orphaned. And now? Well. I’ve had blood on my hands more times than I care to admit. I’ve killed men, I’ve sold my body, I’ve thieved time and again, all for a bit of food or warmth or coin, or the dried herbs Elora loves to cook with. So small a thing, yet rare and precious to her.

Elora knows none of this. She is too soft for this world, too good. She would never survive the Deadlands.

The point is, I say, we can’t stay here. It won’t take long to pack our bags, for we own little to begin with.

What? She rears back. When did you decide this?

Just now. We’ll travel south, west, east. Anywhere but north, where the Deadlands lie.

A wan smile touches her mouth. Of course you did.

Come with me. I pivot, reaching for her slender hands. We’ll leave this place for good, start fresh somewhere new—

Wren. Calmly, Elora unknots my fingers from her own. She has always been far more levelheaded than I. You know we can’t do that.

The North Wind’s arrival occurs every few decades. One woman, taken captive across the Shade for reasons unknown. One woman killed so that others may live. There is little I love in this life aside from Elora, and I wonder if I will soon face yet more suffering.

Last week, every woman between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five drew sticks to determine who would be offered as a sacrifice. Seven poor souls selected the shortest sticks, including my sister. Should she attempt to flee her fate, she will be put to death. That is Edgewood’s law.

I don’t care, I hiss, tears pricking my eyes. If he takes you—

Her gaze softens. He won’t.

If you think that, you are a fool. Elora is the loveliest of all the women in our village. Every other week, a man asks for my sister’s hand in marriage. She has yet to accept an offer for reasons unknown to me. The flagrant lack of concern over this approaching threat reveals just how different our priorities are, and reinforces the roles we have fallen into after all these years.

Elora and I were only fifteen when, newly orphaned, we learned the true weight of loneliness, those frightening years stretched before us in an unending black road. It was then I took up the bow. It was then I slaughtered the darkwalkers so Elora could sleep with an unspoiled conscience. After all, this was who my parents molded me into: guardian, defender. Why should she worry when I am here to protect her? But even I cannot stand before a god and win.

Elora moves to one of the crates stored against the wall. Prying open the lid, she reveals its meager contents—two days’ worth of salted meat, if that—and shoves a strip of jerky into my hand. Please eat something. You must be hungry after the journey.

I feel ill.

Then sit. Mayhap that might help.

It’s not a chair I need. Strain has burrowed so far inside my bones it’s impossible to separate the two. And so I reach for the cupboard containing the wine, snag one of the bottles, and uncork it. As soon as the drink wets my tongue, the snarling knot at the base of my spine unravels, and my mind regains clarity. Two more gulps and I’m steadier.

Wren.

My fingers tighten their vise around the bottle. Again, I swallow, teeth bared as the burn sharpens, searing a path straight to my stomach. I don’t need your judgment. Not now.

It’s not healthy.

I scoff. Neither is sacrificing our women to a vengeful god. We do what we must.

She sighs as I angle away, returning the wine to the cupboard. I ignore her. This is the conversation that remains unchanged. Elora asks for things I cannot grant her. She asks too much of me.

Reaching into the breast pocket of my coat, I pull out a folded length of wool. I passed a tradesman on my journey. You mentioned your scarf was wearing out.

Her eyes brighten at the gift. We have so few possessions. What’s this? She gasps in delight upon unraveling the scarf. It bears an image of large waves shaping a great sea, though we’ve never seen any body of water save the frozen Les, the river that separates the Gray from the Deadlands.

This is beautiful, she gushes, wrapping the blue cloth around her throat. How does it look?

Lovely. Is there any other word to describe my sister? Is it warm?

Very. She adjusts the fabric, then pauses. What’s that? She gestures to the palm-sized book poking out from my coat pocket.

I go still. Oh, that? An easy, casual smile. Nothing.

Elora plucks it from my coat, studies the cover. It’s so old the pages cling together by mere strands of thread. "The King’s Passion. A romance? She grins. I didn’t know you liked romance novels."

Color pinkens my cheeks. I don’t, but he offered a fair price. It is only a half truth.

Ah, she says, as if that makes perfect sense. Elora can believe what she wants. I’ve never given her reason to think otherwise. Since my sister rarely reads, I own the majority of the books dotted around our cottage. The solid cloth covers do an adequate job at concealing the stories tucked inside the pages. The last thing I want is Elora discovering The King’s Passion, or whatever my current read is.

For a third time, the horn wails, shaking the walls of our cottage.

I stare at Elora. She stares at me.

It’s almost time, she whispers.

I curl my hands into fists to stifle their trembling. After tonight, one less woman will inhabit Edgewood. The Frost King has taken much from me, and he dares threaten to take one more, most beloved thing. Elora, please. My voice cracks. You’re all I have left.

I bend a knee to no one, but I will beg for my sister and her life. Mine is irrelevant. I’m not one of the women being offered as the king’s sacrifice. And anyway, my scar marks me as undesirable.

Everything will be all right. Coming around the table, she pulls me into her warm embrace. Sage, sweet and earthy, perfumes her hair. Tonight, after the king has gone, you and I will bake a cake to celebrate. How does that sound?

My eyes narrow. How can we possibly bake a cake when we’re out of flour? And sugar. And, well, everything needed to bake a cake. Snow and rocks do not a cake make.

Elora only smiles secretively. There are ways.

I do love cake, but it’s not enough to banish my unease. The air is foul this night.

I don’t like this, I mutter.

Elora’s laughter sounds reminiscent of a windchime. Wren, you don’t like most things.

That’s not true. I’m merely selective about when I express enthusiasm, is all.

Come. She tugs me toward the front door, replacing the hat on her head and drawing my hood up around my ears. Miss Millie will need help with last-minute preparations, I expect. Everything must be perfect.

The North Wind’s welcome involves a grand feast held in his honor. In theory, there is to be a decadent meal of many courses, as if to be chosen, stolen away to the Deadlands, is cause for celebration. But the reality is Edgewood fades year by year. Nothing grows in the frozen earth. The livestock, except for a few malnourished goats, have all perished.

Thus, this grand feast is only slightly better than paltry. Edgewood has no massive ballroom to host the king, no suckling, spit-roasted pig or extravagant spread of candied meats or diced roots. Instead, hard, pitted evergreen berries are collected and mashed into an acidic sauce the color of blood. There is soup: salted water flavored with wilted herbs. The meat—old goat—is the most unappetizing thing I’ve seen in my life.

I hope the king chokes on it.

The fare may not be to his liking, but he doesn’t come for the food. The seven women who drew short straws, all lovely and pristine, currently gather in the town meeting hall, where a long table has been set for the evening meal, a fire warming the stone hearth. They are dressed in their finest: woolen gowns cinched at the waist; hair washed and combed and braided; long, thick stockings and tired dress shoes. They have concealed their wind-chafed skin with oils and colored creams. I smile wryly. My imperfection cannot be so easily masked.

How do I look?

I turn at Elora’s voice. A blue, knee-length dress I stitched years ago hugs her slender frame, and black stockings showcase willowy legs. Curled, dark lashes shield her downward gaze. That rosebud mouth twitches with nerves.

Despite my attempts to steady my voice, it croaks out. Like Ma.

At this, her eyes fill. Elora nods, just once.

The longer I stare at my sister, the more intensely my stomach cramps. He will take her. She is too lovely to escape his notice.

Miss Millie, a middle-aged woman who loves gossiping almost as much as she loves straying from her husband, emerges from the kitchen carrying two wooden pitchers. Bloodshot eyes and ruddy cheeks reveal her increasingly distraught state. Her eldest daughter is one of the seven. Glasses, she snaps at me.

I fill the drinking glasses with water. My hands tremble, blast them. The women huddle in one corner like a herd of deer in the cold. They don’t speak. What is there to say? By the end of this meal, one of them will be chosen, and that woman will not return.

Miss Millie’s youngest, a boy of twelve, lights the last of the lamps. Beyond the shuttered windows, the townsfolk gather in the square, awaiting the king’s arrival. His last visit occurred more than thirty years ago, before my sister and I were even born. He took a woman named Ada across the Shade. She was only eighteen.

As I’m smoothing the wrinkles from the white tablecloth, I hear it—the clop of hooves on stone.

The women press closer together, grabbing each other’s hands. No one utters a sound. Even their breathing has ceased. Elora’s gaze meets mine across the room.

I could do it. Take my sister’s hand, flee through the kitchen, and pray the snow hides our tracks from the villagers who would be sent to bring Elora to justice.

Places, Miss Millie hisses, motioning for the women to take their seats at the table. Noise clangs in the air—shifting chairs and whispering cloth and the dreaded clop, clop, clop, closer and closer.

I’m halfway to Elora’s side when Miss Millie snags my arm. Her fingernails bite painfully. I can’t pry them loose. Let me go.

It’s too late, she breathes. Clumps of gray-streaked hair stick to her round, sweaty face. The lines bracketing her mouth deepen.

There’s still time. Lend us your horse. I’ll take your daughter with us—

Footsteps.

Miss Millie shoves me into a corner as the front door opens. Its hinges squeal like a mutilated animal. Around the table, the women flinch, shrinking back into their chairs as a gale bursts through the doorway, guttering half the lamps and plunging the room into near-darkness. I freeze against the back wall, mouth dry.

In steps a towering figure, etched black against the shadows. Cloaked, hooded, alone.

He stoops to enter the room, for the buildings are constructed with low slanted ceilings to conserve heat. When he straightens, the crown of his head brushes the rafters, darkness coiling inside his hood. Two pricks of brightness glow within.

Miss Millie, bless her heart, shuffles forward. Terror has bleached her face white. My lord?

He lifts a hand. Someone gasps.

But he only pushes back his hood, revealing a countenance of such agonizing beauty that I can only look at him for so long before I’m forced to turn away. And yet, only seconds pass before my attention returns, drawn by some unnamed compulsion to study him in greater detail.

His face appears to have been hewn from alabaster. Low lamplight illuminates the smooth plane of his forehead, the angled cheekbones and straight nose, that jaw of cut-glass. And his mouth… well. I’ve yet to see a more feminine mouth on a man. The coal shade of his hair drinks in the light, having been pulled into a short tail at the back of his neck. His eyes, the lambent blue of glacial ice, glow with unnerving intensity.

My hand clenches around one of the knives arranged on the table. I dare not breathe. I’m not sure I can, given the circumstances. The Frost King is the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on, and the most wretched. It takes everything in me not to drive this blade into his heart. Assuming he has one.

He takes another step into the room, and the women scramble to their feet. The Frost King has yet to speak. There is no need. He has the women’s attention, and mine. We have prepared for this.

Judging by the cool disgust curling his upper lip, he is displeased by the lack of welcome. Tight black gloves encase his hands in smooth leather. Wide shoulders stretch the heavy material of his cloak, which he removes to reveal a pressed tunic the color of a rain cloud, silver buttons stamping a line toward the collar strangling his neck. Below, he wears fitted charcoal breeches and weathered boots. A dagger hangs from his waist.

My attention drifts to his right hand, which curves around the haft of a spear bearing a stone point. I’m positive he wasn’t holding that a moment ago. When it vanishes a heartbeat later, many of the women sigh in relief.

Releasing my grip on the knife, I let the utensil drop onto the ground. The clatter startles Miss Millie into action. She takes his cloak, hangs it on a peg beside the door, then pulls out a chair at the head of the table. Its legs scrape against the floor, and the Frost King sits.

The women sit as well.

Welcome to Edgewood, my lord, Miss Millie offers quietly. Her attention flits to the woman sitting on his immediate left—her daughter. The women drew sticks to determine which unlucky souls sat closest to him during the meal. Elora, thankfully, is seated at the far end of the table.

We hope you enjoy the meal we’ve prepared for you. The king scans the fare, unimpressed. Unfortunately, our harvest has been lean in recent years.

What she means is nonexistent.

The soup is one of our specialties—

He lifts a hand in silence, and Miss Millie’s voice peters out, her jowls wobbling as she swallows. And that, he seems to decide, is that.

It is the longest, most excruciating dinner in existence. Glass clinks as Miss Millie and I refill drinks, replace sullied napkins. No one speaks. The women I can understand; no one wishes to draw the king’s attention. Our guest has no excuse, however. Can’t he see we have gifted him what little food we can spare? And not even a word of acknowledgment?

Elora barely touches her food. She hunches over her plate in an attempt to make herself smaller—my recommendation—but she does not escape the Frost King’s notice. For that is where his gaze alights, time and again.

Slowly, my nerves fray to ruin. When the pressure in my chest threatens to squash my lungs, I retreat to the kitchen, fumble for the flask tucked into my waistband, and take a healthy swallow. My eyes sting from the burn that feels like deliverance, like salvation. We should have fled when we had the chance. It is too late now.

Taking a deep breath, I return to the dining hall. As the dinner crawls by, I pour the wine. The women guzzle it down, glass after glass, red droplets slicking their bloodless lips, cheeks deeply flushed. My throat begins to ache with violent craving. Halfway through the meal and my flask lies empty.

The Frost King barely touches his wine. It’s just as well. I have absolutely zero desire to serve him in any way, shape, or form, unless it’s to show him the door.

Unfortunately, Miss Millie doesn’t share the sentiment. My lord, is the wine not to your liking? Her show of concern makes me want to vomit. I’m sure she believes if she treats him kindly, he’ll pass over her daughter for another.

In answer, he brings the scarlet liquid to his mouth and drains the glass, eyes flaring dully above the rim. It’s as though his pupils hold a remnant of light, rather than light itself.

That leaves me to see to his needs. Moving to the Frost King’s side, I begin refilling his glass. In the process, our arms collide, and the wine slops onto his lap.

Ice in my blood, in my veins.

The Frost King’s gaze is a slow, crawling thing that drags from the stain spreading across his tunic to the bottle I still hold, before eventually locking onto my face. His pale blue eyes exude a devouring cold that creeps across my puckered scar. The old, toughened skin has long since lost sensation, but I swear it prickles beneath his scrutiny, as though his attention is a physical touch.

Apologize to the king! Miss Millie demands shrilly.

What is a little wine compared to the loss of a life?

No, I think I will keep my apology to myself. I can’t imagine it’s worth much to him anyway. Only if he apologizes for stealing our women.

Someone gasps. The king studies me as he would a small animal, but I am no prey.

"My lord, I apologize for her absolutely wretched behavior—"

He lifts one long-fingered hand, his focus wholly on me. Miss Millie falls silent. What is your name?

The title he bears extends to his voice as well. It is low, deep, riddled with a chilling lack of emotion.

At my silence, a few women shift uncomfortably in their chairs. The temperature continues to plummet despite the fire. The North Wind may be a god, but I will not break. If nothing else, I have my pride.

I see. He taps a fingertip against the table.

Wren, my lord. Her name is Wren! Elora leans forward in her chair, fingers gripping the arms. A choked exhalation follows her outburst.

My teeth grind together in frustration even as my stomach hollows out. This is exactly what I was afraid of: Elora and her soft heart, an utterance that will surely draw the king’s notice. If I hadn’t let my emotions cloud my judgment, this could have been prevented.

Wren, he says. Never have I heard so elegant a word. Like the songbird.

There are no songbirds in the Gray. They all perished or flew elsewhere.

After a lingering study of my face, his attention shifts to Elora. I want to claw his eyes out for how he drinks her in. There is a certain likeness to your features.

Yes, my lord. Elora bows her head in a gesture of respect. I could slap her for it. We are sisters. Identical twins. I am Elora.

A peculiar tilt to his head as he compares us. I am sure he finds me lacking.

Stand up, he demands.

Elora pushes her chair back as my voice whips out. Sit.

She stills, hands curled around the edge of the table. Her attention flits between me and the Frost King. Meanwhile, Miss Millie appears on the verge of passing out.

An unbalanced light flickers in his narrow pupils, like a candle wavering in darkness. He stands in one fluid motion, startling me. I imagine no one has challenged his word before. No one has been foolish enough to try.

Come, he says in a voice like thunder, and Elora shuffles toward him, meek and spineless. The sight of her defeat rips through me. How dare he? We are not chattel. We are people with beating hearts in our chests and breath in our lungs and lives we’ve managed to carve from this cursed, frozen existence.

As Elora stops in front of him, he lifts her chin with a finger and says, You, Elora of Edgewood, have been chosen, and you will serve me until the end of your days.

3

I STORM ACROSS THE ROOM and shove Elora behind me. You can’t have her.

Some part of me knew this would happen. My sister is the epitome of life, and the Frost King has little of it in his realm. I’d managed to convince myself there was a more suitable candidate, perhaps Palomina, with her doe eyes and gap-toothed smile. Or Bryn, whose laughter can lighten the most dour of situations. But no. He was always going to choose Elora, the fairest of them all.

The king surveys me as though I am a fly that has yet to be swatted. You have no choice over the matter. She is my prize. She comes with me.

She goes nowhere.

The other women shrink further into their chairs as the conflict sharpens to a point. For a moment, I swear something black slithers across the king’s gaze, momentarily blotting out the slender blue rings.

Wren. Elora touches my lower back. It’s all right.

No. My voice cracks. Choose someone else.

The Frost King’s expression darkens. His height seems to expand, though he hasn’t moved. Instinct screams that I should make myself smaller, less of a threat. A harsh gust slams open the window shutters, and the smell of cypress engulfs the space, chasing out the warmth. I blink stupidly. His spear has reappeared. Its stone tip thrusts upward, the butt of the haft resting against the bowed floorboards.

Take care, mortal, he warns softly, or your insolence will bring misfortune upon this town. I have chosen. My mind will not be changed. Now stand aside.

I will not.

His mien remains a slate of blank emotion. The spear, however, begins to hum, its point brightening with an eerie glow. What power resides in that weapon? What ruin will he render should I continue to deny him?

For every minute you delay my departure, he says, one of these women will die.

He reaches for Miss Millie’s daughter, who screams, attempting to lunge free of her chair, but his fingers curl into the collar of her gown, dragging her backward over the table. Food and wine smear her dress. The chair crashes onto its side. Dishware slides off the table, shattering.

Please! Miss Millie screeches. Her eyes roll with the terror of the hunted. Please, not her! Through the open windows, I spot the townsfolk, their pale, ghostly faces. Miss Millie’s daughter manages to wrench free, but he catches her arm a moment later.

Using her momentum, the king swings her toward his front, lifting the spear with his other hand. Its point blazes with a pearly light.

Stop! Elora’s voice, breathless with terror. She shoves around me. Don’t hurt her. I’ll come with you. Her wide, dark eyes meet mine, and silently plead that I do not stand in her way.

The Frost King glances at my sister, then at me. You will come quietly? Though the question is for Elora, his gaze never leaves my face.

Yes. Just don’t hurt anyone. To her credit, she manages to speak without stumbling over her tongue.

Very well. He releases his captive, who falls into a heap. Miss Millie rushes forward, taking her daughter into her arms, both of them sobbing hysterically.

The Frost King offers his hand. Come.

Shaking, Elora places her fingers in his. He begins drawing her toward the door.

One moment, I am calm. The next, I am consumed by a hatred so devouring it shreds through the remainder of my self-control. I move before I’m aware of it, snagging a knife from the table and spearing it toward the king’s side. My blade plunges into his lower abdomen.

A collective gasp rings out.

Warm liquid pours onto my hand. It gleams black in the low light, and patters onto the floor.

The Frost King’s face comes into sharper focus. He stares at me like… like he’s never experienced anything of the sort. He came here believing he would be fed, catered to, before leaving with his prize, and instead, someone stabbed him with a dinner knife, of all things.

My fingers twitch around the wooden handle. He is the Frost King, the North Wind, whose power drags winter onto the land, but I’m surprised by the heat rolling off him in waves of sharp, unadulterated fury.

His fingers curl around mine, breaking my thoughts. Cool black leather presses against my feverish skin as he withdraws the knife from his body, his taciturn gaze unyielding, and forces my grip open so the weapon clatters to the ground. In seconds, his blood clots and his skin knits together. A wound fully healed.

A great clap of thunder sweeps across the room. When the king next speaks, his voice floods my mind with its indomitable presence. "Let me remind you, mortal. I am a god. I cannot die. He lets that knowledge settle. But your sister surely can."

Drawing his spear, he yanks Elora back by her braid, baring the curve of her throat, the skin pale and unmarred and so thin it reveals the translucent blue veins beneath.

Wait!

Elora trembles. My knees knock together as the wind fades to a lull. One of the women has fainted.

Please, I say, the word a stone in my throat. Please don’t hurt her. Take me instead.

The edges of his mouth curve slightly. You are perhaps the last woman I would ever take, for you are neither beautiful nor obedient.

I have heard it all before. Still, I shuffle forward on leaden feet. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make amends.

The Frost King considers me, unruffled and unmoved. Kneel.

My lips pinch. Excuse me?

You ask for my forgiveness? Kneel. Demonstrate your remorse.

I look to Elora. Strands of her hair dangle from the king’s gloved hand, like fragments of a torn spider web.

Wren, Elora whispers, tears wetting her cheeks.

Her plea causes an instantaneous reaction in me. The Frost King orders me to kneel, so I do. My knees hit the floor. Rage ignites my skin to a dull, spreading flush, warming me from belly to face. For Elora. No one else.

For a time, all is quiet. Then: Go, he snarls, shoving Elora toward the door, and prepare your sister for the journey. We depart within the hour.

We flee as if the gods themselves have lit a