Page 67 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
‘I’ll try not to,’ she replied, smiling despite herself. ‘Whatis she like?’
‘A tempest,’ Arden said. ‘Wild. Brave. She spoke so much even the flowers seemed to shrink back and the rain itself would pause to listen. She feared nothing. Well, she did truly, but she hid it well. She cared more about doing what was right than about being afraid.’
‘She sounds incredible,’ Ylva whispered.
‘She is.’
Ylva’s smile widened, soft and genuine. ‘I hope I meet her one day.’
‘I hope you do too, little wolf,’ Arden said quietly. ‘You’d like each other very much.’
‘You think?’
‘I’m certain.’
Ylva opened her mouth to reply, but the door to the cells creaked open and a blade of light spilt into the darkness. Her eyes snapped wide, her brief calm shattering as tension seized her body. A witch she did not recognise appeared at her door, unlocked it, and crooked two fingers in a sharp command for Ylva to follow.
‘Where are you taking her?’ Arden demanded, his voice striking the stone like a blow.
‘Shush,’ the witch snapped. With a flick of her fingers, invisible force yanked Ylva’s arms tight behind her back.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Ylva called out quickly, willing the steadiness in her voice to carry through the wall, to reach him and anchor him.
‘Be quiet.’ The witch snapped again, and Ylva’s mouth sealed shut as if stitched by magic itself. Panic surged. She fought the binding spell, straining against it, but it held fast. Arden’s voice rose in a shout as he cried her name, frantic, his voice breaking. But she could not answer him. She was dragged down the corridor by unseen hands, hauled up the stairs, throughthe keep, until they reached the same chamber she had stood in days before.
The witch shoved her inside and slammed the doors closed.
She had forgotten, however, to release the magic.
Ylva stood there for hours, bound and silenced, the weight of her own helplessness pressing in on her chest. At the desk, Hagan sat writing, his quill scratching softly across parchment. He did not so much as glance in her direction. Ylva tried to make a sound, to draw his attention, but whether he heard her or not, he gave no sign. Time stretched and warped, until nearly two hours had passed in suffocating stillness.
At last, his tattooed fingers snapped together.
The magic shattered.
‘You damn bastard!’ Ylva snarled at once, rubbing her wrists where the bindings had held her. ‘You knew I was there and you ignored me!’
Hagan turned then, his face unreadable—smooth, empty, as though emotion had never learnt to live there at all. Perhaps it truly hadn’t.
‘Do you forget your place?’ His voice was low and glacial, edged with something lethal. Ylva stiffened as the words settled. ‘You are a prisoner.’
‘And what do you intend to do with me?’ she asked, lifting her chin despite the fear curling in her stomach.
Hagan did not answer. Instead, his purple eyes travelled over her slowly. Ylva’s muscles locked under the weight of his gaze, bracing for something vile, until she realised, with a shiver, that there was no desire in it at all.
He was not looking at her like prey.
He was studying her.
And for what purpose, she could not yet tell.
‘I brought something for you,’ he said, tilting his headtowards the bed. ‘Put it on.’
Ylva did not move at once. She kept her gaze fixed on the warlock, suspicion tightening her spine, waiting for the twist of a trick. When he turned back to his writing, apparently disinterested, she finally crossed the room with measured steps. The sight that awaited her made her pause.
A gown lay arranged upon the bed.
It was a deep, wolverian blue—rich and cold as twilight over snow—cut in the style of northern royalty. Puffed sleeves, a high turtleneck clasped with lace, fabric heavy with elegance and restraint. It was breathtaking. And it looked as though it would steal the breath from anyone forced to wear it.
