Page 96 of The Dead Queen

The final miles leading to the base of the Spires are a tangled stretch of weathered ruins and half-swallowed paths. A crumbling battlement wall sags under the weight of time. Arches and towers tilt dangerously, ready to collapse with the next strong gust of wind. Ornate gardens have long since overgrown, their designs lost beneath a snarl of thorns and brambles.

At the heart of the city, the shadow of a grand stone castle looms, still clinging to life. Beyond that, the last of the valley rests beneath the looming presence of the Spires.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Ellyll,” Tristan says, reverence in his voice. “It was the center of Annwyn, our royal seat, until …”

“Until we tore it to the ground.”

To my surprise, he shakes his head. “For once, I can’t blame your ancestors for this. This destruction is much older. It dates back to the first Dead Queen, five hundred years ago.” His expression darkens, his mouth tightening. “This is where the human kings and queens of old Annwyn ruled. Long before the Llwyn Wars started. When the first Dead Queen usurped the northern throne and took Annwyn.”

Hunter tilts his head. “This castle belongs to the Heir to the North?”

Tristan nods. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

“Where do the fae land in this tale?” I ask.

Tristan stares out over the ruins. “The old fae were our cousins, in a sense. The fae rulers had intermarried, interbred, giving the human nobility powers no other people possessed. Unfortunately, humans used that power to oppress the lesser fae. And then they bound the fae kings and queens into eternal slumber, taking their courts for themselves.”

Hunter snorts.

Tristan’s eyes dart toward him, darkly. “Or so the stories say. It was two thousand years ago. No one knows for sure how they did it.”

“Or if it’s even true,” Hunter mumbles under his breath.

Tristan shrugs. His eyes scan the crumbling towers and still-standing archways. “Ellyll was once the most beautiful city in the world. Lovingly created by expert fae craftsmen, until the first Dead Queen destroyed it to punish the humans who lived here.”

Ellyll must have been a massive city. Ruins stretch out to the left and right of us, running parallel to the Spires as far as the eye can see. The roots of massive trees hold some structures partially in place, but most buildings deteriorated completely.

“If the first Dead Queen was so monstrous, why do you serve the reigning one?” Hunter eyes Tristan with suspicion.

Tristan ignores the question. “Come on,” he says, marching forward. “The trees at the foot of the Spires mark the start of Annwyn. We’re nearly there.” He nods toward the distance where the mountain forest meets the valley on the other side of Ellyll.

We weave through the skeletal remains of the once-great city, finding most pathways blocked by trees or piles of stone. I can almost see it, the bustling life that once existed here. People living without the constant threat of war. Living with fae magic that no one alive can comprehend.

We pass by a carved, stone temple with columns almost completely covered in vines. This time, I recognize the moon goddess and her wolves, carved into the old stone. Even pockmarked and faded, the wild abandon of the old goddess sends a thrill through me.

Tristan leads us as straight north as he can with all the obstacles in our path. When we finally reach the crumbled wall at the edge of the city, we climb over a section that’s reduced to piles of pebbles. Before us, at the foot of the mountain, is a narrow valley speckled with more giant boulders. Beyond that, the tree line marks the border into Annwyn.

It’s so close, I can almost smell the northern wilds carried on the breeze.

“We’ve made it,” Hunter says, almost as if he was afraid we wouldn’t.

“Not yet.” Tristan trudges forward, heading across the valley. “I need to touch Annwyn soil.” He gives me a pointed look.

I roll my eyes and scramble over the last of the city’s ruins.

Somewhere ahead, a long, shrill whistle pierces the air. We stop in our tracks, freezing like mice at the cry of a hawk. Dread floods my veins, thick and cold.

One by one, copper-clad knights step out from behind the boulders scattered across the valley, blocking our path to the forest at the foot of the mountains. Blocking our way to Annwyn. Archers climb up nearby boulders and draw arrows, ready to shoot us if we attempt to escape.

We’ve walked straight into a trap.

A towering figure in gleaming armor rides out from behind a stone outcropping. Even without the decorations on his horse’s saddle, I’d recognize him anywhere. The haughty sneer, the upturned chin, the disapproving glare—Commander Malen. Hunter’s father.

He whistles again, sharp and high. Then he turns to watch as more soldiers pour out from behind the far end of the ruined city walls. My father isn’t taking any chances this time.

I glance at Hunter. His jaw is tight, his teeth grinding. One hand hovers near the sword at his hip.