Page 39 of Season Warriors & Wolves

“Malik, stand!” my voice echoed around the empty room and thunder rained down because of my splintering calm. I felt the chains heat and tighten, signalling the bind to my magic resisting Melanthe’s craft.

He obeyed, slowly standing and walking to me. Half his face was soaked in blood and there were deep scars across his left eye—across his missing left eye. “Snow—”

Thunder blasted outside and blood leaked out of my mouth, nose and eyes.

Before he could finish his sentence, I rushed out and headed for my father’s chambers despite Mal’s shouting pleas not to. I stopped right before I’d reached his doors, when I heard two soft voices accompany his boisterous laughter and the squeal of a new-born.

“Father, she is adorable,” Fren squealed.

Each inhale was harder to take than the other. My fingers shook from the urge to either close and make my palms bleed or sink into their flesh and make another bleed for me. Voices drummed around my head, helplessly and unable to escape me through actions I often took to lessen their call—through murder and torture. Incessant, they called, chanted, even begged. To kill.

“She is,” Melanthe said, laughing. “We might need to crown her soon. Right, Silas?”

“In time, yes.” my father said, his laughter following.

I counted like Cai had taught me. Concentrated like Kil would have wanted me to. I remembered my Nia and then Mal, the one I was staying alive for. Every possible move flashed before my eyes as I measured my next step. It was a gambit, and I was too far into the game to lose just pawns.

He’d touched my knight.

After taking a few deep breaths that disagreed with my tightening chest, I carefully stepped back and headed to my room where Nissa’s mother was changing my bedding.

The woman stopped when she saw whatever expression painted my face and swallowed hard.

Moregan, I mouthed, and she nodded, listening to the instructions I gave her.

Chapter eleven

White queen E2

Snowlin

Silence had become so present these days in the dining hours that I could practically see the anxiousness in each of my father’s forehead wrinkles.

I’d just lifted the fork holding a golden mushroom to my mouth when bells rattled like thunder around us. The sort of bells that had only rang once before in Isjord. The day when prince Tenebrose was crowned King of Isjord—the same sound that would only ring again when his throne would be contested or threatened.

Melanthe’s eyes bulged open, and she turned to my father. “Cannot be.”

Father stood, wiping his mouth and heading out. “I’m sure it is false. There are many new soldiers around, it takes nothing to ring the wrong bell.”

Fren was clueless. “What is false, papa?”

“You all stay here,” he said, buttoning his jacket.

Melanthe stood and followed shortly behind. “I’m not sitting having breakfast while you are out there.”

How romantic. I stopped chewing the bite of orange, gaging a little, and sipping water to wash down the taste of citrusy bile.

It was only Fren and I left when another round of bells rang, and the sound of stomping soldiers grew faint toward the distance of the castle walls.

“What is with you?” the snow spirit squeaked out, looking me up and down in disgust.

I offered her a smile and bit on some lovely, sweet grapes. Father had a gift for choosing the best fruit merchants, they were delicious. “What is with you, dearest sister?” Lifting a brow, I leaned in. “Is the bedchamber dry? You look like you’re in heat. Poor thing.”

“You’re not in a position to worry about me.”

“I meant Elias. Poor Elias.”

Her eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to speak when a blast rang near us.