Page 1 of From Beneath the Moon

1

Better Anger Than Fear

Icicles hang low on branches, threatening to skewer unsuspecting visitors on the well-traveled path between Olwythion and the Watch. Snow crunches beneath my boots, and I pull my hood down further, attempting to keep out the cold.

Tonight was supposed to be a night of celebration. Though, given the way Ramona and Leaf were dancing with each other, I don’t feel one bit of regret leaving Anita’s early. Besides, my head still throbs from Ragnar’s punch despite Nurse Panacea healing me afterward.

I can’t wait to float in the underground Source springs and let the healing waters wrap around me… and maybe Atlys too. My cheeks burn at the thought, keeping my face warm on this frigid winter night.

I turn at the oak tree marked by initials L + V where the path curves one last time toward the distant outline of the Watch castle.

Perhaps the cold air is getting to my head, because a delirious giggle rises from my throat.

I did it.

I lift my chin and whoop to the stars, joy bubbling out of me in fits, as the reality sets in of what I just accomplished.

I won the fucking Summit!

Then, I picture what I must look like—giggling by myself in the woods at night—which only makes me laugh harder, like rusty chimes ringing once more. Triumph ignites my veins, keeping me warm… well, that and the mead.

For some sun-licking reason, Anita let Leaf behind the bar, and he immediately invented the “Leaf pour,” which was essentially filling glasses substantially more than usual.

Defeating all of the other champions, despite the odds stacked against me, just might be a story worth Telling. Worthy of stitching my triumph on Marrow’s Teller cloak patch.

“You’d be proud of me, I think,” I say to Marrow as if he is next to me. My late Master Teller always loved cold winter nights and would never stop mentioning how it “cleared his sinuses” and “refreshed his perspective” and “smelled like adventures.”

The hood of my cloak falls back as I spin on the spot until I’m dizzy. It feels so damn good to succeed.

“Am I interrupting something?” a low voice grumbles from behind.

My laughter turns to ice, sending shivers down my spine. I whirl around, but no one is there.

Suddenly, huge arms wrap around my torso, pinning my arms to my waist. I cannot move.

I cannot move.

I cannot—

“NO!” I scream, lurching away from my attacker, kicking frantically. Their grip lessens slightly, and I throw all my weight to the side so hard I can barely feel the stinging scratch of bark on my skin. Blood drips from the scrape on my elbow and down the edge of a giant oak tree. I scramble to rise, but my attacker is quicker.

My eyes are covered, and a wad of cloth is shoved into my mouth. I scream, only to gag myself further.

In a matter of moments, my wrists and ankles are tied. Growling and snapping sounds grow louder along with another sound—some sort of carriage or cart. My muscles strain, and my body fills with adrenaline. I pull and twist and pull.

Nothing gives.

“Good work, Ragnar,” a second, gruff male voice appraises.

Ragnar? I should have known he wasn’t finished after the final task. That he would come back to finish his job. But what did he say in the maze again? He was explicitly given orders not to kill me.

“She was just where you said,” the second voice says, a little closer this time. My stomach flips.

I know that fucking voice.

I will know that voice until the end of my days. Just as I know the red-tipped arrow that killed Marrow.

Rollo, Underworld Lord of the Jord Territory.