“Oh!” the boy gasped. “What are you doing in here?”

  Alaric averted his eyes, hoping not to give himself away. He cleared his throat. “Erm, well, I have a patrol tonight around the city, and… um, I figured I would saddle the horse myself?” He glanced up quickly. “I didn’t feel the need to wake the horse master.”

  “Since I’m here,” the stable hand suggested, “can I assist you, sir?” He put down his bucket with a plunk.

  “Uh, sure,” Alaric hesitated briefly. The boy walked over and tackled the buckles of the saddle. He side-eyed Alaric, looking him up and down.

  “No uniform, sir?”

  “I had to stay anonymous for this one.”

  “Mighty fine sword you got there,” he remarked with a nod. “Got a name for it, sir?”

  Please stop calling me sir. “Er, its name is…” Alaric fished about for inspiration. His gaze landed on the muck bucket. “Silver…edge?”

  The stable hand considered while he finished with the horse. When he was done, he bowed his head respectably. “A dangerous title, indeed, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Alaric said, gesturing also to the ready mare. He grabbed the reins and led her out into the snow. He secured his things on her back and swung his leg up and over her side. The stable boy saluted him from below. Alaric nodded in acknowledgement once, then he snapped the reins and took off through the palace walls and down Evaleer’s dark, empty streets.

  To find Kerensa and bring her home.

  Part Five

  † ~ †

  The Other Side of Living

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Legs crossed in front of her, Wren fumed sitting on the ground of her tent, a fur blanket wrapped tightly around her. She’d been holed up in the witch camp for two weeks now with only herself to keep her company. She had tried multiple times to break through the gold boundary, but the dome held strong against all her attempts. Only daring to brave her magic once to blast through the shield, the outcome had been a tiny, feeble stream of flame that shot from her palm and ricocheted off the dome to burn a hole in her tent.

  For the meantime, she’d succumbed to her thoughts. She’d never minded being alone, often preferring it when her temper rose.

  But here she was surrounded by unpredictable witches, her fate held in their hands.

  Fate was a pesky thing indeed. Specifically Wren’s fate. She had never been able to own it or dictate it or shape it. The night of her sixteenth birthday was the minute she’d known that fate had never been hers to begin with.

  Everything she was now had all started with a dream. Or rather, a nightmare.

  She remembered it vividly—cast in the dark, her head swiveling back and forth. She hadn’t known anything; hadn’t known why she could hardly see herself. Hadn’t known why thirteen beams of light had erupted from the blackness above, forming a circle around her. Each bright column silhouetted a figure, all of varying shapes and sizes. She’d called out, and when no answer came, she had tried to run, but she found her limbs frozen to her sides. Wren had yelled in fear; however no sound escaped her lips. She was trapped, imprisoned—little had she known it would only be for the first time. The beams had closed in, shoving their light down her throat, forcing her to consume every last drop. Her veins had pulsed, rising to the surface of her skin in a shimmering gold pattern.

  She had continued to shine in the dark, a beacon against the shadows. Then the light went out and she’d woken with a gasp in her quaint home of Forx, breathing heavily and drenched in a cold sweat.

  That’s when she’d realized she had just dreamt of the gods. And her mama had taught her that a dream of the gods rarely ended well.

  Wren had thrown off her threadbare blankets and immediately grasped a sharp hairpin from her bedside table. Digging the pointed edge of the pin into the pad of her index finger, Wren had watched in earnest horror as a drop of blood beaded on her fingertip.

  It was a swirling, brilliant gold.

  For some reason, somehow, she’d known instantly what it meant.

  She had managed to keep the change to her blood unknown, being extra cautious not to harm herself in any way that would expose her. Wren spent a year hoarding her secret, not even daring to mention it to Cormac—even though he’d claimed that she could tell him anything and he would still love her. A divine, cruel lie.

  Then one week before Wren was to turn seventeen, Gemma fell violently ill. And suddenly Wren’s perfect view of her life came crashing down around her, shattering into a million pieces that would never fit together again.

  Images flashed through her mind. A flaming pyre. The glint of her pa’s dagger. A pair of sky-blue eyes. The unforgettable scent of burning flesh.

  Wren shook out her head, clenching her fists around the heavy blanket. Her chest constricted and she focused on steadying her breathing.

  Just let me help you.

  Get out of your head and listen to my voice.

  I’m here. You’re safe, I promise.

  I won’t let them take you.

  She buried her face in her hands, tears welling in her eyes as she did nothing to stop their fall.

  ༺═──────────────═༻

  Keeping close to the gravel roads but staying far enough to remain undetected, Alaric traveled across the plains that encompassed Lithera’s capital. He spent hours urging his horse along, stopping only briefly for water, food, and to rest the mare. He was conscious of the fact that it wouldn’t be long before word spread across the continent of the Crown Prince’s disappearance. His father would send out men and a promise of reward for his safe return, Alaric was sure of it. He’d lost one son before. He would take no chance in losing his last.

  Alaric was also sure that it wouldn’t only be Lithians searching for him soon. It was the Ravyns attention that he hoped to draw to him. If they took him too, it would bring him much closer to finding Kerensa—even if it meant he would need to break both of them out of wherever the witches had holed up camp.

  He was headed due east, to Srido, where he could restock supplies and try to pick up any hint of the witches’ trajectory. Their trail cut off somewhere around Srido, Gray had said, unbeknownst to him that he’d given Alaric as straight a path as possible.

  The most obvious place to search was the forest of Marawood, however it would take him decades to cover the strange, thick woods. And even so, they were rumoured to be riddled with bad magic—it was said that if you dared walk beyond the treeline, there was no guarantee of making it back out in one piece. Alaric gritted his teeth. I better start as soon as possible, then.

  The sun was starting to dip towards the horizon, Endall rising across the way, causing the air to grow colder. The temperature had been gradually dropping lower and lower during his week of travel, the light layer of snow coating the frosty undergrowth slowing the mare’s pace. Alaric shivered, eyelashes becoming wet from the chill moisture, breath clouding in the air in front of him. The mare beneath him whinnied in protest, throwing back her head. He stroked her mane to calm her, scanning his surroundings in the process. Above, grumpy clouds rolled in from the north, indicating a bitter storm to come.

  He'd been layering his clothes and blankets overnight to stay warm, scraping together a fire when necessary. Though if he were to survive this night, he would have to make it to Srido before nightfall.

  Alaric stirred his horse forward, away from the bleeding light of day and driving her to the limitations of speed. He muttered a curse under his breath as snowflakes began drifting down from the heavens. The howls of wolves echoed in the distance.

  His hands slowly became stiff with numbness as his mare’s pace started to lag, the far-off silhouettes of Srido seemingly growing farther and farther the further he pushed. Snow swirled in the air all around, the wind picking up speed as it battered his cheeks.

  It was clear that the god Naeb and his storm would not wait for Alaric to reach the haven of the city.

  Unacceptable. Alaric clenched the reins in his frozen fingers. He had to make it. He would make it. His heels dug into the mare’s sides.

  Darkness fell over the sky like a heavy blanket, casting the world in shadows. The snow toppled down in earnest now, fluffy and white and frozen. The cold seeped under Alaric’s skin, sapping his strength the longer he was exposed to it. His horse’s brisk pace was reducing to a drowsy trudge. His eyes drifted closed, but he snapped them open. He couldn’t give up. He couldn’t—

  Alaric slitted his eyes open, cushioned in a snowbank, the poor mare spasming on her side. His limbs were too heavy and too numb to lift.

  I’m sorry, Kerensa, he thought as he succumbed to his predicament, eyelids shuttering closed, waiting for bitter death.

  He was filled with warmth when it came, a peculiar pull in his chest as he reopened his eyes. A glade of trees surrounded him, the rolling expanse overlaid with snow and the sky still dark above him. Tents were grouped together, covering the space, each with their own fire lit. No one occupied the camp, the glade eerily empty.

  Alaric still wore his thick winter gear, but he was no longer cold, instead comfortably temperate. A fire burned in front of him, circled by ten tents.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” The silvery voice came from behind him.

  He spun around to be faced with a woman of staggering beauty. Her white tresses fell in waves around her chest, golden skin aglow from the flames. She was wearing the dress of a warrior, draped in a cloak that resembled those of the witches who’d attacked Farrador Castle and stolen his wife.

  “Who are you?” he asked with trepidation. His hand hovered a breadth away from his sword.

  She took a deep breath, as if it pained her to tell him. “It’s not time yet, Alaric.” He saw tears shimmering in her green eyes, like two pools of exotic waters. “You know where she is. Go find her, love. She needs you.” Then she dissipated into thin air.

  He jolted awake in an unfamiliar setting, disturbed and confused. Twice he’d been brought to empty worlds, both times when he was on the brink of death.

  Twice, a woman with white hair appeared. This time, she’d spoken to him. You know where she is. And he did—somehow, some way. But first he had to figure out where he was.

  He was staring at a wood ceiling, the sound of a crackling fire in the background. Alaric groaned as he turned his head to the side, glancing around the cozy townhome.

  “Oh! Margaret, he’s awake!” a man called, his slightly blurry form approaching Alaric’s side.

  “Where am I?” he grunted in question.

  “Srido, lad. Found ya knocked out there in the storm a ways from the road. Put you in my wagon and brought you to my wife to—”

  “Gave me a damn heart attack, you did, dear.” A woman now came into view, fading auburn hair piled atop her head and an apron tied around her waist.

  Alaric sat up slowly, his movements stiff and creaky. He gasped at the sharp tug in his side, freezing midway up. The woman—Margaret—rushed over. “Careful there, now. I had to stitch that wound of yours back up.”

  “I apologize for your troubles, sir, madam,” he said sincerely, as Margaret gingerly helped him up, “and thank you for saving my life.”

  She smiled widely up at him. “Of course, dear, no trouble at all.”

  “What were ya doin out in a storm like that, lad?” her husband asked.

  “Barthe!” Margaret scolded.

  Alaric was too drained to spin up a lie and he saw no particular reason for one, so he told the situation like it was. “Ravyn witches kidnapped my wife. I’m searching for her, to rescue her before it’s too late.” Just the sound of those words leaving his mouth made his throat close up and his heart hurt.

  The older couple looked between one another, sad, concerned expressions on their faces. They murmured condolences and offered to let him stay with them however long he liked. He politely declined, because he had a direction, a location to find.

  He knew where Kerensa was, in the heart of Marawood—and all he needed was time to get there.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The witch fell to her knees as she was transported back to the world of the dead.

  She cried and sobbed, clutching at her chest. He didn’t know her. Her heart, her cursed heart, broke and cracked until a fissure ran through the center.

  A rip that only they could mend.

  She hated being on this side of the fog, the outside looking in.

  Her tears flowed like a river, grief overflowing its vessel. “Make it stop,” she pleaded to the Mother. “Make it stop.” But the witch had lost her faith a long time ago.

  She’d been so stupid, falling exactly the way her mother had. Love had cost both of them their lives.

  Had it been worth it? Every second. Even though the path she’d chosen had left her broken and burning.

  Love was not for the weak.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Farrador Castle was in an uproar the days following Prince Alaric’s disappearance. Word spread like wildfire, the people of Lithera murmuring amongst themselves. It was like watching history repeat itself, except instead of Prince Rollon, Ambria’s friend was now missing.

  And he’d gone to find Kerensa.

  Her grief followed her everywhere, from when she woke in her empty bed until she fell back into it to cry herself to sleep. In an endless loop, she repeated each day the same. Most of the court was preoccupied dealing with the events of the disastrous wedding, now tasked with retrieving both Kerensa and Alaric. However, Ric was clearly higher on their priority list.

  It seemed to her that life was ripping apart at the seams, and no one was there to hold it together. She had been left to cope with her loss alone these past several weeks—for the most part, at least.

  His funeral was being held today. Wanting nothing more than to crawl back beneath the covers and give up on the world, Bri slipped on her black velvet dress, the material hugging her curves perfectly. A sob escaped her as she glanced at her reflection, her white-blonde hair cascading past her shoulders. She hadn’t worn her hair down in public for an entire year.

  We barely even had a year.

  This realization sent her to her knees, her body shaking from the effort to keep her tears contained.

  “Ambria?” someone called from the main room. Her brother had said he would escort her to the burial.

  She wasn’t ready, she couldn’t do this, how could she say good-bye—

  The door to her bedroom creaked open. “Oh, Ambria,” he sighed, coming down beside her, a breath of space between their knees. Roughly calloused hands gently wrapped around her wrists, pulling her fingers away from her face.

  She stared at Gray, the tears still flowing down her cheeks. “I can’t do this, Gray,” she wept.

  “You can. I know you can.” He smiled sadly, reaching up to wipe her tears. “We’ll all be right there with you,” he reassured.

  “You’re coming?” Bri sniffed, cocking her head. “What about Ric and Kerensa?”

  “They can wait a day.” Gray smoothed down her hair and helped her to her feet. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t honor him? Mateo sacrificed his life to save mine. That is a debt I will spend the rest of my life repaying.”

  It was the first time hearing his name since he’d been gone, and it nearly sent her into another well of tears.

  Pull it together, Ambria.

  “Are you ready?” Gray was asking.

  No. “I—I just need my necklace.” She breezed into her closet that was half full of her clothes, and the other half…full of Mateo’s. Bri swallowed her grief down hard, picking up her silver necklace and clasping it at the back of her neck. As her hands came back down, she glimpsed the ring on her left finger. The band of silver with a sapphire set in the center glinted in the light. Her wedding ring. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to take it off yet, so there it remained, a reminder of what she’d lost.

  Her mother had tried to gently remove the ring once when she came to see Bri at her own house in the city, saying it was improper of her to continue wearing it at this point. In response, Ambria had locked herself in her bedroom.

  She paused for a moment now, staring at the ring that represented her love and commitment to a man who had loved her as fearlessly as ever. Carefully, she slid it off and slipped it back onto her middle finger. She pulled on a cloak, then turned and walked back out of the closet.

  If Gray noticed the difference, he said nothing, silently offering her his arm. She looped hers around his, grateful for the much-needed support. Together they left her townhouse and started the trek to the cemetery.

  Mateo was to be buried in High House Norwood’s mausoleum located to the northwest of the palace, alongside his predecessors. His parents, Lord and Lady Norwood, would be in attendance, as well as his older sister, Viveca. Ambria’s family would all be there too.

  She knew Alaric would have wanted to be there. But what he was off doing at the moment was more important.

  She refused to attend another funeral anytime soon.

  As Gray and Ambria came up to the burial site, she froze. Her heart raced, throat constricting painfully.

  Gray squeezed her hand. “Hey, I’m right beside you, okay?”

  She took a deep breath and nodded, then they took the last few steps to the gathering.

  Everyone was watching her as she entered the crowd. Bri lifted her chin and rolled back her shoulders, ever the poised lady. She kept walking, Gray keeping pace at her side, until she reached the closed casket of dark wood. Snow dusted the lid, glittering in Rava’s light.

  She had no idea how or when they’d procured his body, but she was thankful that the gods had given her this much. A chance to say a proper good-bye.

  Ambria stared at her husband’s coffin.

  Gray looked at her, a crease in his forehead before placing his free hand on the lid. “You were an exceptional man, Mateo. Your absence will lay heavily on us all. May you find the gates to the First Hell.” With one last concerned glance to Bri, he released her arm and strolled away, allowing her some privacy.