“And why should we listen to what you have to say, Lady Ambria?” Lord Rosenar threw a glance across the table to her father.

  “I cannot provide a reasonable answer to that,” Bri admitted, “simply that I believe what I have to say is worth your time, milord.”

  The men exchanged glances, all but Lord Ellymae, who’s gaze was glued to the wood of the table, his jaw visibly clenched.

  While it was true that she felt bad for her father, she couldn’t say she was sorry.

  “Out with it, then,” Lord Callaway spat.

  Before she had time to rethink or the lords to reconsider, she stated directly, “Declare me as Heiress.”

  Laughter rumbled through the room. Bri refused to back down, holding her head high as the men in the room looked down on her.

  Lord Rosenar waved his hand. “Truly a pleasant joke, Lady, but you may be dismissed now.”

  She flashed him a lethally sweet smile. “Whoever said it was a joke, Lord Rosenar? I am completely serious. I am eighteen, and therefore eligible as Heiress. My High House is without another option. And I am just as capable as any man,” she announced, the room vibrating with apprehension.

  “Ambria.” The sharp bite of her name came from her father. He stood from his seat; hands braced atop the table. “Please stop this foolishness. You may be of age, but you are not fit for that title,” he said, avoiding the gaze of his companions.

  “Why not?” she shot back, any respect going out the window. “Because I’m a woman? All you men think you’re all high and mighty and superior to women, when really what would you do without us? A mother is the heart of a home. A wife is a lifeline that holds you together. A daughter,”—Bri looked directly at her father—“is the center of a family. I see it, I see it all, but men are blinded by their pride and sense of purpose. You are blind.” She gestured to the four lords, her rage burning hotter than any fire. “And here you stand, refusing me, my right—”

  She was interrupted by the man with pale hair who waltzed into the council room, unfazed.

  “Apologies,” Ambria’s uncle lamented. “Am I late?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cade glanced around the room, his gaze finally settling on Bri. “Hello darling niece,” he greeted, poison dripping from his words. “Fancy seeing you here, hm?” He turned back to the lords. “Have rules changed since I was last invited? We allow ladies in on our meetings?”

  Lord Callaway coughed. “No, certainly not, Lord Cade. Lady Ambria was just leaving.” He sent a meaningful look in Bri’s direction, which she pointedly ignored.

  Before she could open her mouth to contradict, however, Lord Norwood spoke. “Actually, Eason,” he hummed, raising a solemn hand. “I believe she should stay.”

  Callaway stared at him, appalled. “For what reason should we allow that, Javier?”

  “Were you not listening to her argument? Perhaps—perhaps—there are indeed faults in the way we do things.” Mateo’s father threw another look her way, studying. “She knows how to raise a debate.”

  “Women are not meant to speak their minds,” Callaway snarled. He turned to Lord Rosenar and Ambria’s father. “Do you have nothing to say in this matter?”

  Rosenar considered. “We put it to a vote,” he suggested.

  The room’s attention shifted to Lord Ellymae, who nodded once in agreement.

  Ambria realized then that she was holding her breath.

  “All those in favour,” prompted Rosenar. Himself and Lord Norwood raised their hands, while Callaway and Lord Ellymae hardly even shifted in their seats.

  Her heart cracked at her father’s disapproval.

  “Lord Cade,” ventured Callaway, “a tiebreaker, if you will?”

  And it was then that Ambria lost all hope.

  Cade took his time shattering her dreams, carefully examining her from head to toe. She knew why he was here. Uncle Cade would be declared Heir to High House Ellymae. No one stood in his way. No one, but perchance her.

  “Perhaps it is time,” he said, “to change the rules.” A cruel, vindictive smirk crossed his face. “Let her stay.”

  Those three words reverberated through her, and she could hardly suppress the giddy grin that was attempting to break free.

  Callaway muttered something foul under his breath as Lord Rosenar waved over an attendant to add two chairs to the table. One was placed next to her father. The other was between Norwood and Rosenar.

  Ambria opted to sit far from her father before Cade had the chance to force her hand.

  Mateo’s father gave her an ever-subtle smile and incline of his head in welcome. Her returning grin was warm and genuine.

  “Well,” Rosenar spoke up, “I suppose we should continue our discussion of trade routes.”

  “I still think complicating the route to Vand is a terrible idea,” Norwood proclaimed.

  “In light of the recent witch attacks, do you not think we should steer plenty clear of their homeland in the Northern Expanse?” Rosenar inquired.

  Callaway bristled. “Those lands have been festering abandoned. No witch has been spotted up there in decades. I say it’s time we salvage what land we can and expand our territory.”

  Cade—who appeared entirely at ease with his hands behind his head—opened his mouth to speak. And Bri let him. “I may have to agree with Eason. Our population only continues to grow. Inhabiting the Northern Expanse is a reasonable solution if it can be deemed safe.”

  They’re going about this all wrong, Ambria thought to herself. This is what she came for. A chance to prove herself. A chance to show them that she was more than just a woman. She might have a body, but she had a mind, and thoughts, and opinions, too.

  Just like any man.

  “The question we should be asking ourselves is this: What matters more? The safety of the goods along that trading route or the income it brings the people?” Bri straightened her spine, meeting each lord’s stare and holding it.

  Her father looked back at her with steam pouring out of his ears.

  “How very…” Lord Callaway’s insult trailed off as Bri pinned him with her eyes.

  “Astute,” Lord Norwood finished for him, carefully studying his daughter-in-law.

  And then the conversation resumed as though she hadn’t said a single thing.

  Ambria’s cheeks flamed with anger. That’s it? All I am is astute and it doesn’t even matter?

  Her presence wasn’t even acknowledged for the rest of the meeting.

  Her rage was enough to set fire to this disgusting world of men.

  ༺═──────────────═༻

  Wren spent hours staring at her palms.

  You have magic. Learn to use it, Phoebe had said, like it was that easy.

  Maybe for a witch. But I’m no witch.

  No, she was something entirely different.

  The moon was rising in the darkening sky, the temperature dropping as Rava laid to rest.

  Phoebe had been Wren’s first visitor in the few weeks she’d been the Ravyns prisoner. Since she’d departed to “dispose of” a Lithian patrol, no one had entered the little tent. Food and water appeared from midair daily, constantly making her jump.

  Now, Wren put all her focus into her hands, pushing her strength into them. Feeling stupid and afraid of what she might do, she threw her arms up in frustration. Suddenly a shot of flame erupted, searing the roof of her tent. This only made her more furious as she shrieked in outrage.

  She went to grab a pillow to throw, but as she picked it up the material was reduced to ashes by her touch.

  She was brought back to when she’d disintegrated Alaric’s note, and a time when she’d thought she would burn him, too.

  I have to learn to control it.

  Wren put her focus back into her trembling palms, calling for fire with all her rage and fear. She was rewarded with a wall of flame that erupted in front of her. Panicked, Wren immediately dropped her hands and her concentration to reveal the untouched fabric of the tent.

  Then she could manipulate not just the shape, but the temperature of the fire, too. Taking an encouraging breath, Wren raised her hands around her and the fire followed, encasing her in a protective cocoon. She let flames dance on her fingertips before launching them forward and snuffing them out with her fist as they were about to reach the canvas wall.

  Satisfied, Wren let the fire fall and wink out, the twitch of a smile lighting her face.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The pack of wolves followed him day and night, running next to his horse and curling up near him to rest.

  Alaric had an intense feeling that they were guiding him to his destination, but he really couldn’t be sure. He was accustomed to the pack’s presence now, their steady aura overtaking him.

  On the fifth day of riding through Marawood, Alaric knew he was close to the camp. He could feel it, the power emanating from the forest around him. His stallion felt it too, the creature becoming skittish and tossing his head at every sound. It seemed to have the opposite effect on the wolves, as they vibrated with excited energy.

  At about midday, the Ravyn Shield around his neck began glowing, growing hotter against his chest. Alaric paused, fishing the pendant from beneath his heavy clothes. It flared brighter with his touch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glimmer of movement.

  Curiosity getting the better of him, he dismounted and walked through the trees, wolves shadowing his steps, snow crunching below. Suddenly the air flickered strangely, disrupting Alaric’s vision as he observed his surroundings. He was in the middle of nowhere, a crop of thick trees encircling him—but for one reason or another, this spot didn’t feel as insignificant as it appeared.

  Tentatively, he stretched an arm forward, gloved fingers reaching until his hand disappeared from sight, dematerializing into thin air. He snatched it back, startled, and withdrew Wynter from its sheath—a precaution.

  This time he took a step closer before trying to push his entire arm through the mysterious invisible barrier. His arm blinked out of view, an odd sensation overcoming him as he could still feel it without seeing it.

  A sense of certainty gripped Alaric, sliding his entire self through. The glade that appeared before him…it was strange, yet familiar. Eerily like the one from his dreamscape, where the white-haired woman had spoken to him. You know where she is. And here she must be.

  Alaric sank low into a crouch to take in the camp.

  Wind whistled past the clusters of encampments spread in a wide area. He watched witches weave through the tents, carrying out tasks and patrols. And at the heart of the hidden Ravyn witch camp, a dome made of shimmering gold encased a lone tent.

  His chest fluttered when he spotted a small form bundled in layers pacing a track into the snow from the inside of that dome. From this distance, she looked exactly the same from when he’d last seen her, but now her clothes had changed, and her hair just barely brushed her shoulders.

  It took all of his willpower to keep himself from running to her, damning the consequences. But he couldn’t put Kerensa in that kind of danger, not when he was so close to bringing her to safety. He settled for sending up a prayer to the gods and a promise to her that he wished she could hear. I’m here. Hold on a little longer.

  He backed up and dissipated back through the barrier, where the wolves greeted him, tongues lolling and grins on their snouts.

  “I need a plan,” he muttered to himself. Alaric trailed back to his horse and unloaded his things, deciding to stake out right next to the border for now while he put together the details of a rescue mission.

  Hold on.

  ༺═──────────────═༻

  “So what’s the plan, Lieutenant?”

  Gray and his unit of six other guards rode through the rolling plains, the ground blanketed in a dense layer of snow. They were all clad in their Lithera’s Guard regalia, their uniforms thicker to hold against the bitter cold. He’d chosen the six guards he trusted the most: Leander and Hendry, Demitri and Griffith, Calen and Tarian. Gray had trained alongside these men as a cadet and after he’d risen to the position of Lieutenant, they’d been put under his command. They all shared shifts accompanying the Crown Prince around the castle, and now they all scoured the south for him.

  Gray was incredibly irritated with Ric, to say the least. He couldn’t wait to murder his best friend for putting him through this.

  “We head west, to Duvine. From there we regroup and re-evaluate our position accordingly,” Gray directed, pulling ahead to take the lead of their formation.

  While the rest of his men jostled and meandered back and forth between each other, laughing jovially, Gray was stuck in his head.

  The snow reminded him of Anulia in the north, where he’d grown up. It was cold there for most of the year but warmed up for a few months in the summer. He remembered the snow angels and snowball fights with his little sister, the disapproving looks of his parents when he would enter the Citadel wet and covered in powdery white snow. He couldn’t say he missed his childhood home, but he did miss the memories. Anulia Citadel had always felt warm to him, despite the frigid climate. The stone halls were always decked in the deep orange of House Zarin, the guard of the Citadel dressed in the same colour livery.

  Gray had once imagined himself wearing those colours. His parents’ vision, their fantasy, drilled into his mind until he saw it too. Lord of House Zarin, with a wife he would never love and a brood of children he would be forced to raise the same way his mother and father had raised him—on duty, honour, and loyalty.

  Those lessons still served him well, as much as he hated to admit it. The thought that his parents had anything to do with the man he was today nauseated him to the point of being sick.

  They might have taught me duty, but my loyalties lie elsewhere now. They laid with his captain, his prince, and the Kingdom of Lithera, and he would serve them until the day he died.

  So you are not allowed to die first, Alaric.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The plan was to strike in the middle of the night.

  Alaric waited, biding his time, running his plan over in his head until the moon started his ascent. He checked one more time that everything was secure on the back of the stallion, touching the weapons strapped on his burly form. Wynter remained at his hip, secure around his waist. The Ravyn Shield was tucked against his chest, its heavy presence somehow comforting to him. Alaric had debated leaving it with his horse instead of bringing it into a camp littered with witches who sought it, but he’d opted to bring it with him. They would have to get close enough to take it, anyway.

  He picked his way through the snow toward the barrier, the pack of wolves flanking him in a tight formation. “You’re going to have to stay here while I rescue Kerensa, alright? Otherwise you’ll give me away,” Alaric told them gently. The wolves whined in response, as if they actually understood what he was requesting.

  Alaric focused ahead until he glimpsed the flickering magic of the wall. He took a deep breath before he pushed through and entered the glade.

  In the dark, fires burned and crackled, dotted throughout the camp. There were far too many to count, each accompanied by a cluster of witches. He’d read once that Ravyn witches socialized in groups called covens. These groups were essentially like families, units in which every witch grew and trained and fought. There was one coven whispered and rumored about the most: the Legacies. A coven of ten witches known ruthlessly for their skill and hunger for blood. To face them in battle was a death sentence.

  He thought back all the way to the time he and Kerensa had pored over that witch book she’d found in Farrador Castle. He had recognized the coven’s name when it appeared in the text he’d read but hadn’t said anything to her in the hopes that she would stop looking into the Ravyn witches.

  It hadn’t entirely worked out, however, considering that he was in the middle of a witch encampment on his way to rescue her.

  Alaric crept toward the camp, keeping close to the shadows and patches of dark to stay hidden. The pop and sizzle of the fires grew louder as he drew nearer. Soon he heard the inaudible murmurings of witches among their covens. He slipped behind the tents, inching along cautiously. To be caught now… No. Alaric would not fail Kerensa again.

  He snuck his way through the camp, aiming for the center, where the gold dome flared bright. He listened attentively to every sound, wincing when he heard the whining of steel on whetstone. Alaric made swift and careful progress behind the canvas of tents, his footsteps light and silent, practiced from soft footing around Farrador Castle as a boy.

  Until his boot crunched on the snow and snapped a twig, emitting an audible snap right close to a coven of witches. Seven heads swiveled in his direction as Alaric darted behind a tent, his breathing rapid and heart racing. He laid a hand on his sword as he heard a Ravyn witch approaching his hiding spot.

  He felt the Ravyn Shield flare with heat beneath his clothes, the pendant almost pulsing with energy.

  The witch’s approach fell quiet. Then she tilted her pretty head around the corner, coming face-to-face with Alaric.

  He prepared to strike, ready for a fight. If he were to die now, he would go down swinging.

  But the Ravyn didn’t draw a weapon, didn’t sound an alarm, didn’t even call to her companions. No, she simply stared at him, past him, as if she were looking straight through him. After a long minute of Alaric holding his breath, the witch turned back to her coven and shrugged. “Nothing there,” she informed them nonchalantly.

  Alaric’s chest heaved with a sigh, relieved and a little confused. How had she not seen him? He looked down at his hands, his body. Everything was intact. Was it even possible that he’d been…invisible?

  He was momentarily brought back to a memory in the castle library, a game of hide and seek with Gray as young boys. A moment when Gray had looked directly where Alaric had hidden himself—sequestered far down the dank shelves, under the ledge of a desk—and seemed to look right through him, just as the witch had. His best friend had told him he’d honestly not been able to see him, but Alaric had always thought he’d bluffed so as not to put the prince in a mood.