She lay where the mist had dropped her, dark hair fanned against the snow.
A loose strand of black had fallen across her cheek. Without thinking, I brushed it aside. My hand lingered a fraction too long. Her face was haunting, though I could not decide if it was memory or omen that stirred unease in me.
Even in unconsciousness, her jaw stayed clenched, her fists locked around the dagger as though daring the world to pry them open.
A fighter, then.
But what fight had brought her here?
The trade routes into Nyxarra were clearly marked, patrolled by Keepers—oath-bound to the city, with no choice in their fate—and watched by Talon’s spies. Those who entered without sanction were claimed by the mist before they ever reached the gates.
The King decided who had access to healing herbs and whodid not. But once a rarity crossed into Nyxarra, Talon seldom let them leave without keeping a part of them… or all of them. I straightened, letting the cold bite through me as I considered her. If she was truly Moirae blood… I had to get her inside the palace.
A slow, cold smile tugged at my mouth.
“Well,” I murmured, the wind catching my words, “let’s find out why you’re here.”
The fog shifted at my will, shadows seeping from my fingertips and curling around her like smoke. They brushed her cheeks, slid along the curve of her throat, tasting the heat at her pulse.
I reached deeper—past the frost clinging to her, past the tension still wound in her supine form—to the place where waking and dreaming blurred. The threshold.
The mists obeyed, parting just enough for my will to thread through. I wove it carefully—a silver hook sinking into dark waters.
Her lashes fluttered. Enough for me to catch the icy blue beneath before the shadows answered my will. Black bled outward, drowning the whites in a slow, deliberate wash—like frost crawling across glass. The air thinned. Sound dulled. Reality bent at the edges.
Her grip slackened. The dagger slid from her hand into the snow with a soft hiss.
A faint tremor passed through her, then stilled. Her breathing slowed, her body softening against the frozen earth, surrendering to the dream I had spun. She was not going anywhere—at least, not yet.
8
Aurelia
My body achedas I shifted, rolling over in my bed. A sharp beam of sunlight pierced through my pathetic attempt at drapery—tattered sheets and spare pieces of fabric thrown together—bathing the room in an uninvited glow. The sun of Synnex was obnoxiously bright during Darkfrost, as though it were trying to overcompensate for its inability to warm the chill that seeped through our blood.
Wait. My bed?
I shot upright, heart pounding. Everything sat where it should: a stack of leather-bound books patient on the shelf; “borrowed” texts from the town library lining the handmade case Aeryn had crafted; my desk in its corner, manuscripts and scrolls strewn in familiar chaos. Everything looked so… normal.
But this was not where I was supposed to be.
“Aeryn!” I called, swinging my bare feet to cold stone. No answer.
“Aeryn!” I tried again, stepping into the narrow kitchen. A fire crackled, savory steam unfurling from a stove pot. I rounded thecorner and there he was—stirring the kettle like it was our weekly table night.
“Aeryn! I’ve been yelling your name. Why didn’t you answer?” I asked, padding closer, the hem of my nightgown whispering over stone.
He turned. His dark, shoulder-length hair was tied back, and his boyish smile was bright across his tanned face. Freckles dusted his cheeks like constellations, and for a fleeting moment, he was exactly as I remembered him as a child. Happy.
He stared, smiling, but stayed silent.
Frowning, I reached out to playfully shove his shoulder, but my hand slipped through him, my skin buzzing with the absence of weight. I stumbled into the stove, catching myself with both palms. Heat bit my skin, sharp and immediate, but the dread was colder.
“Aeryn?” My voice thinned.
He towered above me now, the smile bending into something mean. Bright eyes darkened with knowledge that was not his.
When he spoke, the voice that came out was not Aeryn’s. It was low, smooth, heavy with mockery. “Hello, little dove. Lost again, are we?”