Page 39

Wynter

B y the time we reach the outskirts of Dorthadas, my patience is one howl away from snapping. Rain and mud soak my fur, and my paws burn, caked with dried blood.

Beside me, Ivor huffs, his breath fogging in the chilly air. Finally , his sagging posture says. As if I’d dragged him all this way just to torture him.

The black walls of the City of Dorthadas rise ahead, a grim barricade brimming with dark energy. There’s nothing soft or pretty about it. It’s built to make you think twice about entering. Or turn back altogether.

Even if it’s the last city I see, nothing will stop me from breaching the walls to find Summer.

The main gates are out of the question—too many guards, and even if we go through separately, two wolves entering the town in one day will definitely raise suspicions. So we skirt the curve of the wall instead, Ivor leading the way, recalling the route from our last time in Dorthadas .

We pass rooftops of city buildings draped in the realm’s permanent gloomy dusk, fences made of bone and scrap metal, and a line of merchant carts loaded with goods waiting for inspection.

One cart in particular creaks forward, covered in canvas and smelling of root vegetables and damp cloth. I flick my ears toward it.

That one.

Ivor doesn’t hesitate. We crawl deeper into the shadows of the wall, then leap.

Inside, it’s cramped, the scent of overripe vegetables sharp enough to sting my eyes. I wedge myself between sacks, dig my claws into the wood, and brace for movement.

The cart jolts forward, and Ivor shudders beside me. I nip his ear, warning him to stay quiet and still.

The guards’ inspection of the cart’s contents is cursory, and we make it through the gate, lurching over cobblestones. The wheels slow, then stop. We wait three breaths, then crawl out the back, silently leaping to the ground.

I shift the moment we hit an alleyway.

Bones creak, skin shivers and stretches, pain shoots up my spine, and then I’m standing, naked, in a pile of rotting produce.

“Fuck. Typical Shade Court welcome.” Scraping my feet clean on the ground, I summon the glamour of a local courtier—dark tunic, black cloak, sharper, meaner features, and blades tucked into every available sheathe and strap.

Next, I make Ivor look like a hunting hound with wiry gray fur, thin legs, and a long neck and snout.

He whines in protest.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You look good. Almost pettable.”

My wolf snorts and turns his back in disgust.

Dorthadas isn’t a town for tourists. It’s grim and unwelcoming.

Buildings crowd together, looming like they’re conspiring against me. Crooked alleyways splinter off at odd angles, and most streets lead nowhere—or to claustrophobic dead ends where the air tastes like ash and blood, thick as a slaughterhouse floor.

Oppressive magic sticks to my skin, the weight of it amplified by the low light and the seven pastel moons arcing through the gloom above.

Not a place I want to linger.

We move fast, cutting through side streets, avoiding areas closer to the castle. I keep my hood up and my knives close. Ivor pads beside me, ears forward, tail low.

The fae don’t look at us as we pass by store windows displaying typical Dorthadas wares—mirrors that show someone else’s reflection, perfumes bottled in lacquered bone, with labels like Crave and Wither . So we must be doing something right.

The castle’s shadow creeps over everything, all black stone and needlepoint towers, built to strike fear in newcomers’ hearts, not invite fawning praise.

Our heads down and ears pricked, we keep to the edges of the buildings and walls, listening to conversations, hoping to hear snippets about the court’s new human acquisition.

And then I see her.

Summer— moving like the ground might give way beneath her. Which is fair, all things considered.

She walks fast, but her hands are clenched at her sides, jaw tight, and shoulders squared like she’s daring someone to stop her.

Her dark hair is pulled back off her face, and she’s wearing a crimson dress over striped pants, a gold, filigree belt encircling her waist, and matching long earrings swaying from her ears. Shade Court trappings.

Nausea spins through me at the memory of the last time I saw her wearing such things—dancing while the Merit High Mage laughed and laughed.

Ivor tenses beside me, fur bristling down his spine.

“I know,” I murmur. “There she is. Lucky for them, they haven’t hurt her. She looks well.”

Two guards follow at a casual distance. Not crowding her, but close enough to kill her if she does something Moiron wouldn’t approve of.

A growl vibrates low in my chest as my hands curl into fists, nails biting into flesh. I don’t shift, but the wolf within me lunges anyway, snarling into the space between us.

I see her, my mate , and every instinct inside me howls, clawing at the bars of my control. I want to rip through the guards, get to her. Shield her. Protect her. But I don’t move. Can’t move without getting her killed.

I reach for her thoughts but get nothing. Either I’m too far away, or my so-called skill has chosen the worst possible time to fail me. Damn this pathetic excuse for a gift.

We track them for several blocks until Summer stops at a market stall, inspecting an array of knives and daggers. The guards linger behind, one of them yawning like he’s been on shift since the dawn of time. The other nudges him and mutters something low.

Summer seems blissfully unaware of their presence and strolls on .

Ivor moves closer to the guards, and I follow, pausing behind a cart loaded with carved obsidian, close enough to catch a few words.

“…immediately after the festivities in the Great Hall tonight. Out in the Hollow at midnight. Don’t be late. You know what happened last time you displeased Moiron.”

“Right,” the other guard says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not the one who almost fell asleep during the last Marking of the Antlers ceremony.”

The first one snorts. “The girl won’t pass the trial anyway. Some say she’s nothing but a low-born mortal. No gifts or talents that are of any use to us here.”

The second leans in. “Landolin’s invested in her. If she fails, he’ll be the one to take the fall. Her too, of course.”

One jerks his chin, and they fall in behind Summer. But I stand still, cold creeping up my back. Fury burning through my veins.

So, there’ll be a trial of some sort in the Hollow tonight.

But what’s the point of putting her through that? She’s human. Can’t fight. Has no magic. But for some reason, Moiron and his son believe otherwise.

The Merit High Mage—the one who brought Summer to Riven’s court, where my sister met her—claimed Moiron believed she was important to Landolin’s bond with the Hunt. That bond was long rumored to have been won from Yurendyl, its original custodians, by questionable means.

But they’re wrong about her. And I intend to be there when they realize it.

Fortunately, I know the place the guards mentioned. The Hollow, a ceremonial pit carved into the hillside behind the castle. Ancient and steeped in enough blood and dark magic that it clings to the soil like rot, preventing anything beautiful from growing there.

Whatever it takes, I have to be there tonight. Failure isn’t an option.

I could storm up to the castle door now and insist on an audience with Moiron, try to bargain Summer’s way out of here. But given what I plan to offer him in exchange for her life, the presence of his entire court and the element of surprise will work best in my favor.

We peel off from the market crowd, Ivor and I vanishing into the gloom and cutting through the city toward the Hollow.

I know a path. It’s old, uncomfortably narrow, and filled with the type of thorns that will tear out our fur and attempt to blind us. But it’ll get us to the exact location where we need to hide until midnight, when the seven moons hang highest in the sky.

That’s my plan.

And it better fucking work.

In wolf form, I take a back route through the eastern quarter of Dorthadas—a stretch of market halls and storage towers left to crumble when the court moved closer to the cliffs several hundred years ago.

It’s quiet here, so different from the human realm. No cars, no sirens, none of the messy buzz of humanity. Just the wind rustling leaves and our paws crunching over debris as we head toward a tunnel beneath the hill that opens right behind the Hollow. I’ve used it before. A long time ago.

The tunnel entrance is still there. So are the vines… And the stones and collapsed ceiling I didn’t account for. I stare at the heap of black rubble blocking the path.

Seven hells. Because nothing can ever go smoothly .

Ivor yelps, his body nudging mine like it’s my fault .

The plan was simple. Find Summer, make sure she’s safe, then make a grand entrance and crash Moiron’s hoax of a trial. Ideally in that order. Turns out “swoop in and save the day” was more of a theory than an actual fool-proof strategy.

A soft whine sounds behind me.

I rumble a growl in reply. Not helpful, Ivor .

We backtrack, run up the slope, and take the longer route around because there’s no other option, losing precious time. I move on instinct now, guided by scent—damp earth, trampled grass, the musk of prey drifting toward us on the wind.

The ruins east of the ridge look promising from a distance—low walls, open alleys, nothing that screams immediate deathtrap .

But this is the Raven Realm. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if a Cu Sith—a giant, green-furred hound—showed up to tear us to pieces.

At least for me, it’d be over fast. It’s Summer’s fate that terrifies me in that scenario—the thought of no one left to fight for her.

Ivor sticks close to my side, ears flicked forward as he huffs short breaths. Like me, he hates the flavor of the air here. It tastes stale, like food left too long in the sun. Not that there’s much sunlight in this gods-forsaken place.

We weave through the broken streets, vaulting piles of crumbled stone and thorny hedges. The Hollow can’t be far now. I feel its malevolent energy tugging at my bones.

After a while, the sky above Dorthadas doesn’t darken… it just deepens, turning the color of brushed metal, the moons beginning to flicker in and out behind the clouds.

The ground hums beneath my paws. Not the hum of natural energy flowing through the soil. Not the vibration of the Hollow. Old magic that feels like a trap .

Shit, I’d better…

I skid to a stop, but it’s too late. A flare of sickly green light detonates across the stones—a spell set long ago, snapping into place.

I try to veer away, but dark energy slams into me, pain searing through every nerve. It feels like getting gut-punched by a mountain. And then I’m ripped out of my wolf skin like someone hooked me behind the ribs and yanked hard.

Flesh. Bone. Instincts shift back .

The last thing I feel before the world blackens is the cold bite of stone against bare skin. I don’t even get a curse out before a dark cloud swallows me whole.