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Chapters (61)
  1. Dedication
  2. Prologue
  3. Ashyn: One
  4. Two
  5. Three
  6. Four
  7. Five
  8. Six
  9. Seven
  10. Eight
  11. Moria: Nine
  12. Ten
  13. Eleven
  14. Twelve
  15. Thirteen
  16. Ashyn: Fourteen
  17. Fifteen
  18. Sixteen
  19. Moria: Seventeen
  20. Eighteen
  21. Nineteen
  22. Twenty
  23. Twenty-one
  24. Twenty-two
  25. Ashyn: Twenty-three
  26. Twenty-four
  27. Twenty-five
  28. Twenty-six
  29. Twenty-seven
  30. Twenty-eight
  31. Twenty-nine
  32. Thirty
  33. Moria: Thirty-one
  34. Thirty-two
  35. Thirty-three
  36. Thirty-four
  37. Thirty-five
  38. Thirty-six
  39. Thirty-seven
  40. Ashyn: Thirty-eight
  41. Thirty-nine
  42. Forty
  43. Forty-one
  44. Forty-two
  45. Forty-three
  46. Forty-four
  47. Forty-five
  48. Forty-six
  49. Forty-seven
  50. Forty-eight
  51. Forty-nine
  52. Moria: Fifty
  53. Fifty-one
  54. Fifty-two
  55. Fifty-three
  56. Fifty-four
  57. Fifty-five
  58. About the Author
  59. Back Ad
  60. Credits
  61. About the Publisher

She swore there was a lightness in his voice. Nothing pleases him so much as mocking me.

She glared at him. “If you’re book-read enough to know why my skin is pale, then you know that Northerners’ wits are not dulled by the cold climate.”

“True. Your sister seems bright enough.”

She resisted the urge to shoot her fist at him, and lay there, still on Daigo, fuming quietly.

Yes, that was the typical view of Northerners. Slow thinking, slow moving, lazy, as if they had ice in their brains and their veins. Her father had made himself wealthy using that to his advantage as a merchant. It worked best on the lower castes, those who’d never met people beyond the empire’s middle realms. For Gavril, highborn and court-raised, such a belief would be as quaint a notion as her superstitions. He was goading her, and she was foolish for letting him.

As for the beast, it could indeed be an adaptation to an inhospitable environment. The exiled boy—Ronan—had survived the winter. He must have eaten something.

When a distant branch cracked, Moria’s head snapped up. Daigo shot an accusing glare at the dead creature, as if it had brought friends.

As they listened, Moria heard the distinct clomp of boots on hard earth. She started to ease forward, but Gavril grabbed her collar and whipped her back so fast she gasped. He shoved her hard, pushing her to the ground.

“Down!” he whispered, as if she had some choice in the matter.

She hit the earth with Gavril practically atop her back as he held her there. When she opened her mouth, he slapped his hand over it.

“Quiet and stay down.”

She wrenched his hand off. “If you want me to do something, try asking—”

“Shhh!”

He glowered, but there was fear in his eyes. Genuine fear. He leaned against her, hand between her shoulders, pinning her there, and she could feel the thud of his heart.

He thinks it’s shadow stalkers.

They lay in a cluster of trees, nestled in undergrowth now. Daigo stretched out, his gaze fixed on the distant source of noise. She could still hear the clomp of boots, the rhythmic sound broken only by the occasional rustle of dead leaves or the crack of a twig.

How many are there? It sounds like an army.

An army of the dead.

Twenty

Twenty

Moria shivered. Gavril’s hand rubbed between her shoulder blades. She glanced over at him, startled. His gaze was fixed forward, straining to see whatever was coming, rubbing her back absently, as if in reflex to her shudder. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped and scowled, as if it was her fault he’d shown a moment’s kindness.

You’re always so angry, as hard as you try not to show it. Furious at being sent here, to guard this forest—the insult of it.