Ellos. The Stag. My father.

‘Amara?’ he whispers, with a dusty, broken voice.

I cannot speak. I just stare at him.

‘But no,’ he whispers, as if to himself, one claw-like hand on the door, pulling himself upright. ‘No, I watched her die. And the sickness was tight in my belly, and I could not be sure . . . I thought I had imagined my mother there. She took . . . something. I forget. What did she take? What are you?’

‘She took me,’ I say, and I weld my voice with steel so that it does not shake. ‘She took me away from the Plaga – and your shadows. And we tried to come back to you, but you had locked yourself up here . . .’ I gesture around us, while ice drips, and the sun’s pale wintry rays begin to filter through windows. ‘And you had cursed the whole place, sent your shadows so far and wide, given them so much power, there was no way through.’

‘My daughter.’ He nods absently, his eyes still turned inward. ‘I remember we had a daughter. I did not know where she had gone, whether she survived the sickness at all. I sent out my stag to find her, but they said she had gone with her mother.’

‘Who said?’

‘The . . . the shadows . . .’

‘And you listened? You listened to your own shadows? Your own fears?’

He blinks, and it is as though he hasn’t blinked for a thousand years. For a million lifetimes. Brown eyes, crinkled at the corners, desperately confused. He takes a step forward; I take one back. The acorn gleams at my neck, and he sees it.

‘Estelle? You do look like Amara. Except for the horns. Those are mine.’ He reaches thin, brittle fingers up to touch the horns, half hidden in the thatch of his brown-grey hair, and I do the same.

I gasp. . . Horns. Smooth as new conkers, spiralling like shells.

I have horns.

‘What do you want from me?’ the Shadow King asks, furrowing his brow. ‘Why are you here? Why do you interrupt my silence? My peace?’

My stomach twists. I cannot work out whether he is still confused or just angry that I’m here. Has he really searched for me, or does he think I died with my mother? Does he think I’m just a dream?

‘I . . . want you to stop the shadows,’ I manage finally.

‘I cannot stop them!’

‘You made them! So make them go away!’

‘I . . . I made them?’

‘And they are destroying Winterspell. Killing trees. Killing fae.’

‘But no. They do not . . . They are not for the forest! I thought they were mine alone. They were my punishment, for I let my lady die, and I lost our child. I have been haunted by them. First the Stag – I could not control him, once he had grown strong in my sorrow. And from him, so many others came. I could not see past them. Could not leave this place!’