and calves soaked. As he snuck through spindly trees cloaked in shadows, he trailed water behind him. Gnarled branches scraped his cheeks, stinging, but he refused to slow.
The scent of flowers faded, overpowered by a stench of rot. He held his breath and trod over a red-and-yellow mushroom growing from a jagged stone.
A male bellowed a terrible insult seconds before a woman’s cry of pain echoed.
Kaysar quickened his pace, freed the bow anchored to his shoulder and nocked an arrow. Closing in... He wove through a maze of jagged branches and brittle leaves, where hundreds of pixies gathered, enthralled. Closer...
Near the last tangle of trees, he caught sight of three males and a lone female. He stilled to take stock. Small girl, big brutes. They must be soldiers. Rich—royal? Two were older. The third was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen.
At this vantage point, Kaysar observed everyone in profile. The girl remained on her knees, while the males stood. A bright red bun drooped at her nape. She looked older than the teen but younger than the others. Her dress, though plain, appeared well-made, a low neckline displaying the diamond-studded collar around her throat.
“Please,” she cried, pressing her hands together, forming a steeple. “Don’t do this.”
The youngest male sneered, and the older two scoffed. Were they brothers? Both had white hair, the sides braided and pinned back. They were tall and muscular, sporting finely knit sweaters, leather pants and combat boots. Short swords topped with icebone hilts extended over each man’s broad shoulders. Icebone. A crystal found only in the Winterlands.
Kaysar’s brow furrowed with confusion. Why were Winter Court royal guards so far from home?
He took aim, keeping the biggest man in his sights. Though he knew a handful of arrows couldn’t fell fae warriors as strong as these, he also knew a few well-placed missiles could slow them down, buying him time to escape.
“Did you hope to win my kingdom through my son, girl?” the tallest male demanded, crackling with fury.
His kingdom? King Hador Frostline was said to be tall and bulging with muscle, with a mop of white curls. Reports suggested Prince Lark, his younger brother, resembled him.
Fear chilled Kaysar’s blood. What had he stumbled upon?
The king patted the teenager’s shoulder. He must be Prince Jareth Frostline, the son. “Do you have anything to say to this female?”
“Why would I?” he replied, seeming offended by the prospect. “She’s nothing to me.”
Anger heated Kaysar’s chest. What if this trio ever treated Viori this way?
The girl crumpled, her shoulders rolling in. As she dropped her head into her upraised hands, quiet sobs shook her slender frame.
Prince Lark made a noise of disgust.
“I’ll be good.” She reached out to ward him off or cling, Kaysar wasn’t sure. “I can...I can leave the Winter Court. Yes. I’ll leave and never return. Please. Let me leave.”
The onlookers laughed with each other.
“Take care of her, brother.” The king nudged Prince Lark. “You need the practice.”
“My ability is almost as stalwart as yours,” Prince Lark protested.
“Almost. But you lack control. So go ahead.” He waved to the girl as if she were a thing of little importance. “Practice.”
Kaysar realized he had a choice. Save the girl and his conscience, perhaps condemning himself and Viori in the process, or walk away and condemn the girl and his conscience.
Could he save her? One boy against three fae royals? And if he failed? What of Viori?
The need for debate ended there. He lowered his bow. For Viori’s continued well-being, he must do nothing.
His stomach turned as Prince Lark cupped the girl’s face and her eyes widened with terror. Choking sounds left her as black lines appeared in her skin. She struggled against him, doing her best to sever their connection, but the prince held on and on and on.
The lines spread through her eyes. Down her neck, disappearing under her clothes.
Kaysar watched, his insides on fire.
She struggled less and less.
He curled his hands into fists.
The girl went limp, and Kaysar stopped breathing entirely.
With a simple twist of his wrists, Prince Lark casually ripped off her head. He laughed as blood spurted. Laughed as her body hit the ground, the diamond-studded collar tumbling a few feet away. The king and his son cheered.
Bile rose, singeing Kaysar’s throat. Prince Lark lifted the head as if it were a war prize. No, a child’s toy. He kicked it a good distance away, then flittered. An ability to teleport from one location to another. An ability Kaysar had yet to develop.