Next to me, Hulda whispered, her voice trembling with fear, “What color is yours?”
I stared at my paper, disappointment searing me. “White.”
Slowly, Hulda turned her parchment toward me. Inside was a smear of clotted blood. Fate had chosen this idiot.
Fate was obviously wrong—because someone like Hulda would not save us.
What happened next wasn’t so much a plan as a primal instinct; a series of steps that would get me what I wanted. What I needed. A chance to redeem myself, and to save my people. A chance to keep Barthol safe, and every other Night Elf. This Winnowing needed real warriors, and I was as good as it got down here.
Quickly, I stole a glance at the scaffold. The warden was speaking to Thyra. The guards were inspecting their papers. No one was looking in my direction. Time to put my assassin skills to use.
I spun, lashing my arm like a bullwhip. My fist hit Hulda in the throat.
“Mmgghhh—” She fell, clutching her neck. Her lot fluttered above her like a vermilion butterfly.
I snatched it, crushing it in my fist.
And that is how I deal with fate.
Then, I dropped my unmarked lot onto her quivering form.
My heart rejoiced. I knew then that I would have my revenge. I was one step closer to killing Galin, to becoming the North Star. Even if fate wasn’t on my side, I would write my own.
Chapter 6
Galin
I sat at my desk with a fresh piece of parchment spread out before me. As I raised my hand to write, I felt my fingers cramping. My mind was a knot of twisting emotions. Rage, regret—and, worst of all, a sense that I was losing control. That maybe my vision of becoming king would never come to pass, or worse—that I wouldn’t have Ali by my side.
I looked up from the paper. In the darkness of night, Boston’s buildings spread out before me like the stones of a distant cemetery. Crumbling and broken, they were an ever-present reminder of a better time, a glorious age snuffed out by machinations over which it had had no control. When I had been the Sword of the Gods. Ragnarok had sentenced man and elf alike to an eternally frozen existence, and it still disoriented me.
My fingers tightened on my quill. When I became king of the High Elves, I would find a way to fix this. Turn back the curse, thaw the world. Was this my destiny? Was this my fate?
My spell could wait. Tomorrow, I’d organize the runes and glyphs, I’d paint them on my chest once more. I’d been up the entirety of the previous night composing the fortification spell. What I needed was sleep.
I pushed my chair back and blew out the candle. I stripped off my shirt, trying not to think of my perverse sister ogling me, then stepped out of my trousers and collapsed onto my bed, one arm thrown over my eyes. Satin and down enveloped me.
I closed my eyes, willing myself to relax. But each one of my muscles was tense, taut. As much as I twisted and turned, I simply couldn’t get comfortable. A bed wasn’t for me.
I crawled out of bed and onto the floor. Even if the past thousand years seemed like a dream, my body seemed to remember them. After all that time sleeping on stone, my coiled muscles rebelled at the gentle cushion of a mattress. I closed my eyes, then opened them again.
Flames danced along the logs in the hearth, crackling as they burned, but I needed total darkness to sleep. I traced a sharply angled C in the air, muttering, “Kaun.” Magic flickered over my bare skin, and the fire went dead.
I closed my eyes again. Finally, darkness, where I now felt most at home, welcomed me. I breathed slowly, allowing my muscles to relax. My aching body yearned for sleep, but I stirred again. I still had another task to complete.
The Helm of Awe clinked on the stones as I shifted position. Revna was right—it was a manacle on my mind. A golden cuff that stopped me from killing the king and all his guards. A chain that kept me from leaving the Citadel.
Almost.
There was one place the crown couldn’t follow me. I exhaled deeply, and magic crackled over my skin. Then, I allowed my soul to break free of my body. In an instant, I’d ascended to the astral plane.