Page 7 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

Still, her suggestion gives me an idea.

Extending my godkiss, I whisper in the back of my mind,Creatures of these woods, make yourself known.

It takes a few moments before the animals, curious and brave, begin to respond.

A snake hisses,Meeee.

A barred owl overhead lets out a hoot.

A community of voles under the ground says in unison,Lady needs help?

A grasshopper on a nearby leaf chirps,Who are you?

Other voices come, too. Voices with a strange reverberation. They are the voices of unseen fae beasts, deep in the woods, watching.

A stranger who can speak to us.

The king’s blood in her veins.

A lost girlie.

Iyre loses her patience and shoves my head down toward her boot. “Do it, Lady Sabine. Show your obedience to your gods.”

My vole friends, dig!I cry out in my head.Dig hard! Now!

At first, the soil underfoot vibrates so minimally that it would be almost undetectable unless you knew what to feel for. I fight against Iyre’s hold, clawing at hergrip on my hair.

The ground beneath her feet gives way. The dirt cracks and crumbles into loamy crevasses. She stumbles back a step, which causes a cave-in that has her pinwheeling her arms as she crashes to the ground.

Cupping a protective hand over the mouse in my skirt, I hoist up my mud-stained hem, scramble to my feet, and run into the woods as fast as my feet can carry me.

Thank you, little helpers!I call back to the colony of voles.

I plunge into the darkest part of the forest, swallowed by a cool mist that hovers knee-high, hiding all paths from view.

Behind me, Iyre starts laughing. “Where do you think you’ll run to, little princess?”

Chapter 3

Basten

Iwake to too much silence.

Jolting upright, sweat pouring down my bare chest, I can barely catch my breath. Dreams scatter into the shadows like rats under a light, disappearing before I can catch a single one.Her. I was dreaming of her, I know it. My mystery woman. Whose name I can’t even remember. Her face was there for a second, but now, it’s gone.

“Fuck,” I spit vehemently, throwing off the coverings.

I’m in Rian’s opulent bed, though I barely remember stumbling in and passing out after returning from the funeral encampment. My mind and body feel utterly ravaged, at war with one another, and I have no idea if I’ve slept one night or three. A tousled blanket on the leather settee tells me that Rian gave me the bed and took the floor for himself, though there’s no sign of him now.

I dunk my head straight into the wash basin’s frigid water, shocking me out of my stupor. I shake the drips from my hair like a dog and, mopping a towel over my bare chest, shove open the window pane.

The third-floor window of Sorsha Hall overlooks the Golden Heights neighborhood, a collection of upper-class houses bordering the Eastern Market. It’s normally a bustling square filled with vendors and promenading ladies with small, yappy dogs.

Today? It’s as quiet as a graveyard.

There are no carriages rumbling down the streets. No one out walking. No servants sweeping the front steps. Half the elegant manor homes look boarded up and abandoned. A single curly-haired dog barks at something in an alleyway.

The only significant activity is from a family in the corner house, who hastily carry out trunks and boxes and load them on a wagon parked in the street.

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