Page 33 of When the Woods Go Silent

“Ignea never loved anyone but herself, yet mated again and again. There are three unmated sons. One of them will crack soon. Brigance, perhaps. We must be ready to move the army before he does.”

I don’t answer. I know the risks, but she knows the restrictions. We can’t simply make hundreds of humans disappear and expect to go unnoticed.

For now, ours is a war of waiting - building, planning, hoarding. Until the balance tips, giving Julianna the window to destroy the fae princes and Aralia’s way of life forever. Or, if Idris and I are successful in our coup, the window to destroy Julianna and rebuild Magriel.

Julianna fastens her dark eyes on me, like bottomless holes, and I feel the powerful cold magic seeping from her. I force my muscles to stay still, resisting a shiver. Her lips smile without her eyes, and she knows the effect she’s having.

“This is our last season here, Torrence. Make it count double, or I’ll intervene.”

“Last?” I spit the word out too quickly, and the gold ring in her eyes flashes dangerously, her power hunting for any sign of disobedience or hesitation.

“I’m done wasting time. Thousands of humans pass through here every day in the warm months. The number and nature of their disappearance won’t matter if we disappear with them.”

I have to work to hide my disgust with the idea. Not that I have loyalty to the humans. They’re nothing more than a source of blood, a means to an end.

But unexpectedly, I’ve grown attached toGoblin Market. I bury this thought immediately, although I know Julianna can’t read my thoughts when I’m awake.

I can’t afford to give her a reason to try when I’m asleep later.

“I’m trusting you, Torrence. No mistakes this summer.”

“Of course not,” I murmur, the picture of princely duty and agreement with the self-appointed queen. She studies me a moment longer before deciding she’s satisfied. Then, with a stab of her magic, she forces the water in the air to coalesce, forming a giant icicle that sinks into the ground between us.

Julianna slides back into the earth, following the maze of tunnels we’ve been expanding. I imagine her shooting through the bowels of the earth until she reaches a secret exit next to thePath to Haret. It’s risky for her to come and go so often, but I no longer care much about her safety.

When she’s long gone and the night air around me has melted back into spring, I surge to my feet and indulge in a heady rush of magic, finally unleashing some of the rage that’s been building for too long. The opposing sides of my heritage battle each other, fire searing through the young leaves and ice freezing the ash into a blizzard of black snow.

There’s more fae blood in my family tree than gobbelin, but the one thing I do thank Julianna for is her training. As I smile grimly at the destruction around me, I know it’s more than I’ve ever been capable of.

Thanks to the blood mines, I’ve been feeding well. My power grows stronger every time I drink from the sleeping humans, and I start to think differently about what Julianna said. If this is our last season here, what do I really have to lose?

I wonder... if I let myself feed without worrying about being caught by the humans... without the caution that’s needed if I want to stay in Clearwater...

Could I grow stronger than my mother?

Another, equally intoxicating idea grows from that one. Perhaps I could even keep Ruby as my own, sipping at her power in secret each night, never needing to share her with another gobbelin. Never needing to hold back my hunger, except to keep her alive. I would have never dared something like this before - keeping Haret’s secrets away from humans has always been necessary to stay here.

The threat of leaving Clearwater this summer changes everything.

THE WOODS

This one is no longer trusted.

His scent smears to anger, and he seeks to unleash it without consideration for our branches. So different from the other man.

The one who walked with reverence through our trunks, never minding when our leaves brushed down to taste his magic. He spoke a language we have nearly forgotten.

Nearly.

We would welcome his kind again, and so we will hide his scent from this other one, so filled with rage. Sticky sap from cones and the petals of unripe flowers will distract and destroy the trail. Our winter has passed, and there is no place for ice in our spring.

The woman who brings the cold must be found and stopped.

Roots squirm deeper into the thawing ground, searching for those pockets of crystal blue and white, growing webs of destruction across each tunnel she’s forced through the earth. We may have forgotten our words, but we have not forgotten our own magic.

It is a pleasure to awaken and stretch again.

And there... a hundred feet or more beneath our quiet branches, we feel them. An army of ice and anger, pebbling together in the cold and dark. Gathering. Waiting. Hoarding their fury like diamonds.

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