Page 14 of The Holly King's Sacrifice

I chuckle. “No—and we should cease this line of questioning for the moment. It has been a long day of travel, and we must rest before we move further into the forest.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Because we must hunt for the yuletide feast, and because there are creatures in these woods that we must be wary of,” I say. “Now sleep, Aspen, and I shall plan on answering more of your questions tomorrow.”

She looks up at me, her grey eyes glimmering with firelit sparks. “You don’t mind if I rest on your shoulder?”

I shake my head. “For the next twelve days, you will be my companion,” I say. “You can warm yourself however you please.”

She frowns. “I still don’t understand.”

“You will in time,” I say. “Now rest; we will embark as soon as morning breaks.”

She falls asleep shortly thereafter, soft breathings turning to sighs of comfort. I lean back against the boulder behind me, cushioned by my cloak, enjoying the press of her soft body to mine. I have thought so little of love since I left Kanin, and I was deeply reticent when Odran asked me to serve as this year’s offering, and yet…

I feel hope.

Hope for my clan, and hope for Aspen’s.

But the darkest days of winter are on their way, and I do not know if this shall be the year that light returns to us all.

7

Aspen

Thefirstseveraldaysof the trial consist only of hunting

Ulfric isn’t interested in hunting the few deer we see, or the rabbits springing through the winter snow. He focuses instead on birds, his eyes pointed toward the sky, a crossbow-like weapon mounted on his wrist. I realize after a while that my weapon is mostly for show, or maybe as a failsafe, and it stays at my hip the whole time.

We ride Ulfric’s beast—which I learn is named ‘Laka’—deep into the Hiawatha Forest, the snow growing heavier by the second. I nestle into his embrace, letting my head fall against his chest, and I get used to the feel of his firm muscles against my back. In fact, when we turn in on the second and third nights of our journey, I miss the way his legs frame my hips, the intimacy of riding together addictive.

While we ride—and at night, when we sit by our fire and eat—I ask him everything.

He won’t tell me the circumstances of my presence here, nor will he inform me what “ascendance” means. But he isn’t shy about telling me about the war his people have waged for years against the Angels—or, as he calls them, the Boreans. I learn that, all over the world, their forces are fighting for domination over Earth and its Elixir, committed to ensuring intergalactic supremacy.

It’s too absurd to be believed, but Ulfric doesn’t seem like the joking type.

“So how long will this last on Earth?” I ask as we ride across the ridge of a hill. The forest stretches out to our right, the frozen whitecaps of Lake Superior in the distance. “And what happens when a planet runs out of Elixir?”

“If Elixir in the core dwindles, the planet will die,” Ulfric says. “There are signs first, though: shifts in gravity, mass extinction of native species, birth anomalies. On some planets where I come from, Elixir has been extracted to the point where the planet itself has cracked.”

A shudder goes through me—not a result of the cold, but of the idea that Earth could be destroyed. Still, Ulfric pulls me closer.

“I didn’t know any of this,” I say. “Why haven’t you told humanity?”

“We tried; but we look like devils,” he says, an edge to his voice. “And who would your people believe—demonic barbarians, or civilized angels?”

“Well, I believe you.”

“Which is why you were cast out of your village,” Ulfric says. “Belief can be stronger than blood, and far stronger than reason. And when fear is involved, belief grows ever stronger.”

“You seem like you have personal experience,” I say.

He grunts in affirmation, but shakes his head. “Perhaps I will tell you one day,” he says. “But not now.”

We spend much of our time in silence, Ulfric sometimes leaving me on Laka as he goes into the forest to hunt. Each night, we return to the ice cave where we first made camp, Ulfric packing the birds he’s killed on ice. He collects a wide assortment: partridges, doves, even wild chickens that have gone feral after so many farmers abandoned their land in the Upper Peninsula.

On the fourth night of our journey, he whistles to himself as he packs away our bounty for the day, his back to me. I sit by the fire, waiting for him to return so I can nestle into his warmth. I’ve gotten used to how hot he is, staying close whenever I can.

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