Page 130 of Cursed Crowns

“Brat,” he shot back.

She jutted her chin out. “Wretch.”

He dipped his head. “Witch.”

“So what?” she said, her gaze falling to that single snowflake on his lip.

He moved his hands up her neck, trapping her face between them. “Wren.” His fingers slid into her hair, holding her still. “Stop. It.”

“Make. Me.”

And then they were kissing. Wren didn’t know why she licked the snowflake from his bottom lip, or why he opened his mouth to her, seizing the kiss. But now, it was too late. The spark had been ignited, and they stood in its fire, letting it consume them.

Alarik Felsing knew how to kiss. There was a quiet ferocity to his passion, the way he held her tightly against him, how he angled her head to claim her mouth. And Wren let him, melting as his tonguefound hers. She nipped his bottom lip with her teeth, chasing the movement with her tongue until he groaned into her mouth. They kissed again—harder, hungrier—both of them gasping and clinging to each other like they were drowning, and this one kiss, made out of pain and anger, was their only salvation.

The storm grew as the kiss deepened. Wren’s magic erupted inside her, as bright and golden as a flare. Alarik smiled as he tasted it, not afraid of the witch in his arms or the wind at his back. The blizzard curled around them, shutting out the world, until there was only the king of Gevra and the queen of Eana pouring themselves into each other, looking for release from their grief, and finding it, in the snow-swept embrace of an enemy.

50

Rose

The day after the Arrows set the city of Eshlinn alight, the palace was teeming with people who had lost their homes in the fire. Under Rose’s command, they had been rescued by Captain Davers and his soldiers and ushered through the golden gates. By nightfall, the great hall was packed to the rafters, servants rushing about with food and water and warm blankets, while Chapman questioned the townspeople about what they had seen. What they might know.

Hundreds of men, women, and children had fled their homes without looking back. They offered Chapman the same truth over and over again. The Arrows had come to offer them a choice: join the uprising or burn like the witches. When they had refused to fight, Barron’s men had returned to their homes and made good on their threat.

Against the advice of Captain Davers, Rose had gone down to the great hall herself. She sat for hours with those who trembled and healed whoever asked for her touch. When Thea took over from her, allowing her magic to rest, Rose still lingered, passing out Cam’s special jam tarts to the frightened children and promising them repeatedly that all would be well.

The lie was sour on her tongue.

After the Arrows ransacked the capital of Eshlinn, they staked their claim on it, hoisting blood-red banners and tattered flags from the charred rooftops, while more bands of rebels streamed in from the south.

Barron’s bloody rising would soon come to pass, and with Wren stuck in Gevra, and no luck with the enchanted hand mirror, Rose was preparing to face it all by herself. In a last-ditch attempt at getting through to her sister, she sent word to Marino and Celeste, warning them of the impending war and begging them to try to get through to Wren, using whatever means they could.

In the meantime, all Rose could do was wait inside the walls of her palace, hoping the uneasy alliance between the Ortha witches and the Anadawn soldiers would hold long enough for them to defend it. If luck was on their side, the battle against the Arrows would be swift, and the threat of civil war would soon be behind them, but there was no telling just how far Barron’s hateful rhetoric had traveled or how many people he had convinced to join his rebellion.

Three days after the burning of Eshlinn, when Rose was down in the great hall, sharing breakfast with her people, Chapman came to fetch her. The steward’s face was grave. The news even worse. The Arrows were on the move. Hundreds were marching across the Silvertongue toward the palace. Rose rushed to the balcony, where she quailed at the sight of their bloodied flags and hefty weapons, which included everything from longswords and knives to chains and axes.

And there, at the very front, marched Edgar Barron himself. Steel-eyed and ready for war.

Barron’s past life in the army had served him well. This was no angry, baying mob. This was a regiment of soldiers, determined, focused. And they were coming straight for her.

51

Wren

The day after Wren kissed the king of Gevra, she sat alone in her bedroom, picking at the stitches of her grief. Her newfound magic thrummed inside her, reminding her it was there. Not for the first time, she wondered if the same power had taken root in her sister across the sea. Maybe a witch over there had accidentally brewed a blizzard, too. Though Wren doubted any of them were foolish enough to kiss their mortal enemy inside it. Guilt stirred inside her. She kept thinking of Tor, his specter looming over the memory of that moment of weakness.

And then there was her throne to worry about.

If only Alarik hadn’t confiscated her hand mirror—then she could know for sure what was happening back in Anadawn. And yet part of Wren was relieved not to have to deliver the bleak news about Banba’s passing just yet. She couldn’t quite find the words.

Food arrived at regular intervals, and she picked at that, too. Soldiers knocked, before sticking their heads around the door to check on her. She waved them away. Soon, the sun was setting. The wind was unusually quiet. The mountains were still. The flames crackled in their hearth. Wren sent out a breeze, making them dance. The pain in her heart eased, if only a little. She liked how easily tempest magic hadcome to her. It made her feel closer to Banba.

Downstairs, the palace was bustling with activity. The bodies of nineteen soldiers and twenty-seven dead beasts had been removed and buried since Oonagh’s rampage. The servants were still trawling through the shattered glass and fallen beams, trying to rebuild what Wren’s ancestor had torn down on her way out, while five hundred soldiers had been dispatched to the mountains to start clearing away the rubble.

And all the while, Wren sat inside, staring at nothing. “I have to go home,” she told herself for the twentieth time that day. “There’s nothing left for me here.”

Except Banba,said a voice in her head.If you leave now, you’ll still be leaving her.

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