Page 13 of Burning Crowns

Thunk.

Thunk.

An avalanche was brewing. Wren screamed but the sound died in her throat. The world blinked, from white to black, until only that sound remained.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Wren woke with a gasp. She shot upright in bed, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Slowly, mercifully, reality filtered in: the first wisps of dawn creeping through the window, the feather softness of her pillow and the canopy around her four-poster bed, gently rippling.

The nightmare was over. She was back in her bedroom in the west tower of Anadawn. Safe. Last night she had played the part of the joyful queen, welcoming spring with all the cheer she could muster. The act, and the entire evening, had so exhausted her that she’d fallen asleep in the carriage and couldn’t even remember climbing into her own bed.

She should have felt relieved that it was only a nightmare.

And yet her stomach was in knots. Her forehead was clammy, and the scar on her wrist was stinging. And that laugh was still echoing in her head. The same one that had rang out during the ceremony.

She reached for the pitcher on her nightstand and swallowed a mouthful of water in a bid to chase away the heat inside her.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

That sound again!

Wren whipped her head around. ‘What in hissing hell—’

There was a nighthawk tapping on her window. A Gevran messenger. Wren leaped out of bed and swung the pane open, reaching for the scroll tied to the bird’s foot. She unrolled it, her heart hitching as she glimpsed the signature at the bottom.

It was from Tor.

Dear Wren,

These past few months have felt longer and colder than most. I’ve thought of you often, on clear nights when the sky is bright with stars, at dawn when Elske and I walk along the frozen lake, and when the wind sings through the Fovarr Mountains.

I’ve tried to write to you a hundred times but I’ve been afraid to say the wrong thing. To expect anything after our goodbye. To imagine a future where we will see each other again. I don’t know how to tell you that I’ve missed you without making it worse. It feels selfish to share this pain with you,and to hope, deep down, that you might feel the same way.

And yet I find myself compelled to write. Not for myself, but for my kingdom, and for yours. There have been strange stirrings across Gevra. A shadow creeps across our land. The animals have grown dangerous and the king’s beasts have turned feral. They howl at the mountains, as if they can sense a badness there.

Over recent weeks, the fields south of Grinstad have been disturbed. The graves of our beasts lie empty, the barren earth cracked open. Could this be the work of the Starcrest witch, who wears your face? Is Eana suffering the same strangeness?

And there is worse news still. The king is not well. He has requested an urgent meeting with you, although he will not say why.

Can you come to us, Wren?

We have to get to the bottom of the curse that plagues our kingdom. I can only hope it has not yet breached the shores of Eana.

I await your answer.

Yours,

Tor

(and Elske)

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