Page 26 of Shadows of the Crown

A threat. One I’d do well to heed.

The king may be a bastard, but he is not foolish. The Blackwoods are the family in power for a reason, and Thalion is the embodiment of their viscid disposition.

I snap my gaze away, pocketing my riddle and turning to Isaiah and Ally, who huddle together, whispering amongst themselves. My stomach clenches. Is always seems to know when I’m watchinghim; he looks up at me, and I raise a brow. We communicate well without words. He nods slightly, waiting for my returning one before focusing on Ally once more.

The remaining competitors stare at their riddles, silently mouthing the words as if that will change their meaning and help solve it. Ignoring them, I stalk through the group and swiftly out of the doors. Guards stiffen when I pass, their fear palpable. I grimace at the mustiness of their sweat encased suits.

How often do they fucking wash their clothes? The answer is undoubtedly nauseating.

I reach for the paper as I walk beyond the doors of the castle. There’s less light here, but I will not chance someone reading the words. The king’s obvious interest in me earlier pricks the back of my mind, and my instincts warn me to increase caution. Something in the way he eyed me…the underlying threat was no mistake.

I suspect the king does not make many mistakes.

I shiver. Aether fuck me, it grew cold quickly. I pinch the paper and roll itopen.

“For fuck’s sake.” This cannot mean what I think it does.

A sacred guardian in the mountains. Obviously a fucking griffin…it is the only lawfully protected species in the realm. Harming a griffin—even in self-defense—is punishable by lifelong imprisonment or death.

But that is not the thought that bristles the hair along my arms.

No one encounters a griffin and survives. They are territorial and vicious. I’ve heard stories in passing; mere rumors, though I scour each memory I have of them.

“It don’t matter how clever you are. They see you and you’re dead—just your presence pisses them off.” The round man spills his drink as he cackles, soaking the fabric of his shirt that’s barely holding together as is. I can’t make out his next words, his slurring increasing by the second.

“No way that’s true! They wouldn’t be sacred if they killed everyone they see.”

“Is true!” The first man screams, his face growing purple. “My grand told me it happened to him!”

The three others burst out laughing, one gripping his abdomen when he can’t stop. “And did his fucking ghost tell you that, Ter?”

“Course not—I don’t have the spectral. Besides, he hasn’t died yet.” He coughs, my nose scrunching at the wet sound.

“Then how can he claim to have seen a griffin and live if he says they kill everyone they see? That’s fucking stupid, Terry.”

I tilt my chin back, basking in the chill. Every story I have collected about griffins has been the same as my memory of those senseless men. They’re killers. Savage. Unforgiving beasts.

I still before snatching the riddle back into focus. Fuck me.

There are an undetermined amount of nests on the Elysaran Mountains. The mountains span weeks worth of travel, and I’ve not a single clue as to where I will find the one I need. I groan, my head throbbing. I doubt the artifact will be conveniently displayed…I’ll need to see the nests to know.

The likelihood of me surviving long enough to inspect even one nest is nearly zero. My fingers tap against a blade, and I shrug.

I’ve defeated worse odds.

Bone-chilling wind whips my tied hair around violently, obscuring my vision every few seconds. This is going to be a very long night. I’ve already wasted an hour running to the base of the mountain—to the only safe ascent point that I’m aware of.

I am foolishly relying on the presumption that someone must have given the artifact to a griffin, and likely would not havetraveled far or deep into the creatures’ territory. And they surely couldn’t expect me to travel far, steal from a fucking griffin, and return to the castle before dawn…my jaw clenches hard.

I am going to gut the fucking prince and feed his innards to the king.

I’m not meant to return. They created an impossible trial knowing they could behead me for failing if the griffin did not first. Why? Do they see me as such a threat that the prince fabricated an inevitable death?

My fingers twitch to rip the collar off and get it over with, but the raging heat inside my body demands more.

I begin the steep climb, the ground hardening while my breaths become visible. Eventually, I veer off the path that others use for transport. It’s perceived as the safest route through the mountains, as it avoids as many threats as possible. I know the griffin territory is west, most likely centered around the part of the Weaver’s Torrent that travels through the mountains.

When I’m high enough that snow crunches under my boots, I pause. They’ll hear me approach if I’m not careful. I chew on my cracking lip, cursing the Angel for providing me the worst possible weather tonight.

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