Page 104 of A Bride for the Winter King
The air crackles with electricity. A muggy, nefarious cloud slowly sharpens to existence above our heads and obscures the moonlight as the Gray Man condenses into solid form next to his ally.
His thick, geodesic mask obscures his eyes, while the triangular metal plate covering his mouth and nose hides the rest of his face. “Let’s not dawdle, Rye,” he chucks out, his voice low and unrecognizable as it pierces the metal barrier.
“I know you,” I say quickly, the peculiar piece of armor only making sense if he wants to hide his voice and identity.
Why else would he conceal himself so thoroughly?
He gives a low, croaky laugh, and shakes his head. “No, you don’t, but I knowyou, Elio Lightbringer. I’m looking forward to takingeverythingthat’s yours.” He angles his mask to Lori for a split second, and my blood howls for violence.
The current of animosity rolling off him feels familiar. I’ve been on the receiving end of many swords held by men that shared his sentiment. Whoever he is, he lost someone dear to him and blames me for their death.
“How did you know we were coming?” he asks.
“You tried to kill me on the mountains. It wasn’t much of a secret that you’d try again.”
“Elio killed his first wife, you know,” Morrigan says with a smirk, clearly trying to drive a wedge between me and my new queen.
Lori tilts her chin up. “I know.”
Morrigan’s lips thin as her big revelation falls flat. “I didn’t peg you for a power-hungry huntress.”
“I’m queen now. And you’re not,” Lori taunts.
Angry fighters make sloppy mistakes, and Morrigan’s failed lifelong pursuit of a crown is her sorest spot.
With a flick of the wrist, the witch summons four Dreamcatcher spiders to her side like weaving nightmares is as easy as breathing. The creatures shimmer in the night, appearing out of nowhere as though they’ve just crawled out of hell.
By Thanatos!
Light undulates along their long, crooked limbs, their claws struggling to gain traction on the sleek marble floor. While the last batch were mostly black, this new model has blue, crystalline accents, and frosted over globulous eyes. Tiny overlapping plates decorate their front, reminiscent of the scales the Tidecallers harvested from my dragon.
A black and red metallic glint draws my attention to Morrigan’s hand, where what I first mistook for a wrist guard is actually a metallic plate embedded with precious stones, inserted directly into her skin. The Mist Fae implant amplifies her magic, but what can be forged can also be broken—or cut off.
“No wolves?” I ask my opponent.
“I’d rather kill you myself.”
His carefree demeanor sparks an itch between my shoulder blades as I inspect him for a similar trinket, but his arms and hands are concealed by tightly-knit fabric and heavy gloves.
“No one can kill death. If you strike me down, another will take my place. There is no escaping it.”
“Death isn’t necessary. Not for us. Immortal souls can endure death and be transferred into new bodies. You and your devil of a father just refuse to let us try,” he adds. “You insist on wasting perfectly good souls, and now, I’m going to destroy you.”
Goosebumps raise on my arms. The process he’s alluding to is not only forbidden and heretical but also terrifying—especially for someone who has witnessed firsthand how wretched and deformed a dark soul can become.
Many flawed conclusions have emerged from the Mist King’s experiments. The Gray Man is confusing possession with true immortality. While he’s not the first to make this mistake, he is certainly the first with such raw power—and an army.
“The rituals you’re referring to were outlawed for a reason. Besides, they wouldn’t save whoever made you so angry with me.”
His sword materializes in his hand, the long yellow lines on the dark hilt even more pronounced than before. He grips it with ease, the weapon held at the ready. The shimmer of the blade packs a mesmerizing punch, as if he has spent every waking hour sharpening it since our last skirmish.
“You’re right about that. And I’m going to make you regret the day you stepped foot in her bedchamber if that’s the last thing I do.” The Gray Man pauses mid-step and angles his face to the side, switching his weight from one foot to the other.
Zip.
A shadow arrow pierces his shoulder, his last-second hesitation preventing it from reaching his heart. The arrowhead makes a sickening, squelching sound as it enters the flesh, and he howls at the impact.
Zip. Zip. Zip.
