Page 63 of A Bride for the Winter King
Spiders crawl around the outskirts of the ice bridge that crosses the chasm to the mine. The imprints of their claws in the snow are not as pronounced as they would be if the monsters were entirely made of flesh, and their bodies glimmer with anefarious twinkle of magic. They’re nightmares, and fancy ones at that.
With Morheim behind us, the only explanation for this invasion is that Morrigan, the phantom queen, has taken refuge on my lands. But that particular spider, however formidable she is, couldn’t have summoned this winter storm to keep herself hidden. She’s not alone.
My mind flashes to Lori, and icicles prickle my heart.I should have known that a Shadow seed couldn’t have wandered into my lap by accident.
Ice spreads forward beneath my feet as I survey the damage.
Under the breach in the rocks that marks the mine’s entrance, Mistress—the most gentle and beautiful ice dragon to ever guard the Frost Peaks—is sleeping. Yet her usually pristine white mane is marred with bloody streaks, and her massive body—three times the size of a Percheron horse—is pinned to the rock bed with ice picks and wide metallic nets.
A cluster of her scales have been cut off and harvested, leaving sores the size of my hands in her sides. Fury pulses through my veins. Who would dare capture and harm such a sacred creature, especially on my lands? Magic roars in my blood, demanding revenge.
How did I not notice that my kingdom had been invaded? They must have been running this operation for months—right under my nose.
Over the hill to my right, a tall, masculine silhouette catches my attention, and my pulse quickens. My enemy wears a gray mask and matching winter gear that looks straight out of a fairytale, with a ghostly, otherworldly cut and a design that eschews zippers and modern features. The edges of the fabric wisp as if tailored from a piece of cloud, and the lower half of his face is covered by a triangular metal plate reminiscent of amuzzle. This contraption conceals his mouth and part of his nose perfectly, while a long cape billows behind him.
The storm subsides, the mist sucked up and swallowed into his gravity, imbuing him with power. It would take an enormous amount of magic for any Fae to craft a storm of this magnitude—let alone keep it going forweeks.
Whoever he is, he’s not your run-of-the-mill pretender.
I squint at the ice wolves standing on each side of him. A thread of shadows burns inside them, and a foreboding sense of doom settles in my chest. The melting snow, the uneven storms, and now this disgusting violation of the most sacred creature in Wintermere… I can’t pretend it isn’t real. The Tidecallers have returned.
“What should we do, Your Majesty?” Kiro asks.
I tighten my hold on the hilt of my ice sword. “Kill the soldiers and nightmares, but leave their leader to me.”
My reapers lunge into the fray. Spiders, wolves, and their handlers defend the entrance to the mine. Their striking helmets are adorned with two curved horns harvested from Bloodcrest or Razorback Maulers—carnivorous whales that populate our seas. These beasts are as dangerous and deadly as the Dark Sea sirens, and they’re incredibly hard to kill. The look is straight out of the history books I’ve read on the Islantide, confirming my suspicions.
The Tidecallers—Fae vikings of the sea and sky, bent on bringing destruction and chaos to our world—have used my lands and the power of my glacier as a stepping stone to harvest and forge stolen magic into weapons of war.
My arms shake at the thought.
The men wield two double-bit axes with short handles and heavily curved blades. They’re about as tall as I am but built like polar bears. I strike the ground at my feet, causing the snow toice over beneath the soles of their boots and forcing them to slow down.
The soldiers grunt in response and slam their cleats into the ice to stay upright.
Four sleighs glide across the bridge leading out of the mine, heading toward the far side of the mountain. Burlap sacks and a trove of precious metal and dragon scales are loaded inside them. Kiro throws his axe at the back of one of the escapees and runs toward the sleigh. The driver drops to the ground, but the wolves don’t stop running. If I’m reading this correctly, the beasts are not controlled by the drivers but by the will of the man in front of me.
Leaving my reapers to fight the underlings, I return my attention to the phantom standing on top of the hill and squint, trying to see past the unusual attire to the man underneath.
“Who are you?” I shout.
The hooded figure gives me a lazy shrug in response, not uttering a word as he marches forward. I know every powerful Fae on the continent, so this man must be from the Islantide, the infamous island off the coast of Storm’s End. Tidecallers haven’t crossed the Breach in centuries—well before I was born.
Thunder crashes down the mountain as our swords collide. His long, one-handed blade shimmers with a hint of purple fire, and lightning bolts zigzag along the hilt as we parry and strike in turn. His blows carry serious power and blunt force, yet his attacks betray an undercurrent of impatience. He acts as though any outcome other than a swift, decisive victory is beneath him. While his skills are impressive, my approach to combat is more nuanced.
In the face of a worthy opponent, caution is always the best approach—a lesson the warrior in front of me clearly never learned. His lack of restraint prompts me to circle around him, buying time and delaying the inevitable.
He tilts his head to the side before lunging forward, and the tell allows me to sidestep and drive my elbow into his back. The blow sends him face-first into the snow, but he rolls out of reach of my sword with impressive speed.
A pack of wolves roars in my direction. The beasts encircle me, baring their long, icy teeth, their massive paws digging into the snow. Dark energy swirls within them, as if each wolf is a storm of ice and lightning bottled within a living, breathing carnivore.
One of the large beasts lunges at me with reckless abandon. I drive my blade into its belly, and it disintegrates into dark flakes of magic. The remnants of the beastly construct zoom toward my opponent, the bite of his magic intensifying upon contact.
Killing them won’t help. To the contrary, each vanishing beast only makes their master stronger. My enemy takes advantage of the wolf’s attack to rise to his feet again. He advances upon me with an iron grip on his sharp, forsaken blade.
His next attack is so quick, the blade nicks my side, and I reel at the red splash tainting my windbreaker. The sting of pain barely registers as warm blood runs down the fabric and pools at my hip. I haven’t bled since I became king.
Cuts and scrapes only draw frost and ice from my veins. I can’t be killed by ice, fire, shadows, light, blood, lust, or lightning, but maybe I can be struck down by this volatile blend of magic.
