Chapter 3 The Blood in the Snow

The arrow that killed the first assassin came from behind me. I knew this because I saw the shaft protruding from his throat before I saw the archer. He had been charging toward Dorian, his sword raised, his face twisted with the kind of hatred that only paid men wear. Then he simply stopped. His knees buckled. He fell face first into the frozen mud, and the snow around him began to drink his blood. Dorian did not even turn around. He was already engaged with two other men, his blade moving in tight, efficient arcs that spoke of years spent killing and years spent surviving. But I turned. And what I saw made my blood run colder than the winter air. She stood at the edge of the tree line, a woman wrapped in a cloak of pure white that made her almost invisible against the snow. She was tall and lean, her hair the color of frost, her face sharp and beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to look at. In her hands was a longbow, still raised, still aimed at the chaos unfolding on the road. She was not aiming at the remaining assassins. She was aiming at me. Our eyes met across the distance, and she smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a cat who had cornered a mouse and was deciding whether to play with it or simply end it. Then she lowered her bow and vanished into the trees. I blinked. She was gone. No sound. No disturbance in the snow. Just gone. "Get in the carriage." Dorian's voice cut through my shock. He had dispatched the last of the attackers and was striding toward me, blood spattered across his face and chest. His blade dripped crimson onto the white ground. "Now." "The woman," I said. "In the trees. Did you see her?" Dorian's expression did not change, but something shifted behind his eyes. Something that looked almost like recognition. "What woman?" "She had a bow. She killed one of them. Then she aimed at me." He gripped my arm and pulled me toward the carriage with a force that left bruises. "You are imagining things. The cold, the fear. It addles the mind." "I am not mad." "No," he agreed, shoving me through the carriage door. "But you are valuable. And there are people who would pay handsomely to see you dead before I can deliver you to the King." He slammed the door and shouted at the driver. The carriage lurched forward, leaving the dead men behind in the snow. I pressed my face to the window and watched the forest retreat. For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of white between the trees. But when I blinked, it was gone. The carriage ride lasted three more hours. Dorian did not speak to me. He sat in the corner, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even. If I had not seen him cut down three men with a blade that was still wet with their blood, I might have thought him asleep. But I knew better now. I had seen what he was capable of. I had seen the cold precision in his hands, the absence of hesitation in his eyes. He was not sleeping. He was listening. Every few minutes, his head would tilt slightly, as if catching a sound I could not hear. His fingers would twitch on his thigh. Then he would settle again, and the silence would return. I studied him in the dim light. The silver at his temples, the hard line of his jaw, the way his coat stretched across broad shoulders. He was a man built for war. Everything about him spoke of violence held in check, of a storm waiting to break. But there was something else beneath the surface. Something that surfaced when he looked at me. Something that had nothing to do with hatred or revenge. It was almost like hunger. "You are staring," he said, without opening his eyes. I did not look away. "I am trying to understand you." "Understand me." He opened his eyes, and the weight of his gaze pressed against my skin. "You should be trying to understand why your husband poisoned you." The word hit me like a slap. "He is not my husband." "You stood before a priest. You spoke vows." "I was fourteen. He forced me. The vows meant nothing." Dorian leaned forward, and the air between us seemed to tighten. "The law does not care what vows meant. It cares what vows were spoken. You are legally bound to Alaric Blackthorn until he dies or releases you." My hands clenched in my lap. "Then he will never release me." "No," Dorian agreed. "He will not. Which is why I intend to make him die." The words hung in the air, simple and terrible. I should have been horrified. I should have recoiled from the casual way he spoke of murder. But all I felt was a cold satisfaction, a dark joy that rose from somewhere deep and wounded. "You want him dead," I said slowly. "Not for me. Not for justice. You want him dead for reasons of your own." Dorian's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Perceptive. Yes. Alaric and I have unfinished business. You are merely the lever I needed to pry him out of his fortress." "And what happens to me when he is dead?" He studied me for a long moment. The carriage swayed, and the light from the lantern flickered across his face, casting shadows that made him look older. Weary. Human. "That depends," he said finally, "on whether you prove to be what I think you are." "What do you think I am?" He did not answer. He simply reached into his coat and withdrew the leather pouch again. The moonpetal inside glowed faintly, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. "This plant," he said, holding it up, "grows only in one place. A garden that Alaric's mother planted before she died. She was a witch, you see. A powerful one. And before she died, she cursed her son." The word curse sent a chill down my spine. "What kind of curse?" "She bound him to the shadows. Gave him power over darkness. But everything has a price." Dorian turned the petal between his fingers. "The moonpetal is the key. It can bind him fully to the darkness, or it can sever the bond entirely. It all depends on how it is prepared." My mouth went dry. "He gave me moonpetal extract. In the vial." "Yes." "Why?" Dorian's eyes met mine, and in them I saw something that looked almost like pity. "Because he wanted to make sure that if I rescued you, you would carry a piece of him with you. A tether. A leash. Something that would let him find you, control you, drag you back when the time was right." I pressed my hand to my chest, as if I could feel the poison inside me. "Can you remove it?" "I do not know." He tucked the petal back into his coat. "But there is someone we are going to see. Someone who might. And if she cannot help you, then you and I will have a very different conversation." Before I could ask what he meant, the carriage slowed. I heard the crunch of hooves on snow, the murmur of voices. Then the door opened, and the cold hit me like a wall. We had arrived at Ravenscroft Keep. The castle rose from the mountainside like a claw reaching for the sky. It was not beautiful. It was not elegant. It was a fortress carved from black stone, its walls sheer and unbroken, its towers sharp against the grey winter clouds. There were no gardens here. No flowers. No softness of any kind. Only stone and snow and the promise of violence. Dorian stepped out first, then turned and offered me his hand. I stared at it. "I am not a lady to be helped from a carriage." "You are my bride," he said, his voice flat. "Whatever else you are, that title stands until I say otherwise. Take my hand." I took it. His grip was warm and sure, and for a moment, I felt something flicker through me. Something that was not fear. Something that was not hatred. Something that terrified me more than either. He led me through the gates, past guards who bowed their heads as we passed. The courtyard was full of soldiers, training in the snow, their breath misting in the cold air. They paused when they saw us, their eyes following me with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. I was the enemy's daughter. The murderer's wife. I was not welcome here. But I lifted my chin and met their stares. I had survived Alaric. I could survive this. Dorian led me through a maze of corridors, past tapestries that depicted battles I did not recognize, past suits of armor that looked as though they had been worn by giants. The castle was warm, at least. Fires burned in every hearth, and candles flickered in wall sconces, casting dancing shadows across the stone. Finally, we stopped before a heavy iron door. "This is your chamber," Dorian said. "You will find clothes, food, a bath. Everything you need to make yourself presentable. We leave at dawn." "Leave for where?" "The capital." He turned to face me, and his expression was unreadable. "The King wants to meet the woman who killed the Duke of Blackthorn's brother. He has questions." My heart lurched. "What kind of questions?" "The kind that determine whether you live or die." He reached out and touched my chin, tilting my face up to his. His thumb brushed across my lower lip, and I felt the touch all the way to my bones. "You will tell him the truth. All of it. And then we will see if the truth is enough to save you." "And if it is not?" Dorian's eyes darkened. "Then I will find another way." He released me and turned away, his boots echoing down the corridor. I watched him go, my heart pounding, my mind racing. He was not my savior. He was not my friend. But he was my only hope. I pushed open the door and stepped into my new cage.