I need my sword back. I haven’t been outside of the palace walls without my sword around my waist since I was old enough to start training. Royalty makes an easy target, my mother taught me. A princess always needs to be able to defend herself.
And yet here I am, tied up and being dragged into the woods. Shame burns hot inside my chest. My trainer Almer would be disgusted with me. He always said I spent too much time with books and not enough time in the practice yard, and here I am, proving his every word right. I stumble on the frozen ground, then catch myself. The man leading me turns around and fixes me with his dark eyes, his unspoken question hanging between us in the cold air.
“I’m fine,” I grumble.
He turns away without a word. I’ve been walking as slowly as possible, and I’m pretty damn sure he knows it. Still, he hasn’t pushed me. In fact, he hasn’t said a word since we left the little pub where I really shouldn’t have finished that entire mug of spiked tea. I can still feel the welcome heat of the alcohol in my cheeks.
But it’s slowed my mind, and right now I really need my mind. I can’t get any further away from that spot in the barrier, the place where I must have fallen through to the Lands Below. If I’m going to have any chance at all of bringing down the entire barrier, I need to focus on the one place I’ve already weakened.
If I weakened it. A shiver runs down my back like icy water. If I’m here because of something I did, and not some cruel fluke of fate. I turn to look over my shoulder. All I can see are those strange, dead-looking trees, stretching in all directions, their shadows stark against the snow. There’s a light snow falling from somewhere, diffusing the blue-green light, filling in our footprints.
Stars. I don’t have much time before our track is completely obscured, and then how will I find my way back to the only place where I have at least some small chance of weakening the barrier? Or finding my way back to the Worlds Above?
I sink my teeth into my lower lip and try to think. My feet hit something; I stumble again, yanking hard on the rope between us. The man leading me sighs and turns around. He looks at me like he would really prefer to leave me to the wolves.
Wolves. That’s it.
“I’m fine,” I mutter again as I pull myself upright and fight the impulse to smile.
I’ve always been good at illusions. I was good at them even before Mother hired the tutor from the Iron Mountains who trained me for years. Now, I’m one of the best illusionists in the entire Kingdom of the Summer. I’ve made flowers so realistic they’ve fooled bees. How hard could it be to fool a man who would probably welcome an excuse to be rid of me?
The man turns back toward the dismal forest, and I follow along in silence. After a few paces, I add a sound somewhere deep in the forest. Footsteps on snow, distant enough to be almost unnoticed.
He notices. His back stiffens, and he freezes. I make the footsteps stop as he cocks his head slightly.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head without turning around, and then we’re off again, walking through the softly falling snow. The footsteps come back, two sets this time, moving closer. He notices almost instantly, freezes, and pulls his cloak back to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword; despite everything, I can’t help a flicker of admiration. I also can’t help the way my eyes linger over the curves of his muscular arms, but I’m going to blame that on the spiked tea.
“What is it?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. I make my illusion footsteps freeze until he shakes his head, and then, very deliberately, I make the sound of a twig cracking in the woods.
“What’s that!” I gasp.
His right hand wraps around the hilt of his sword, but still, he doesn’t move. He’s been trained. Well trained.
“I can’t tell,” he finally whispers.
I glance around the woods nervously as I make the illusion footsteps move closer. The man draws his sword. I make my eyes go wide.
“Give me my sword,” I whisper.
The man frowns at me. I make a dark shape dart between the trees behind me.
“Shit,” he mutters.
His eyes move across the trees, searching for threats. A low, vicious thrill of satisfaction twists in my chest. He’s falling for my illusions. He believes them.
“My sword,” I say again. “I can fight!”
The man’s gaze drops back to me, and his brow furrows. I try to look as innocent as possible. Behind me, I make another shape weave through the trees, just a hint of shadow, dark motion against dark trees.
“Get down,” he says.
He tugs on the rope wrapped around my wrists like he wants me to crouch on the snow at his feet.
Stars, this isn’t working! I need him to give me my sword before my illusion wolves attack. Then, after he’s run from my wolves, I’ll leave a nice, bloody mess of illusions to make him think I’ve been killed, and I can get back to my work with no further interruptions.
“No,” I snap. “Give me my sword! I can help you fight!”
He frowns at the trees again and ignores me. Fine. I need to up the pressure.
I create four wolves, black and brown and gray, and pull them out of the shadows. They walk forward, paws against the snow, long snouts and sharp teeth and hungry eyes. I gasp in horror. And then, as one, they raise their mouths and begin to howl.
It’s a good howl, a convincing one. The sound even prickles the back of my neck. I turn back to the man, doing my best to look terrified.
“My sword,” I hiss.
But the man is… smiling? He is. He’s smiling at the wolves. I make them take a step forward, all jagged teeth and long claws and carnivorous malice.
The man laughs. I turn from him to the wolves and then back to him.
“Damn,” he finally says. “That’s pretty good. Those are wolves, huh?”
“Give me my sword!” I cry. It comes out sounding like a whine.
“Ah, nice try,” he says. He tugs on the rope binding us together. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“But, the wolves,” I stammer.
He turns back to me and laughs again. His dark eyes are sparkling beneath his hood.
“We don’t have wolves down here,” he says.
My heart sinks. I let my magic go and feel my terrifying illusion of wolves vanish into the snow-filled air.
“You don’t have wolves,” I say. I mean it as a question, but the words come out as a dull, hopeless echo.
“Why would we?” he asks. “The only creatures down here are the ones we brought with us and the ones we created. Why would we create wolves?”
Something about this answer tugs at me, but I can’t quite grasp why it feels wrong. I sigh. The forest seems colder now.
“It was a nice try,” he says. “You’re good with illusions—”
He hesitates, and I feel like he’s reaching for something to call me. Other than prisoner, perhaps.
“Elanerill,” I offer. “I’m Elanerill.”
He pushes his hood back. “Orryen,” he says.
I lift my head to meet his eyes. He’s not smiling, not quite, but there’s something almost friendly in his expression. Guilt and shame twist around each other in my gut. Orryen has been kind to me, even after I ran my sword through his arm and tried to scare him away with my illusion wolves.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Orryen frowns. My words feel painfully hollow.
“I— I don’t know how I came down here,” I say, pushing on. “When I saw you, I didn't know what to do. I was scared. But I should never have pulled my sword. And I should never have attacked you.”
His expression softens. Orryen opens his mouth.
And the world goes dark.