The cold gnawed into my bones. I clenched my teeth, refusing to collapse.
My grandmother and father were still waiting for me to come home—waiting for me to keep our fragile lives from falling apart.
“Draven! Let me out!” I kicked the iron door again and again until my toes went numb and my knuckles bloodied. It didn’t move.
I didn’t know how long I lay there before the hinges finally groaned open.
Draven stepped inside with several warriors behind him, his expression unsettlingly gentle. “Lunessa,” he murmured, “are you cold?”
He reached toward me. My pupils trembled. My throat was so dry no words came out.
Then I saw the warrior holding a metal kettle, steam rising from the spout. My pulse lurched.
“Draven… what are you doing?” I forced my voice steady, terrified of the answers forming in my mind.
He didn’t reply. Only looked at me with a cold, unfamiliar gleam.
“Your greatest mistake,” he said softly, “was harming Myrielle.”
“I didn’t spill that broth!” I choked. “Check the scry-stones—check the hall runes—it wasn’t me! I swear on the Moon, it wasn’t me!”
He didn’t flinch.
He lifted a hand. The warriors pinned me to the freezing floor. I kicked, clawed, pleaded—but it didn’t matter.