This was definitely it. This was the end.
And if this was the end, why not go out with a bang?
While he held her down, going on and on about what he’d do to her to make her regret the words she’d spoken, Frost closed her eyes. The pain in her body, the hand holding onto her head, his ugly, jarring voice—she blocked it all out, digging down into herself for one last show. One final hurrah before the curtain of her life drew closed.
She felt her heartbeat start to increase, and then it was back, just like that. Her magic was here, and stronger than ever.
Exhaling, she focused on the hand holding her head down, and Stentar cried out as he released her. Dozens of tiny icicles had impaled his hand, and they remained lodged in his fingers and his palm as Frost felt a chilling mist come over her. Her face no longer hurt, and she was far too cold to feel the wound in her gut. Whether or not she was healed or too full of adrenaline, she couldn’t say.
She didn’t care.
Frost slowly got to her feet, turning to view Stentar with eyes of pure ice. “Why an old man like you believes it is okay to threaten me—me—I will never know,” she whispered, her voice harsh and menacing. She reached for the tie holding in her braid, undoing it, letting her ashen locks free. Magic flowed in every pore of hers, and her hair defied gravity itself.
She glared at him, and as he fumbled, reaching for the weapon on his hip, he was about to call for help. Frost held out a hand, a layer of ice forming on his mouth, stopping him from saying another word.
“No more from you,” she said, feeling a thunderous wind start to whip around her. The tent began to shake above her, and Frost let the magic ooze out of her in a maelstrom of power. The tent soon lifted up, flying and swirling high into the sky, revealing them both to the soldiers in the camp. Most of the soldiers were currently preoccupied with something else, although a few of them did turn to watch, quite literally shaking in their boots.
The wind caught Stentar’s blade, yanking it out of his hands and carrying it off. His wrinkled eyes were wide, sheer shock written across his ugly features. Truly, threatening her, taunting her, what did he expect? This was always the outcome.
“Your reign is over,” Frost growled, stepping closer to him. The icy lake below her feet darted up, encasing her. Her white leather outfit soon became a dress—a dress made of magic, of ice. A dress that was not unlike the one she’d worn in her dreams. Everywhere her feet touched, sharp, blue spikes formed.
Stentar fell back, still gripping his hand, holding it to his chest. For kicks, she let the ice on his mouth melt. Last words were important. His crown rolled off, and he shook his head, saying, “Don’t! I’ll give you whatever you want—” Trying to bargain with her now? After saying all those things? How pathetic. How useless. How unoriginal.
Ice formed on her arm, a giant blade, just as sharp as true metal. “No more.” Frost lifted her arm, the ice blade with it, and with an unforgiving motion, she cleaved the air, drawing the ice blade straight through Stentar’s neck, decapitating him quickly.
Her icy sword arm was smeared with blood, and she was ready to fight, ready to kill each and every one of these Fenburn soldiers, whether she had to or not. Her rage was palpable, her strength to carry on. She was about to cause three dozen ice spikes to jut out of the lake, but then someone stopped her.
Or, more accurately, three someones. Three someones and a wolf.
Chapter Twenty-One
The bastards had a camp just behind the castle on the lake. If Noel would’ve done surveillance, he would’ve known how close they were the entire time. Really, they only had to lie in wait and let them do the heavy lifting.
Those bastards were going to pay for what they’ve done, and if they hurt her…if they got to her and it was too late, no amount of bodies between Noel and Stentar would be enough. The guild’s rule about interfering with royalty would not stop him from dragging his blade across the madman’s throat.
Blue led the charge, and by the time they neared the camp, the soldiers had spotted them. The Fenburn men and women had unsheathed their weapons, some held swords and others gripped arrows and bows, and Noel retrieved a few of his throwing knives. Hale readied an arrow and Douglas drew his long sword.
If these people wanted a mini-war, they’d get one.
“Hold your fire,” a loud, stern voice called out. A man, wearing more armor than the rest, pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers. A few dozen, maybe more. When no one lowered their weapons, the man—a general, by the look of him—said again, “I said hold it!”
“But sir—” One of the men asked, his fingers obviously itching to let loose his pulled back arrow.
“If you fire again when you are under direct orders to hold, so help me, I will make sure you are put on kitchen duty when we return to the castle,” the general growled out. It was enough of a threat, and the soldier lowered his bow. The rest of them were slow to follow.
Noel didn’t care. It would just make clearing the way easier. He pulled back his arm, now less than fifteen feet away from the Fenburn soldiers, when a wind picked up, swirling the snow on the lake’s surface. He hesitated when he saw one of their tents fly away, carried into the sky by a cold whirlwind of snow.
It was her. She was still alive.
The soldiers hadn’t been expecting that to happen either, for when the weather picked up, they began to murmur among themselves. Noel had no time to dally. He and the others, followed by Blue, pushed their way through the soldiers. Noel’s feet stopped when he saw her.
Frost was alive, standing, wearing a sparkling dress of all things. Her hair was free of its usual braid, its white lengths flowing and swirling in the air, reminiscent of the fur of the wolves that had attacked them all those weeks ago. Her arm was drawn up, a giant cleaver of ice that was at least five feet long extending from it.
Before her, the king of Fenburn sat, pleading for his life, and Noel watched as she said something back, unimpressed, swinging her arm down. The ice cleaved through his neck effortlessly, like a knife through warm butter.
Stentar’s body collapsed, his head rolling off his shoulders. Frost’s expression was murderous, and it looked like she wanted to continue her rampage, but that was the exact moment she glanced up, realizing they were there. They were there and she wasn’t alone.
Noel knew how hard it was for her to keep her emotions contained, and he hated that he didn’t know what to do, how to make it better. He took a step forward, earning himself a look from each Hale and Douglas, and he was slow to put his daggers away. He lowered his hood and yanked down his face cloth, giving her a smile he hoped was comforting.
The wind still whipped around her, but with every step he took, he could tell the storm inside her was dying down. He extended a hand to her, inching closer as he said, “Frost. We’re here. You don’t have to do this. Everything is okay.” Were his words lies? He couldn’t say; after all, she’d just killed a king in front of a small squad of soldiers.
The ice cleaver on her arm began to fade, growing smaller until it sunk into her arm, disappearing from view, blood smear and all. “It’s me,” she whispered, her voice cracking. Her hair, which had flowed with the wind, settled on her shoulders, wild and free. “It’s me.”
Noel had no idea what she was talking about, and he didn’t care. Once he was sure she was calm enough, he rushed to her, enveloping her in a hug she could not escape from. She felt cold, so much colder than she ever was.
“I’m the Jewel,” she whispered against his neck.
While her words registered in his brain, the general who had stopped the soldiers from attacking moved closer to inspect the body of his king. He did not immediately attack, which Noel thought strange. Should they not avenge their king?
“No, you aren’t the Jewel,” a new voice spoke, old and withered behind them. “The Jewel is inside of you, but technically, you are not the Jewel itself. You are not the Jewel made into a human. You were always human, child.”<
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Noel and Frost slowly untangled themselves from each other. Hale’s mouth was agape, and Douglas…Douglas just looked confused, a bit like the soldiers crowding behind him. Even the general had stopped, still kneeling near Stentar’s decapitated body, to stare at the owner of the voice.
The owner of the voice…was Blue?
“What are you lot staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a talking wolf before?” Blue’s chest rumbled, and right before their eyes, a bright white light flashed. In a few moments, an old, white-haired woman took its place. “No,” she mused, “I don’t suppose you have.” She was the oldest person Noel had ever seen, her skin full of wrinkles and sunspots. Her hair fell halfway down her back, and her frail body wore nothing but black and grey rags stitched together.
The general of the Fenburn soldiers stood straight, muttering, “I need to get out of Wysteria.”
“What…” Noel couldn’t find the words to say, and before he could say anything more, Frost collapsed in his arms, nothing more than a limp body.
The woman sized him up. “Bring her.” With her hands behind her back, she carefully stepped over Stentar’s body and lead them to a tent, where a bed lay. “Place her here.” After Noel did as he was told, she exited the tent, pointing to Douglas and Hale. “You two, over here. The rest of you can wait.” It was a bit odd to have a strange old woman ordering them about, but no one made any moves to go against her.
She had just been a wolf, a few moments ago. A male wolf. This woman was clearly not normal. Was she, Noel realized, the white-haired witch Frost had spoken of?
“Now,” she said, flicking her eyes, which were anything but weary, to each of them, “I assume each of you care for her. Am I wrong?” She waited a moment before adding, “Keep in mind, I have been with you this entire time, and I’ve heard a lot going on I wish I hadn’t.”
Noel coughed, and he wondered why the woman could not speak a little lower. He was sure the general and his soldiers had heard all that. “No, you’re not wrong. We love her.” Beside him, Hale and Douglas nodded in silence.
The old witch sized them up. “Good, because the spell I’m about to offer can only work with a bit of true love mixed in, and three willing participants. The fourth participant, I’m afraid, doesn’t have much time. You must make your choice, and do it quickly. The Jewel will not keep her alive for much longer, not after that display of magic.”
Douglas demanded, “What choice?”
The woman turned her nose to him. “Will you give your hearts to save her?” The question rang heavily through the air, but it was all she needed to ask.
“Yes” Noel spoke the word the same time Hale and Douglas did. All of them would give anything to save her, do anything. It shouldn’t have even been a question. Noel added, “Take whatever you need from me. I would give her my heart if it meant she got to live.” He was well aware he was signing his own death, but at least Frost would be alive, and she’d be with Hale and Douglas.
“Before either of you other two men get any self-sacrificing ideas,” the woman cut in, just as Hale and Douglas were about to offer the same thing, “let me warn you that this has never been done before. What I’m about to do, well, it’ll make those other hags jealous.”
Other hags? As in, other witches?
Now wasn’t the time to think about it.
Noel spoke firmly, “Take whatever you need from us.” No hesitation, no unwillingness. He would give everything to Frost, as would his friends. Whatever would happen, whether one of them would have to give their life for hers…it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
The only thing that mattered was her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A warm, foreign feeling greeted Frost when she woke. In the same blasted tent that she was in before, only this time she knew her men were near. Feeling remarkably good, she sat up without a problem, nothing on her hurting. It was as if she’d never been injured in the first place.
Her men were not in the tent with her, apparently.
She looked down at herself, finding that her silver, sparkly dress had turned a golden shade. Her mouth opened, though she was alone, about to ask what happened, when she ran a hand over the fabric, and of course she then saw her hand.
Or, rather, the tint of her skin.
She was no longer as white as the snow; she looked healthy, alive.
Frost studied both of her hands, quickly reaching for her hair, flicking the ends before her eyes. No longer a frosty white, either. Her hair was honey, golden blonde, sun-kissed in every way.
What in all of Wysteria happened?
She got to her feet, swaying a bit. Though there was still ice below her, it almost felt like…well, like she was moving. But she knew she wasn’t. Frost headed outside, the blue, clear sky and warm sun above welcoming her to a new world. Wysteria was green once again…and she, along with a large group of Fenburn soldiers, was on a sheet of ice, floating to the shore. The only bit of ice left in the large lake that surrounded Wysteria’s castle.
“There you are,” a familiar voice spoke, and Frost turned to see the white-haired witch standing beside her. “Let’s have a look at you.” The woman jostled her around, checked her ears, her palms, generally being intensely weird, before releasing her and grinning. “By the winds, it worked. I was a bit nervous there.”
“Who are you?” Frost asked.
“Oh, don’t recognize me?” the white-haired witch said, cocking her head. Her eyes were a sparkling blue, the same color as…
“Blue?” Frost spoke, blinking. When she smiled, Frost had her answer. “But you were a…you were a boy. I know you were a boy.”
“I’m a witch with untold power, who shapeshifted and saved your life, twice, and you’re stuck on the gender-reversing? Oh, come on.” She waved her off, as if being a male wolf was nothing.
Frost surveyed the ice chunk, the other soldiers. Only half of camp remained, and less than half the soldiers. “Where are the others?”
“Oh, they’re already on shore, waiting for you.” The woman glared at her. “I do have limits, you know. I’m a wee bit tired after babysitting you for the last ten years.” The attitude, the snark, the…
Ten years?
“You were not babysitting me,” Frost muttered, closing her eyes when she felt the warm breeze flutter by.
“I was, although to be honest, before those three showed up, I thought I was just with you to keep you company until you died. Then I would’ve buried you and sent you off.” The old witch shrugged. “This all turned out much better than I expected it to.”
“You’re very blunt,” Frost observed, turning her head to the shoreline. Less than one hundred feet away now, the grass a bright green and the trees beyond it starting to bloom and bud already, almost like magic—because it was. All of this, it was pure magic.
“I’m a lot of things, child. Blunt is but one of them.”
They said nothing more as the ice chunk floated to the shore, the Fenburn soldiers steering clear of her. As the ice hit the rocky beach, Frost spotted Stentar’s body and head on the grass, wrapped up in one of the tents. The general who had hated bringing her before Stentar stood addressing the other soldiers. Once the ones behind her hopped off the ice, they met with the rest of their troop.
Frost, on the other hand, made her way to the three men standing to the side in their own circle. They’d shed their coats and their layers, wearing nothing but their normal clothes. Noel’s hood was down, a grin on his face as he tossed something small and round in the air, catching it over and over again.
Her men were all okay. They were alive.
She ran to them, feeling oddly energetic. Before she knew what she was doing, and before she realized she was being watched by the general and the soldiers, she was hugging them, kissing them, smiling ear to ear. Hale, Douglas, and Noel. They were all here.
“What in the winds are you doing with that?” the witch questioned, pointing to the stone Noel had in his hands.
/> Frost took a step back, realizing it was the Jewel of Wysteria. It did not appear as vibrant as it had before, and she reached for it, feeling the smooth stone in her palm. Its blue was deeper, less lively. A coldness still seeped from it, but nowhere near as much as it had all those years ago, when her parents had begged the witch to save her life.
“You got it out,” Frost whispered, amazed. She met the eyes of the witch.
The old woman chuckled. “Of course I got it out. Figure it might help your case with the Wysterian royalty. I figure you can go, say you’re sorry, give it back, and then carry on—”
“Amara,” Frost spoke her sister’s name.
“Ah, I did not mean that cute as button sister of yours. I meant mommy and daddy, presuming you’re well enough to see them again. I’m sure the whole kingdom will be wondering where you went.”
“My…parents?” She didn’t know what to say, mainly because, all these years she thought they were dead.
The witch must’ve sensed what she thought, for she said, “Your parents are alive, child. They all are.”
Hope swelled in her chest, a strange, warm thing, something she wasn’t used to. Something she’d long forgotten what it felt like. Hope that she could have a future, hope that she wasn’t a mass-murderer. Hope that things were, finally, starting to look good.
When it was clear Frost was too caught up to form words, the witch pointed her thumb over her shoulder. Along the shoreline of the lake. “You’ll be fine, kid. If you ever need me…well, I’ll still peek in every now and then. Now go get ‘em.” With a flash of bright light, the witch disappeared from her view.
Still, she was full of so many questions.
Turning to her men, Frost met Noel’s eyes. “How…” Her gaze fell to the Jewel in her hand, at its ebbing inner light. With her free hand, she rested her palm above her heart, feeling it beating steadily. She felt, for the first time in her life, warm, content.
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