25. Immigrant Song

Chapter 25

Immigrant Song

ELIO

O ur ascent is quick and easy until the main trail ventures into dragon territory. Dragons and wolves don't mix, and their presence is likely to spook Mistress, so we leave one man with the sleighs and continue on foot. The animals were overdue for a well-deserved rest anyway.

The ice storms that drove the miners away and blocked access to the mines have scattered murky clouds over the top of Bluenest Ridge—and only Bluenest Ridge.

"It's been here for weeks, and it hasn't moved or dissipated in days, not since we sent the first platoon to investigate," Kiro says.

"You were right. It's not a natural storm." This isn't an outbreak of dragon pox or a conflict between mountain gnolls. "Whoever summoned this storm here did so at great personal cost."

The closer we get, the air thickens with humidity, and the sudden rise in temperature sends a shiver of warning up my spine. Altitude isn't supposed to be associated with warmer weather.

We finally reach the edge of the phenomenon, and I raise a hand to the clear-cut blizzard. Everything beyond the veil of sleet is heavily obscured.

I kneel down to touch the snow, extending my powers to the rock bed below it and the sacred glacier underneath. The answering shiver quakes my entire body as I draw a series of runes over the ice with my powers, trying to discern the source of the magic. "By my estimation, the storm is no more than two miles wide, and though it's been made to look harmless and natural from a distance, the core of it is perfectly circular, radiating outward from the entrance of the mine." I give my soldiers a serious nod. "Spread out and keep a cool head."

The reapers stand a little taller, and we all summon our ice blades to life. I canvas the cliffs for snipers or sentries but find nothing out of the ordinary.

Magic crackles in the air as I lead the way into the sphere of clouds and ice. The inclement weather immediately in front and behind me melts into a thin mist. A soundless alarm sends vibrations through the ether, stretching like a spiderweb before breaking as I advance.

"Whoever crafted this storm made sure to be notified if someone prodded at it." I quicken my pace and exchange a knowing glance with my lieutenant. "They know we're here."

The sleet stops abruptly half a mile in, leaving the center untouched and merely cloudy. The snow beneath my feet becomes denser due to the warmer temperature, and the sound of our footsteps shifts from a soft swish to a steady crunch .

I remove my hood and squint at a rock cliff in the distance.

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 a nefarious 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 a muzzle. 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 for weeks .

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 to ice 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.

A part of me is in awe that this man might actually be able to kill me, but I will fight back with every ounce of humanity I have left.

For all these years, I prayed for a swift release, a way to escape my pain. But now, faced with the possibility of death… I've had it all wrong. I may have allowed myself to become numb to the core, but I crave more than this cold, lonely fate.

It's unfortunate that it took a fight to the death for me to realize just how much I want to live.