The smell of Torstein’s blood refused to leave her skin.
Iris sat on the edge of the feather mattress, her knuckles raw from where she had scrubbed them with coarse lavender soap and freezing water. The basin on the vanity table was still cloudy, a pale pink swirl settling at the bottom of the ceramic bowl. No matter how hard she rubbed, she could still feel the phantom heat of the young warrior’s skin beneath her palms, and more terrifyingly, the memory of the golden-green light that had poured from her fingertips.
She reached up, her fingers trembling as they closed around her mother’s silver locket. It was cold again. It lay flat against her collarbone, a heavy, silent weight, as if the dazzling brilliance it had cast across the solar had been nothing but a trick of the flickering tallow candles. But it hadn't been a trick.
For three years, Iris had believed her mother’s earth-magic had died in the ashes of their border cottage. She had spent countless nights in Oakhaven whispering to withered herbs, begging a single spark of life to return to her hands, only to be met with the hollow ache of her own grief. Yet, the moment she had touched Kazimir Vale—the moment her fingers had wrapped around his silver-scarred palm—the magic had returned with the force of a spring flood.
"It was the bond," she whispered into the empty room.
Her wolf stirred at the thought, a warm, golden pressure behind her ribs that made her breath catch. The beast didn't care about the burnt ruins of Oakhaven. It didn't care about the graves Kazimir claimed to have dug. It only wanted him. It wanted to crawl down onto the hard stone of the hearth where he slept every night and press its muzzle into the crook of his neck.
Iris squeezed her eyes shut, her jaw tightening until her teeth ached. "No. I will not yield to it. It is a biological trap. A trick of the blood."
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
Iris straightened her spine, smoothing the skirt of her gray kirtle before she stood. "Enter."
The heavy iron key turned in the lock—a sound she had grown to hate—and the door creaked open. Greta stepped into the room, carrying a fresh basket of clean laundry. But she didn't enter alone.
Kazimir stood in the doorway.
He had changed out of his blood-stained patrol tunic into a simple, loose-fitting shirt of dark green linen, the laces at his collar left untied to reveal the thick column of his throat. Without the heavy furs and leather armor, he looked less like the warlord of the Frostspire and more like a man who had spent his life working the land. The silver-streaked hair at his temples was still damp, curling slightly against his ears.
Iris felt the immediate, violent shift in the air. The temperature in the room seemed to rise five degrees in an instant, a wave of liquid warmth rolling over her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. Her pulse leaped, a wild, frantic rhythm that she hated herself for.
Kazimir paused on the threshold, his amber-gold eyes scanning her face with a quiet, intense focus. He noted the raw skin of her knuckles, the slight shadow of exhaustion beneath her eyes, and the way her hand remained locked around her silver locket.
"Greta," Kazimir said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a tremor straight down Iris's spine. "Leave the basket. You may take the rest of the day to warm yourself by the kitchen hearth. I will watch the Luna."
Greta curtsied so quickly she nearly tripped over her own skirts, setting the basket down before scurrying out of the room. The heavy oak door closed, but this time, the key did not turn in the lock.
Iris stood her ground, her chin tilted upward. "You have stopped locking my door, Alpha. Are you no longer afraid I will escape into the blizzard?"
Kazimir stepped into the room, his movements slow and deliberate. He stopped a respectful six feet away, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the timber floor. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, a gesture she now realized was meant to show him as non-threatening.
"If you wished to run, Iris, you would have done so when the gates were open for Torstein’s sled," Kazimir said quietly. "And after what you did in the solar today... I do not think a lock could hold you if you truly wished to leave."
"I did nothing," Iris said, her voice stiffening. "I saved a dying man. It is what I was trained to do."
"You did more than save him," Kazimir countered, his eyes burning with a sudden, bronze light. "You healed him. You drew the silver poisoning out of his bone—something my own pack healers have never been able to achieve. And you did it with a power that has not been seen in these mountains since my mother passed."
He took a half-step closer, his gaze dropping to the silver locket around her neck. "My mother used to tell me stories of the southern earth-healers. She said their magic was like a conversation with the soil. But she also said it required a catalyst. A connection to the living world."
Iris felt her heart hammer against her ribs. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to tell him that she didn't need him, that her magic was her own, but the memory of the golden-green light that had only flared when their skin met was a silent, damning witness.
"Why are you here, Kazimir?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If you have come to demand I heal the rest of your warriors, you can save your breath. My magic is... unpredictable. I cannot call it at will."
"I have not come to demand anything," Kazimir said. He slowly brought his hands around from behind his back, presenting them to her.
Iris gasped.
The heavy, white, puckered tissue of his silver-scarred hands was still there, but the dark, angry purple inflammation that had ringed his joints for years had vanished. The skin was healthy, the fingers straight. He slowly opened and closed his hands, his movements fluid and entirely devoid of the stiff, painful hesitation she had observed since her arrival.
"You healed me, Iris," Kazimir said, his voice thick with an emotion that sounded dangerously like reverence. "For ten years, my hands have felt as though they were filled with crushed glass. Every movement was a battle against the poison. Today... today I held my sword without pain for the first time since I was a young man."
"It was an accident," Iris whispered, stepping back until her thighs hit the edge of the mattress. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," he cut her off gently. "But the magic did. It recognized what was broken, and it fixed it. And it made me realize something else."
He walked over to the narrow window, looking out at the endless, swirling white of the mountain storm. "You are dying in this room, Iris. Not in body, but in spirit. A healer cannot live in a stone cage. You need the earth, just as the earth needs you. And if I keep you locked away in this wing, your power will sleep again, and it will take your spirit with it."
He turned back to face her, a small, silver key resting in the palm of his hand.
"There is a place," Kazimir said, "on the southern cliffside of the keep. My mother built it when she first came to the north. It was a glasshouse, designed to grow the herbs and flowers of her homeland. After she died, the winters shattered the glass, and the soil froze. It has been a ruin for fifteen years."
He held the key out to her.
"I want you to have it," he said. "I have ordered the servants to clear the snow from the remaining paths. The glass has been patched with oiled canvas, and the central coal stove has been repaired. It is not much, but the soil is there. It is dead, frozen soil, but I believe... I believe you can wake it."
Iris stared at the silver key. The metal gleamed in the dim light, a tiny beacon of freedom.
"And the catch?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion. "You said you would not lock my door, but you are offering me a key to a ruined glasshouse. Am I to be supervised?"
"By me," Kazimir said, his amber eyes unwavering. "The pack is still restless, Iris. Varis is looking for any excuse to claim you are a threat. If you are found wandering the keep alone, I cannot guarantee your safety. But if you are with me, no one will dare touch you."
"So, I am to exchange one cage for another," Iris said, though her eyes remained locked on the key. "A glass cage where you can watch me dig in the dirt."
"You may call it what you like," Kazimir said, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "But the soil is there, Iris. And I know you want to touch it."
He walked over to the wooden vanity table, placing the small silver key beside her pink-swirled washbasin. He did not press her for an answer. He simply bowed his head, his silver-streaked hair catching the light of the fire, and walked toward the door.
"The wind will die down in an hour," he said, his hand resting on the iron latch. "If you wish to go, put on your green cloak. I will be waiting in the corridor."
The door closed softly behind him.
Iris stood in the center of the quiet room, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. She looked at the vanity table, where the silver key lay resting against the polished wood.
Her hand drifted to her chest, her fingers tracing the circular shape of her mother's locket. Then, slowly, she walked over to the wardrobe and pulled her green woolen cloak from the bottom drawer. She traced the heavy, weighted hem with her fingertips, feeling the distinct, grainy crunch of the wolfsbane roots hidden inside.
"A glasshouse," she whispered.
It was the perfect opportunity. In a glasshouse, she could cultivate her own herbs. She could find a way to separate the wolfsbane from her cloak, to brew a poison so pure and silent that not even an Alpha's senses would detect it. She would not have to rely on a clumsy, desperate act of violence. She could use her own skills, her own craft, to end this.
She snatched the silver key from the vanity, her fingers tightening around the cold metal until it bit into her skin.
"I will go," she muttered, throwing the green cloak over her shoulders and fastening the heavy silver clasp at her throat. "And I will wake the earth. But only so I can use it to bury you."
* * *
The southern corridor of the keep was narrower than the main halls, the stone walls sweating with a damp, freezing condensation that smelled of old frost and dormant mold.
Kazimir walked half a pace ahead of her, his massive shoulders blocking the cold drafts that swept through the narrow arrow-slits. He didn't speak, but Iris could feel the constant, heavy thrum of his presence in her blood, a low, vibrating hum that seemed to match the rhythm of her own footsteps.
As they descended deeper into the lower levels of the fortress, the rough-hewn basalt walls gave way to ancient, natural cavern stone. The air grew slightly warmer, carrying the faint, sulfurous scent of the hot springs that flowed beneath the mountain.
"My mother chose this location because of the springs," Kazimir said, his voice echoing softly off the damp stone. "The heat from the earth rises through the vents in the rock. It was the only way she could keep the soil from freezing solid during the black months."
He stopped before a heavy, iron-reinforced wooden door at the end of the passage. He didn't reach for the handle. He turned to her, gesturing for her to use the silver key she held clutched in her hand.
Iris stepped forward, her green cloak brushing against his dark linen shirt. The proximity was intoxicating, her nose filling with his scent—the sharp, clean smell of cedarwood, crushed pine needles, and the deep, underlying musk of a dominant male. She forced her hands to remain steady as she slotted the key into the heavy iron lock.
The mechanism turned with a satisfying, heavy clack.
Iris pushed the door open, and the breath left her lungs.
The glasshouse was a sprawling, skeletal structure of black iron and weathered timber, built directly into a natural shelf on the southern cliffside of the fortress. Above them, the sky was a bruised, heavy purple, the clouds churning violently, but the wind was kept at bay by the sheer rock face of the mountain.
Dozens of the original glass panes had been shattered, replaced by thick sheets of translucent, oiled canvas that flapped softly in the mountain drafts, casting long, dancing shadows across the interior. In the center of the room sat a massive, circular coal stove made of cast iron, its belly glowing with a dull, red heat that filled the air with the dry, metallic smell of burning anthracite.
But it was the soil that drew Iris’s eyes.
Large, raised wooden beds ran the length of the glasshouse, filled to the brim with dark, heavy earth. It was completely bare. There were no weeds, no dried stalks of old flowers, no signs of life. The soil lay flat and silent, covered in a thin, sparkling crust of white frost that had seeped in through the cracked glass. It looked like a graveyard for things that had never had the chance to bloom.
Iris walked forward, her boots sinking softly into the gray ash that coated the stone walkways. She reached the first raised bed, her eyes wide as she stared down at the frozen earth.
"It has been dead for a long time, Iris," Kazimir said, stepping into the room and closing the heavy door behind him. "My mother’s people tried to keep it alive after she died, but without her... without the magic, the soil simply gave up. Nothing has grown here in fifteen years."
Iris didn't answer. She reached up, unbuttoning her mittens and letting them drop to the stone floor.
Slowly, carefully, she reached out and pressed her bare hand against the crust of the earth.
The soil was freezing, a sharp, biting cold that made her fingers ache instantly. She closed her eyes, letting her consciousness slide down into her fingertips, searching for the tiny, faint heartbeat of the earth that her mother had taught her to find.
There was nothing.
The soil was a silent, empty void, its life-force frozen solid, locked away beneath layers of cold and grief.
"It’s gone," Iris whispered, her throat tightening with a sudden, sharp wave of disappointment. "It’s too cold. The magic... it cannot reach through the frost."
"Try again," Kazimir’s voice came from behind her, closer now.
She turned to see him standing beside the raised bed. He looked down at her bare hand resting on the frozen dirt, his amber eyes burning with a quiet, intense conviction.
"You are trying to do it alone, Iris," he said softly. "But you do not have to. The magic in your blood... it is an earth-magic, yes, but it is also a fated magic. It was designed to be shared."
He slowly reached out, his massive, newly healed hand hovering over hers. He didn't touch her. He kept his palm an inch away, leaving the choice entirely to her.
"Let me help you," he whispered. "Let me be your anchor."
Iris looked at his hand, the white scars shining in the dim, reddish light of the coal stove. She knew the danger. She knew that every time she touched him, her hatred was eroded, chipped away by the overwhelming warmth of the bond. She knew that if she let him in, she might never find the strength to use the wolfsbane hidden in her cloak.
But she wanted the magic.
She wanted it more than she wanted her vengeance. She wanted to feel the earth wake up, to hear the silent song of the soil that had been missing from her life for three long years.
With a low, shuddering breath, Iris slid her hand sideways, her fingers wrapping tightly around his.
A sudden, violent shockwave of pure, liquid gold ripped through her.
Iris gasped, her head snapping back as the power flooded her veins, hot and sweet as wild honey. The silver locket around her neck began to hum instantly, a deep, musical vibration that echoed off the glass walls of the high ceiling. The surface of the metal erupted with a brilliant, golden-green light, casting long, emerald beams across the dark soil.
Beside her, Kazimir let out a low, ragged groan, his grip on her hand tightening until her bones ached. But she didn't care about the pain. She was lost in the torrent of the magic.
She pressed her other hand down hard into the frozen crust of the earth.
This time, the soil did not remain silent.
A sudden, deep vibration shook the wooden bed, the dry, frozen dirt shifting and churning as if something massive were moving beneath the surface. The white crust of frost melted away in an instant, turning into a fine, warm mist that rose from the soil, smelling of deep, rich loam, summer rain, and wild, blooming heather.
"Look," Kazimir whispered, his voice shaking.
Iris opened her eyes.
A tiny, pale green shoot had broken through the dark earth directly beneath her palm.
As she watched, the shoot grew, its stem thickening and turning a vibrant, emerald green as it uncurled two small, heart-shaped leaves. It was a winter-aconite, a rare, hardy flower that only bloomed in the deepest snows of the southern valleys.
The magic didn't stop there.
The golden-green light poured from Iris's hand, spreading outward through the soil of the raised bed like a glowing river of liquid emerald. Wherever the light touched, the earth began to churn. Tiny green tips of grass, wild chamomile, and sweet woodruff broke through the surface, growing with a frantic, beautiful speed that defied the freezing wind howling outside the glass.
Within minutes, the entire raised bed was a carpet of vibrant, blooming green, the sweet, intoxicating scent of wild herbs filling the air, completely erasing the dry, metallic smell of the coal stove.
Iris stared at the blooming herbs, tears of sheer, unadulterated joy welling in her amber eyes. She laughed—a clear, beautiful sound that Kazimir had never heard before—and let go of his hand, dropping to her knees beside the wooden bed to touch the soft, warm leaves of the chamomile.
"It’s alive," she sobbed, her fingers gently tracing the delicate white petals of a blooming flower. "It’s really alive."
Kazimir stood over her, his chest heaving as he stared down at her. His wolf was practically howling with a wild, triumphant joy, his heart beating a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs.
He had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.
The dim, red light of the coal stove combined with the fading emerald glow of her locket turned her dark curls into a halo of copper and gold. Her sun-warmed skin was flushed with the heat of the magic, her freckles dark against her nose, her amber-gold eyes shining with a brilliant, tearful light that made his breath catch.
"You are a miracle, Iris," he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, unfiltered emotion.
Iris froze, her hand hovering over a small leaf of woodruff.
The magic was slowly fading now, the emerald light of her locket dimming back to a quiet, silver gray. The warmth of the bond was still humming in her blood, but the sudden absence of his hand left her feeling cold, empty, and terribly vulnerable.
She looked up at him, her joy suddenly curdling into a sharp, icy fear.
She had done it. She had woken the earth. But she had only been able to do it because of him. He was the catalyst. He was the key.
And as she looked at his scarred, handsome face, she realized the terrifying truth.
She was becoming dependent on the monster of her nightmares. And a dependent weapon is no weapon at all.
* * *