War is never glorious. That’s a lesson we women learn at our mothers’ knees. Apart from those closest to the immortals, no human will benefit from this war over our the throne they stole from us—the one neither side deserves.

Destruction marches ever closer, and I’m preparing in every way I can: working the horses, storing food for a siege, readying medicines for the injured. The Clan Council may never accept me as Chief, and the Ever laws may forbid it. But none of that changes the fact that I won’t let Dunhaelic fall.

Today, the cold bites deep. My fingers are numb on the reins against Ari’s steaming neck. The sun spills pink and crimson over the hilltops behind us, yet ahead in the Sacred Wood where the old military road climbs among the ancient trees, frost and gloom still linger beneath the mid-April canopy.

Ordinarily, I’d turn back at the edge of the Wood. Now I give in to a whisper of rebellion instead. Urging the stallion faster, I lose myself in the sensations: the surge of his muscles, the chuff of his breath, the thunder of hooves on hard-packed earth. Crouched low over Ari’s mane, the wind whips my face and billows the long skirt I’ve kilted through my belt for riding.

We’re flying, the ground blurring beneath Ari’s strides. Then he suddenly snorts and throws his head. His shoulder drops out from under me, and he turns to bolt back the way we came.

I fight to keep my seat and hold him.

“Easy, lad. What is it?” I pull him in a circle, patting his neck as I force him forward again. He watches the slope on our right with his ears pinned back and his eyes rimmed white.

Nothing stirs around us. Nothing rustles. Yet still Ari bucks and fishtails, jolting me against the pommel.

Pain flashes white, and I circle him again, keeping him moving.

Then I realise that I’ve been slow to understand. It’s always hard for me to pinpoint the source of sound. My left ear is deaf, but I don’t need both ears to hear what isn’t there.

Silence coils around us. Gone is the usual dawn chorus of thrushes and blackbirds, whose morning calls can seem insistent enough to wake the dead. Gone, too, are the rustlings of squirrel and hunting cat, of marten and deer and capercaillie.

Something large is hiding among the trees.

It’s the perfect place for an ambush. Centuries of wagon wheels and iron-shod horses have worn the road away, leaving steep banks of earth and roots on either side that cut off any escape. The thick-trunked trees would give good cover for a highwayman or a deserter to lie in wait, but it could also be some of our own missing men returning.

I whistle the five notes of Dunhaelic’s signal call and wait.

No one answers.

Still, part of me clings to hope. We’ve already lost my brothers and father, along with too many warriors, in the battles that came before the recent massacre at Culodur.

If any of our men survived, I need to know. They could be weak, or wounded and unconscious.

Shifting Ari’s reins to one hand, I draw the dagger from my belt. My fighting skills are limited at best, but if all else fails, I have the one trick of magic I’ve managed to teach myself. The ember of our outlawed power that lives inside me has burned low recently, but with luck, it will answer when I need it.

I kick Ari sharply. He rears in protest, then surges into a gallop. I run him ten yards, wheel him, and use his momentum to scramble up the bank.

Weaving through trees and low-growing brush, I search for intruders and follow a diagonal line towards the ridge to cut off anyone lurking near the road. The haunting stillness follows us, and Ari’s footsteps rustling through the leaves and bracken sound impossibly loud. Then, twenty yards below the ridge, a gust of wind stirs up a strange, sweet scent.

Fingers of ice crawl along my back.

I’ve encountered this stench before—only once, but some memories burn themselves into your soul and refuse to fade. The smell hurls me back four months into the landscape of my nightmares.

I’m walking among the bloated dead on the battlefield where I went to retrieve the bodies of my father and oldest brother. Searching each corpse for familiar features, I stumble over the severed head of a Grey—one of the Raven Queen’s monstrous enforcers. Its bleached irises stare sightlessly, ash-coloured skin stretched over features twisted by the Queen’s corrupted magic.

I back away in horror and fall onto the Grey’s headless body. The sweet stench of its blood is everywhere, infused with a dark magic that claws against my skin and makes my own power recoil. Lurching to my feet, I brush at the crust of dried blood that clings to my hands, my skirts, my bodice—wherever I touched the Grey’s stained uniform and scarlet cloak.

The memory chokes my lungs. I gulp deep breaths and blink away the tears that blur my eyes.

Today, I will not cry.

My tension, on top of the smell of blood, only adds to Ari’s nerves. He plants his legs and refuses to go farther.

“Easy, my handsome,” I whisper. “We can both be brave.”

If there’s a Grey bleeding in the Sacred Wood, I need to know. I can’t risk having one of the Raven Queen’s abominations follow me back to Dunhaelic Keep.

Ari rears as I kick him forward. His front legs thrash the air. Then his hind legs skid on the incline, and I jump from the saddle to keep him from going over backwards. Clinging to the reins, I pull his head down and wait until he steadies. His heart pounds so hard it thuds against my shoulder.

I coax him forward. Then a dozen yards below the ridge, we edge around a thicket of dog rose blocking our path, and Ari snorts and stops. Head low and ears pricked, he stares fixedly at something on the ground ahead.

The trees have thinned to scattered birches and wind-gnarled pines. Light slants through them to reveal a man lying on his back. A few yards beyond him, a second man lies face down. He’s tied across the saddle of a dappled mare who’s collapsed onto her side. The mare’s ears twitch, but she doesn’t raise her head.

Neither man is moving.

They aren’t Greys—they don’t have the pale skin or deformed limbs of the monsters the Raven Queen uses as enforcers. But they aren’t human, either.

The magic of the mortal Cailleach Queens was outlawed four hundred years ago when the Sun King came through the Veil and butchered most of my bloodline. Where the ancient magic survives, we guard the secret closely, but what little remains in my blood doesn’t carry nearly the strength that charges the air around these Everfolk.

They’ve done their best to look ordinary, dressing themselves in coats and breeches like tradesmen from the south instead of their usual finery or the kilted plaids our Highland warriors wear. Still, even if I couldn’t sense the magic coming from them, the swords buckled at their belts would give them away as the rebel king’s companions.

My pulse kicks into a run as I consider what their presence—and deaths—might mean. Neither side in this cursed war is any better than the other. Not only that, but these men didn’t die alone. Their bodies have been arranged. The man on the horse is tied to the saddle, but the other lies like a corpse in a coffin, with his hands folded across his chest.

Someone else was here—may still be here.

The thought brings on an eerie sense of being watched. Gooseskin prickles along my arms, and the sweat-slicked hilt of the dagger digs deeper into my palm.

I turn in a slow, wide circle, searching every shadow that shifts in the wind and each tree trunk thick enough to offer a place to hide. Nothing moves, and Ari’s attention stays fixed on the mare and the two dead bodies around her.

Eventually, my heartbeat eases. Inch by inch, I persuade Ari to move upwind until I find a sturdy tree where I can tie him. Then I creep back for a closer look. Ari whickers anxiously, pulling at his reins and pivoting to watch me.

The sweet smell of the Evers’ blood and the warmth of magic thicken as I approach the bodies. I can’t see where the man on the horse is injured, but he’s bled enough to leave a purple-brown crust dried along the withers, belly, and foreleg of his horse, and more blood has stained the coat and shirt front of the man lying stretched out on the ground. Yet if they are truly Everfolk, and if any of the ancient stories are to be believed, then it makes no sense that they would die of wounds like these.

According to the stories our elders tell by firelight, Everfolk can only die if their heads are removed or their hearts are pierced by steel forged with a celestial ore fallen from the heavens. Such a death is instant, leaving no time for their healing magic to do its work.

These men still have their heads, and if their hearts were pierced, then they must have been here in the Sacred Wood when they were killed. That is a problem for many reasons.

In all the generations since the doorways through the Veil were closed, we can name only twelve Evers who crossed here from Tirnaeve: the Sun King who murdered our last true queen, Vheara—the Raven Queen—who killed him last year, and the rebel king and his Riders who arrived shortly after to challenge her for what he considers to be his father’s crown.

If these dead Evers were among the rebel king’s close companions, the Sun King’s so-called heir will demand revenge.

Snakes of fear coil through my heart as I think it over. The king’s wrath isn’t the only danger. If Vheara discovers Riders here, she’ll take it as proof that I’ve been sheltering her enemies.

Neither side would need to prove any of us at Dunhaelic were guilty of these deaths. Their laws make it a hanging offence to harm an Ever—no questions, no trial, and no reprieve. And I wouldn’t face the gallows by myself. Vengeance, like water, trickles down to those below, and everyone I’m meant to protect would be as good as dead.

My knees shake as I move to the nearest Ever. I crouch beside him, and a hot flush of magic ripples across my skin. More magic than I’ve ever felt. But that’s not the only shock. Although the ancient tales talk about the beauty of the Everfolk, seeing it in front of me makes my breath catch.

The Ever is handsome in a way that explains the warnings in the ancient stories—the blinding, dangerous sort of beauty that’s said to make humans lose their will and descend into madness. His features are too eerily perfect, his black hair has the gleam of raven’s wings, and the blue eyes that look unseeingly into the sky catch the light like layers of stained glass, revealing more colours the deeper I look.

His sightless stare unnerves me, and I brush my fingers across his lids to close them. The skin is still warm. I flinch from the contact, and my hand grazes a pale-blue crystal set in a ring on his right hand.

A jolt of pure power jars me as I touch it—so hot and bright that it pulls an answering flare from the ember of magic that burns inside me. Snatching my hand away, I wait for the sensation to ebb. But I miss it when it’s gone. My magic misses it, which makes no sense since my magic isn’t Ever magic. Careful not to touch the ring again, I bend closer to examine the crystal set within it. There’s movement inside, gold threads of magic dancing like lightning behind a thin haze of cloud.

The movement is mesmerising, holding me captive a moment too long after Ari snorts and stomps his foot. By the time the thud and the jingling of his bridle finally register, his muscles are braced as he uses his back to pull harder against the reins that tie him to the tree.

Then a twig snaps somewhere close. Behind me? To the left?

I spin around, searching. But there’s nothing. No one.

Well, I refuse to play this game.

“Who’s there? Come out and show yourself instead of hiding like a coward.”

The Wood falls unnaturally still. Then shadows stir beneath an oak tree to my left.

“I know you’re there,” I say, gripping the dagger tighter.

A voice answers me from the shadows. “Careful, little one. Taunt the things you fear, and you might just prove you were right to be afraid.”

The voice is male—deep and resonant. A predator’s voice, claws barely sheathed.

A shiver erupts along my spine. I draw on the cool, gritty power of the earth and fuse it with the ember that lives inside me. Needles of magic rake through bone and tissue as I force it outward, driving it into the dagger. The blade groans, lengthening and thickening until it becomes a perfect replica of my father’s sword and rests cold, heavy, and steadying within my grasp.

An Ever steps forward, his figure cloaked in gloom, footsteps whispering over the frost-crusted moss. He’s larger than the bodies behind me seemed, taller and broader, his features carved in bold strokes beneath gilded hair that’s tied half-up in a warrior’s knot. He looks gaunt, worn down, though he still wears command and power like a second skin. And while he’s every bit as beautiful as the others, that doesn’t detract from a sense of menace.

“You can put that illusion away,” he says, glancing dismissively at my sword. “Someone will mistake it for a threat if you’re not careful.”

“It’s no illusion,” I say, “and the threat is no mistake. Come any closer, and I’ll gladly prove it.”

His eyes harden. “You do know what I am, don’t you?”

“An Ever…a Rider,” I say, resisting the urge to spit the words.

“We prefer Siorai to your mortal epithets,” he says. “But yes. So why do you confront me when you should run?”

“You’re on our land, and no one here invited you. Just leave. Go away. We don’t need more trouble.” My voice stays steady, but the sword quivers and gives me away.

He moves towards me, one step, then two. I back an equal distance, trying to give myself time to think.

His hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword, and the breadth of his shoulders and arms leaves no doubt about how easily he can wield it. Then his next step brings him out from the shadows into a shaft of broken sunlight, and for the first time, I see the blood slicking his coat and seeping down one leg of the breeches he wears tucked into leather boots. His skin is pale and beaded with sweat, the silver-gold hair that falls to his shoulders damp at the temples and clinging in darker strands along his jaw.

He’s wounded. Weakened. Maybe I have a chance.

My blade won’t kill an Ever, but I’d lay odds his is made of celestial steel. Is he weak enough that I can grab it?

His mouth twitches at the corners as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he says. “Believe me, if I’d wanted you dead, you would never have seen me coming.”

There’s a strange note of bitterness in the quiet statement, but he takes another step closer. Gripping my own sword tighter, I reach for more magic to feed it. Then I wait for an opening.