a court of thorns and roses

whole book

The forest had become a labyrinth of snow and ice.

I'd been monitoring the parameters of the thicket for an hour, and my

vantage point in the crook of a tree branch had turned useless. The

gusting wind blew thick flurries to sweep away my tracks, but buried

along with them any signs of potential quarry.

Hunger had brought me farther from home than I usually risked, but

winter was the hard time. The animals had pulled in, going deeper into

the woods than I could follow, leaving me to pick off stragglers one by

one, praying they'd last until spring.

They hadn't.

I wiped my numb fingers over my eyes, brushing away the flakes

clinging to my lashes. Here there were no telltale trees stripped of bark to

mark the deer's passing—they hadn't yet moved on. They would remain

until the bark ran out, then travel north past the wolves' territory and

perhaps into the faerie lands of Prythian—where no mortals would dare

go, not unless they had a death wish.

A shudder skittered down my spine at the thought, and I shoved it

away, focusing on my surroundings, on the task ahead. That was all I

could do, all I'd been able to do for years: focus on surviving the week,

the day, the hour ahead. And now, with the snow, I'd be lucky to spot

anything—especially from my position up in the tree, scarcely able to

see fifteen feet ahead. Stifling a groan as my stiff limbs protested at the

movement, I unstrung my bow before easing off the tree.

The icy snow crunched under my fraying boots, and I ground my

teeth. Low visibility, unnecessary noise—I was well on my way to yet

another fruitless hunt.

Only a few hours of daylight remained. If I didn't leave soon, I'd have

to navigate my way home in the dark, and the warnings of the town

hunters still rang fresh in my mind: giant wolves were on the prowl, and

in numbers. Not to mention whispers of strange folk spotted in the area,

tall and eerie and deadly.

Anything but faeries, the hunters had beseeched our long-forgotten

gods—and I had secretly prayed alongside them. In the eight years we'dbeen living in our village, two days' journey from the immortal border of

Prythian, we'd been spared an attack—though traveling peddlers

sometimes brought stories of distant border towns left in splinters and

bones and ashes. These accounts, once rare enough to be dismissed by

the village elders as hearsay, had in recent months become commonplace

whisperings on every market day.

I had risked much in coming so far into the forest, but we'd finished