The froststones looked exactly like the kind of thing you’d feature in a brochure titled Visit Scenic Places Where You Might Die.
They rose out of the snow in a rough ring—tall, pale slabs, each carved with runes that glowed faint blue under the overcast sky. Snow had piled up around their bases, but not on their surfaces, like the stones were gently rejecting it.
The priest who’d come with us touched each stone, murmuring in the old language. The runes flared briefly, then settled.
“May the woods know your tread,” he said. “May the Hollow know your gaze.”
“Cheerful,” I muttered.
Evren slid off his stallion like gravity was optional. He crossed to my side, putting a hand up to Snowmane’s neck to steady her.
“Shall I assist, my lady?” he asked, court voice firmly on. The priest and a
