The dawn sky over the Ironcrest Pack was the color of a bruised corpse.

A bitter, howling wind ripped through the central courtyard, carrying with it the sharp scent of incoming snow. But the snow was a mercy compared to what lay on the ground. The Trial of Frost was an ancient, barbaric punishmen

Freya woke to the smell of mildew and damp stone.

She blinked, her eyelids feeling like sandpaper. The ceiling above her was cracked, low, and stained with water damage. She was lying on a thin, lumpy mattress that offered no support, covered by a scratchy wool blanket that smelled faintly of moth

The packhouse was tearing itself apart.

Down in the damp, freezing dark of the servant quarters, Freya Vance sat perfectly still, listening to the symphony of panic she had orchestrated. The blaring security sirens cut through the stone walls, a shrieking, relentless wail that signaled the absolute