White Stag (PERMAFROST #1)

Chapter One: Masquerade

"You look tense," Soren said, breaking me out of my thoughts. I'd crossed my arms over my chest. Not good. A movement like that was a sign of weakness. It was obvious to everyone that I was the weakest being here but showing it would do me no good.

"I'm fine," I said. "I just don't like this place."

"Hn." Soren scanned the white marble palace with contempt again. At least this, we could agree on.

By now we'd entered the great hall where the reception was held. Every hundred years, the goblins were required to visit the Erlking and swear their fealty. Of course, their loyalty only extended to him as long as he was the most powerful—goblins weren't the type of creature to follow someone who was weaker than them. They had a pretty good way of detecting when the king became weak, too.

The palace, for what it was worth, was much grander than most other parts of the goblin domain. Soren's manor was all wood, stone, and ice, permanently freezing. Nothing grew—I knew because I tried multiple times to start a garden—but the roots never took to the Permafrost. Here it was warm, though not warm enough that I couldn't feel the aching chill deep in my bones. The walls were made of pure white marble with intricate designs far above what a goblin was capable of and veined with yellow and red gold like open veins. The art was probably a humans work and definitely a slave's. I'd bet ten to one that they probably weren't still alive.

Soren's scowl deepened as we passed under a canopy of ice wrought to look like vines and flowers. "I feel like I need to vomit," he said.

I stopped in my tracks. "Really?"

He glanced at me, a playful light in his lilac eyes. "Sarcasm? Did I do it right?"

"No. Sarcasm would be when you use irony to show your contempt."

"Irony?" He shook his head, his long white hair falling into his face.

"Saying one thing when you mean the other, dramatically."

"This is beneath me," he muttered, then even quieter, "this place is in need of a dire redecoration."

"I'm not even entirely sure what to say to that." With those words he flashed me a wicked grin that said little and suggested much. I turned away.

In the hall, the gazes on the back of my neck were sharp as knives. I kept my head straight, trying my hardest not to pay attention to the wolfish faces of the other attenders. The figures dressed in hunting leathers, long and lean, would only seek to torment me if I paid them any attention. As the only human who wasn't in fetters, I was a curiosity. More than that: I was a challenge to their supposed supremeness. Both could very easily get me killed and I wasn't planning on dying anytime soon. My hand almost twitched again but I stopped it just in time, heeding Soren's warning.

We finally crossed the floor to where the Erlking sat. Like Soren, the Goblin King's hair was long. But unlike Soren, whose hair was whiter than the snow, his hair was brown. Not my brown, the color of fallen leaves, underbrush, and dark cherry wood, but murky, muddy brown. It was the color of bog mud that sucks down both humans and animals alike. He was the strongest of all goblins and I hated him for it. I also feared him—I was smart enough for that—but the fear was drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears as I locked eyes with Soren's King.

Soren turned to me. "Stay." His eyes turned hard, the glimmer of light leaving them. Whatever softness he had before drained away until what was left was the hard, cold killer that he was known to be and with it went the last shreds of warmth in his voice. "Until I tell you otherwise." Subtly, he jerked his pointer finger at the ground in a wordless warning.