The Heir: A Snow White Retelling (The Twisted Kingdoms Book 3)
The Heir
Frost Kay
Contents
Also by Frost Kay
Audiobooks
Kingdoms of Heimserya
1. Thorn
2. Tempest
3. Tempest
4. Pyre
5. Tempest
6. King Destin
7. Tempest
8. Tempest
9. Tempest
10. Pyre
11. Robyn
12. Tempest
13. King Destin
14. Tempest
15. Tempest
16. Tempest
17. Pyre
18. Tempest
19. Pyre
20. Tempest
21. Pyre
22. Tempest
23. Tempest
24. Robyn
25. Pyre
26. Tempest
27. Pyre
28. King Destin
29. Tempest
30. Pyre
31. Pyre
32. Tempest
33. Tempest
34. Tempest
35. Pyre
36. Tempest
37. Tempest
38. Tempest
39. Thorn
Epilogue
Coming Fall 2021
Let’s Chat!
Also by Frost Kay
Join Frost Fiends
The Heir
Copyright © 2021 Renegade Publishing, LLC
First Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any format or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For information on reproducing sections of this book or sales of this book go to www.frostkay.net
Cover by Story Wrappers
Formatting by Renegade Publishing
Copy Editing by Madeline Dyer
Proofreading by Holmes Edits and Kate Anderson
Created with Vellum
Also by Frost Kay
THE AERMIAN FEUDS
(Dark Epic Fantasy Romance)
Rebel’s Blade
Crown’s Shield
Siren’s Lure
Enemy’s Queen
King’s Warrior
Warlord’s Shadow
Spy’s Mask
Court’s Fool
DOMINION OF ASH
(Post Apocalyptic Fantasy Romance)
The Stain
The Tainted
The Exiled
The Fallout
MIXOLOGISTS & PIRATES
Amber Vial
Emerald Bane
Scarlet Venom
Cyan Toxin
Onyx Elixir
Indigo Alloy
THE TWISTED KINGDOMS
(Dark Epic Fantasy Romance)
The Hunt
The Rook
The Heir
ALIENS AND ALCHEMISTS
(Sci-Fi Fantasy Romance)
Pirates, Princes, and Payback
Alphas, Airships, and Assassins
Are you an audiobook addict? I’m happy to announce that The Hunt and Rook are now available!
Listen to THE HUNT
For those who are looking for their mates:
Don’t settle.
Your Pyre or Tempest is out there.
I promise.
One
Thorn
“Ten pieces.”
“Four.”
“Ten pieces,” Thorn said, narrowing her eyes.
“Four.”
“Ten—”
“You know as well as I do, you won’t get a better deal anywhere else in this town, Thorn,” Jones insisted. He was the blacksmith for the town of Rubelle, and he crossed his muscled, hairy arms across his chest, which was uncovered to the air despite the biting chill of the wind and the snow beneath his feet. “Four is my final offer.”
Jones was constantly a pain in her butt, but a small part of Thorn loved to haggle with the gruff man. She glanced down the sloping lane, her gaze skipping over the stone roofs of the solemn houses that lined each side of the road like rigid soldiers. Despite the outward appearance of the settlement, it was one of the best towns, in her opinion. The people as a whole were hardy, fierce, and straight to the point. She liked Rubelle even though it was covered in heaps of snow nine months of the year. It was the closest organized settlement to the Dread Mountains, where she did most of her scavenging. Thorn preferred to sell the items she found to her town rather than taking them elsewhere. Although, desperate times called for desperate measures. Treasures weren’t easy to come by, these days.
Thorn rolled her neck and eyed Jones. He was playing hard to get. He always bought what she found…eventually. The items she sourced from the dangerous passageways through the Dread Mountains were of the highest quality. They were often lost from merchant wagons—usually those traveling from Kopal, the kingdom of giants, to the capital of Heimserya—when they hit a storm or when bandits and mercenaries struck and looted. She’d seen some pretty heinous things as a treasure hunter. People would do just about anything for money.
Don’t pretend you’re not as bad as them.
Her jaw clenched, and she brushed the dark thought away. Survival wasn’t easy as a single woman. Choices had to be made. Usually ones that left a scar.
“Are you really going to be stubborn?” she asked softly.
“Times are hard, missy.”
That was the damn truth, but he was out of line. One time, she had brought Jones a handsome broadsword. Another time, it was a rare pearl necklace strung together with white gold. This time, she had a burnished silver candlestick worth more than what she was asking for it, and they both knew it. Thorn narrowed her eyes at the big man. He glared right back.
“Bold of you to assume I would only try and sell it here,” she told the blacksmith, waving the candlestick in front of him. The silver glinted tantalizingly in the flickering light of his workshop. “I was giving you first dibs, that’s all. So, if you can’t see fit to pay what the damn thing is worth, then I’ll be on my way.”
Thorn managed to take all of three steps toward the exit before the large man let out a huge, resigned sigh.
“Wait, girl, wait!” Jones called out after her, and a smile curled Thorn’s lips.
The blacksmith was predictable, and that’s what she loved about him. He always bought what she sold. She knew the precious metals she provided him would be melted down to make a wickedly sharp sword or two, which Jones would be able to sell for ten times what he paid her as she only asked for the amount to cover the raw materials. Civil war was on the horizon, and weapons were highly sought after.
Her fingers clenched the huge candlestick, coolness seeping through her gloves. Everyone—the lowest rung of soldiers, townspeople, and the richer folk—was kitted out in the bare minimum of armor and weapons. But the highborn were willing to spend half their fortune on uselessly beautiful, intricate swords and rapiers and spears. Not that they would do any of the fighting. But the noblemen always wanted to look the part, even if the points of their swords never pierced souls. It was pure vanity.
Vanity you profit on. Better you than someone else.
Thorn turned back to him, the heat of the forge washing over her face.
Jones let out ano
ther sigh. “You will bankrupt me, Thorn,” he complained, though he fished through the hidden pocket of his leather apron and handed over the promised ten pieces, and nothing less.
She barked out a laugh. “I hardly think that’s true. The impending war has been good for you, Jones. Your business is doing rather well.”
“You talk as if we haven’t been at war for generations now. What I wouldn’t give to have fewer coins in my pocket but safer roads around the Dread Mountains.”
That sobered her. “The mountains will never be safe, even if there was no war.”
Thorn eyed the older man and the scars that wrapped around his thick throat. Jones’s early life had not been easy. Being Talagan, a shapeshifter, was a brutal life in Heimserya, especially for a young boy. Luckily for him, he had found haven in Rubelle after he’d fled a Talagan death farm. Rubelle offered a hodgepodge of cultures and races. Acceptance was their motto. As long as you treated others with dignity and respect, that’s what you received in return.
Jones rolled his eyes. “Optimism, Thorn. You could do with some. If the capital spent less money and fewer resources on pointless skirmishes with our neighbors, then they could send some of those fancy purple-haired Hounds up here to deal with the bandits.”
“Careful, Jones, that reeks of treason.” Anyone who spoke against the Crown found themselves dead.
The older man’s expression soured like he’d eaten a bad pickle. “Although, I bet even if there was peace, we’d never get one of them to deign to help us.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Thorn replied, thinking of the female Hound she had met a few days ago.
Their conversation had been brief, and the woman had been in disguise, but it hadn’t fooled Thorn. She made her living by hiding in the shadows and dressing in disguise so Thorn could search for treasure without trouble from other hunters. Experience had taught Thorn to see past the surface to what lay beneath. Even in disguise, there was something about the female Hound that spoke of honesty, and if Thorn were to believe any of the rumors, Tempest was a good person. Well, as good a person could be while also being an assassin and engaged to King Destin. Thorn hid her shiver. She’d only been to the capital a handful of times. Once, she’d glimpsed the king while he moved through the market—or, more like, prowled. There was something feral and dangerous about the man. The king was known for his dominating ways. The question was: why was his betrothed traipsing through the Forbidden Wood toward the Dread Mountains? And where had she disappeared to?
Questions for another time.
Jones clicked his tongue, pulling her from her musings, and took a step closer. She pocketed her money and held out the silver candlestick. He took the treasure from Thorn carefully and glanced toward the open entrance of the forge, his shrewd eyes scouring the lane. One could never be too careful; while the townspeople were mostly honest, it didn’t mean the travelers passing through were. She glanced over her shoulder and pulled her cloak tighter around her body. Another storm was brewing. The bitter wind cut right to the bone.
She turned back as Jones moved farther into the forge, tucking his new acquisition away from prying eyes. Thorn frowned when she noticed his limp was more pronounced. The scars weren’t the only thing his old masters had given him. They’d broken his leg in two places to keep him from running away all those years ago. That didn’t keep Jones from trying. He got away, but his gait was the cost.
“You’re staring,” he mumbled, his broad back still to her.
Thorn grimaced. “How bad are you hurting?”
“My leg aches something fierce.” He spun to face her, leaning a hip against his workbench. “This storm will be bad. My leg never lies.” Jones tilted his head to the side. “Are you staying the night, Thorn?”
Her stomach dropped. Winter’s bite, not this again. She shook her head, which slightly unfurled the deep crimson scarf wrapped around her neck. The blacksmith’s eyes strayed to the left side of her face, to the pale scars that she knew ran down the side of her neck and shoulder.
Thorn made no effort to hide them from him; Jones had witnessed the mess of her skin on several occasions. Her scars were the result of a fire that burned much of the left side of her torso when she was younger. Most folk recoiled from the sight, but not Jones. It was one of the many reasons Thorn enjoyed trading with the man. He was real and honest. If he hadn’t been nearly twenty years her senior and married, she’d have snapped him up.
You would seduce him even at his age if he wasn’t married.
But those were just fantasies. Marriage was not for the likes of her.
“You know, Thorn,” he began in a tone that suggested she absolutely would not like what he was about to say. “I really could do with someone as tough and tenacious as you in the family. My oldest son is still looking for a wife. If you were to marry, then—”
Not this again.
Thorn burst into laughter and clutched her stomach. “Y-you can’t be serious, Jones?” she cried, beyond amused. “Me? Married? And to that man-whore you call a son? You know I love you, but I’m sorry. I don’t see myself as the neglected wife of a man who’s slept with every woman in the town—and most of the ones who pass through, too.”
If it had been anyone else, they would have been insulted by her candor. Not Jones. The older man was used to it, and he also knew Thorn did speak the truth about his eldest son. There were several little black-haired, blue-eyed children running around already. Thorn knew Jones did his best to support the children that were left in their family’s care, now that their mothers had moved on.
“Do you need help with the little ones?” Thorn asked. “You know I don’t mind helping out.”
Jones ran a large hand over his sweaty face. “I’m sure my wife would appreciate the assistance. I just wish things were a little different. Someone needs to tame that son of mine.”
“I’m not the woman for it,” she said firmly, but she softened her words with a crooked smile. “Someone would be dead by the end of the week if we were wed. Matrimonial war is never good for a family.”
“Nobody will pin you down, will they, missy?” he murmured.
“Doubtful.” Thorn darted forward to give the big man a quick hug before stepping back to rewrap her scarf around her neck so it covered her mouth and chin. “Think of all the loot you’d miss out on if I was forced to be a proper wife.”
“That’s why marrying into the family is so perfect.”
She grinned behind the scarf and pulled the cowl of her cloak over her white hair, then moved toward the open exit. He was like a dog with a bone. Old Jones would never let it go. “Is there anything you need?” she called.
“A wife for my spirited son,” Jones grumped.
She huffed out a laugh, then glanced over her shoulder to wink at Jones. “I don’t think such a woman is out there, but I’ll keep a look out. Good evening.”
Jones waved, and Thorn was still chuckling to herself about the blacksmith’s suggestion when she reached the edge of Rubelle. The singular road that cut through the center of town disappeared to the south in the dark woods. She paused near the baker’s shop and eyed a group of soldiers on horseback who were approaching, the horses trudging through the fresh snow. Thorn stood silently beneath the nearest porch and waited patiently for the soldiers to move along. It was better to stay out of their way and not draw attention to herself.
She watched them from the corner of her eye as they slowed. Damn. They weren’t just passing through. What were they doing there anyway? There was nothing of value this far north.
First the female Hound, and now soldiers.
They certainly were not there for bandits, based on the armor and weapons they were carrying. The soldiers nudged their mounts toward the inn just across the way that conveniently sat next to the brothel. Their poor horses looked exhausted, foaming at their bits and in desperate need of rest. Poor creatures.
Looking around, Thorn noticed the residents of Rubelle peering o
ut at the soldiers from behind curtains, doors, and street corners. The place was largely a shifter town, and everyone knew what King Destin’s opinion was of them. It was smart to keep hidden until they had an idea what the king’s men wanted. In her gut, Thorn knew that the soldiers spelled trouble.
The men slid from their mounts and one glanced in her direction, catching her eye. Thorn silently cursed. What bad luck.
“And who do we have here?” he called. “What a lovely creature to welcome us.”
She bristled and tilted her chin up to stare down the smirking soldier across the road. He gave her a smile that was probably meant to be friendly but came off as more of a leer. So, he was that type. The kind of man who thought he was charming, but deep down was a poison to the soul.
“No comment?” he goaded. The bastard cocked his head to the side, as if to further regard Thorn when she didn’t answer him. His smile turned sharp. “Oh, I do like the timid ones,” he drawled, elbowing the soldier next to him to point her out to him. The new soldier’s lips twisted into a feral grin when he took in Thorn’s cloaked, slight appearance.
Were any of the king’s soldiers decent men? Perhaps they may have been, once upon a time, but their position of authority over the masses had clearly twisted them into arrogant, entitled blackguards.