Page 12 of Burning Heir

“Sev,” I whispered back. “Nice to meet you.”

But her words sank in only after. “Ravensla? Isn’t that a heated realm?”

She nodded. “I’ll explain later.”

Had my father been a tyrant during the famine? Were the rations enough to feed our village? He was lower class, barely above the poverty line, but his family had roots.

Frosted wind scurried from the trail, dancing like cotton. I’d spent two days under the sun. It was long enough for the cold draft to nip my skin on the first step through the ward. Snow’s bite was deeper than a beast—not venom slipping through my veins, but a burrowing sense that clutched my bones. I wiped my dripping nose, stuffing my hands under my armpits.

Bridger daringly walked backward. The ends of his hair slicked to the sides of his forehead. “I hear we have the Serpent’s daughter with us. Severyn Blanche, what does one do if they get frostbite?”

Dread settled in my stomach. Golden eyes leached onto me from all around. “Check for hypothermia and seek help,” I said.

Myla widened her eyes, clipping her breath. “Oh, shit. Your father’s the Serpent?”

Another student hissed from behind, “Looks like first-blood to me. Easy target. They seem to favor the legacies here.”

Bridger cocked his head. “Who will help? I sure as hell am not stepping in. Say you are alone in the forest, the temperature drops, and there is no chance of warmth. What do you do?” He bit his glove, pulling it off and showing us his fingers where the tips of two were missing, concealed with a nasty stitch. “I stitched my hand up after I lost the top bit from frostbite.”

Myla breathed loudly, “That’s… badass.”

Guilt washed over me.

“I do not know, sir.” I needed to play nice, perhaps a bit dumb. I became increasingly aware that everyone wanted me dead. Toknow I was hated for simply having a last name felt heavy. I didn’t know them, but they knew me.

I continued, “I would pray to Soliath. Hope he spared me until the sun came up.”

“And if no God answered your call, you would accept death?” A smile curled up his lips. “Severyn Blanche is a prime example of why the title is earned and not given through blood. Now, I understand the passion to claim, but killing her will not make you a leader.”

Snide remarks simmered from the other students.

Our title was passed through generations of Blanches. Bridger couldn’t steal that from our heritage. But could he? My family needed a Serpent to carry on our legacy. We would lose everything without one.

The slow venom of coldness ripped and scratched through my skin. Grinding my teeth, I kept on. Golden eyes locked onto me as if I were nothing more than a privileged daughter of titles. I refused to let the whispers around me linger.

I refused to die because of my last name.

Mistletoe grew along the swaying trees, bulbous red berries dangling above. The narrow, tight trail forced most of us to step onto the icy mulch. Bridger’s lantern swayed, its light the only source as it creaked side to side, the hinge groaning with each movement. We walked in silence for a while. Caws and hisses echoed along the path. The dagger Charles gave me was tucked between my slacks, the sleek metal pressing against my hipbone.

Bridger suddenly thrust out his hand.

The trail dipped sharply into a pool of black ice, leading to a guttered ledge. Crystals protruded from the cliff like makeshift handles. Snowflakes swirled through the misted veil, catching on the cliff’s jagged edge.

Bridger gestured downward, yelling over the unruly snowstorm, “You’ve all been selected to reign over Verdonia’sfrozen valleys. Each of you was chosen because the academy believes you will be the next Serpent for these lands. Only one heir is yet to be claimed, and the Serpent’s daughter stands with us.” He arched a brow at me, then continued, “Scale this wall, and you’ll officially be initiated into the running for Serpent.”

A blonde male wearing a fur coat cocked his brow. “They call this the wall of crimson.” He took a barreling step toward the edge. “Don’t mind if I go first. Not all is fair in the title.” He sank to his knees, crawling down with a grin.

Bridger brought us up one by one. Most used the same technique: legs first, straight down, bleary-eyed on their boots. I stifled my breath as I heard the first crack—the screams that followed as the ice broke away.

Three more fell, their voices echoing for the next hour, carried by the shuffle of limbs and heavy sighs. Bridger would save me for last, but he’d be the first to take me out as the ice seeped into my bones, my joints snapping with the next step.

These slacks barely kept me warm. I took another step forward every twenty minutes once the student either fell or made it down, and from the screams, about half were gone, broken-limbed, waiting at the bottom.

This was a nightmare, a cold, deranged nightmare.

Myla was next. She glanced at me, tightening her lips. Her one hand slipped as she stared below, yelping.

“Your hands can hold you up if you lose balance. The bluer the ice, the older it is,” I yelled.

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