Chapter 3

Year 1, 561 of the Human Era

Present

Adresyn ran his hands through his greying hair, a scowl upon his once-handsome face. All seized?

He wanted to sob, however unmanly it seemed. He wanted to rage at the unfairness of it all. He wanted to burn down the forest that had claimed his wife's life; he wanted to drain the ocean that had claimed his fleet of ships and left him a poor man. He wanted to strangle the debt collectors who had seized the entire cargo of the Beauty in order to cover the debt he'd left behind when he left the city. He thought he had paid it all off. But apparently there'd been interest.

He stroked his mare's neck as they made their way out of the city, leaving behind the small hotel room, which he had to pay for with the very last of his money.

He'd travelled to the city for no reason. He'd left his daughters alone, at the mercy of the forest and fae, for no reason.

And he wouldn't be able to purchase any of the presents he'd promised them. He remembered the lovely gowns he'd passed on his way through the markets – heavenly silks with the finest embroideries, with pearls and diamonds decorating the busts and hems of the sleeves. They would look like queen's such adorned; they would look like the ethereal fae.

With a sigh he paused at the fork in the road, the city a multitude of twinkling lights and laughter behind him.

He had to get back to his children as soon as he could.

And so he veered the mare to the left rather than the right. It was a short-cut, he knew that. Though he had not taken it before. For it lead straight through the fae-cursed forest that had taken his wife's life. But it would take days off his journey.

Adresyn pulled his cloak tighter about his body, urging the hesitant horse forward. He would brave the forest, for it would take him home faster. It would take him back to his family.

….

Lina scrubbed. Her hands were red from the hot water, almost bleeding from the rough cloth that moved over the dishes that were still, still dirty. So she scrubbed.

She didn't turn to Siri, who was scowling over the fine embroidery of an old dress. A lost cause dress. She couldn't tell Siri.

She'd had the dream again the night past, she'd awoken in the dead of night to stuff the pillow in her mouth to keep herself from screaming.

She paused from the dish washing to glance out the small kitchen window. Anya was riding past, elegant atop the chestnut mare that she was so found of. Sitting like a man in those scandalous breeches and loose cotton shirt, the uncut ruby bouncing between her breasts.

Lina bit her lip to stop herself from crying aloud. Anya had been wearing the same clothes in her dream. She'd been lying in the snow. Lost, forgotten. Lifeless, red, red blood seeping into the pristine white that surrounded her. Her chest had been little more than a gaping hole of gore and stark white bones. Cocoa eyes, framed by thick, black lashes stared up at the dark sky, unseeing. Never seeing again.

Bloody footprints around her. Fae-cursed werewolf prints and the shallower tread of a true fae.

Lina shuddered, her knuckles white as she gripped the plate.

"Aren't you done yet?" Siri scoffed.

But Lina didn't turn; she didn't want Siri to ask why she was so pale, as if she'd seen a ghost. She wouldn't tell Siri about the dreams. Not after she'd been jilted by Nuvian at the markets the day past.

She stared down at the water in the sink, at her heart-shaped face with its beautiful emerald eyes, at the blood that slowly swirled around. So much blood. She wasn't a stranger to blood; she'd seen her mother's horse after it had galloped back to their estate, riderless and covered in blood. She remembered her father's face, his agonised cry; little three year old Anya's cries for a mother that would not come. But she'd not been surprised, not really.

She'd dreamt of twisted tree limbs, of ghostly forms and sinister laughs for months before that fateful day.

She scrubbed the cloth against the dish, ignoring the blood, and sending ripples across the image of her face. The dreams meant nothing. For she had plenty of nonsense dreams that meant nothing, dreams of gossamer gowns and resplendent balls. Dreams of handsome kings and princes that would sweep her off her feet and into their beds without pause.

Those dreams did not come true.

She was not fae-cursed with true dreams.

She would not be.

For no man would want a damaged woman.

….

Anya was silent as she stalked through the forest, her mind awhirl. Her soft-soled boots made no sound on the bracken underfoot; her footsteps were lighter than any male could hope to achieve. The forest was lush and dense, overflowing with life and danger. The canopy – tens of feet above her head – completely blocked out the rays of the late afternoon, any rays that would have gotten through the looming thunderclouds.

She was far tenser than she should have been – she tensed at every sound behind her. Was there something stalking her? Was it a werewolf, hungry for more? She shook her head, concentrating.

The deer was not too far ahead, a lone deer that would not make it through the night. It would feed the three of them easily; Lina would be able to dry out the leftover meat and store it for true winter. She'd made enough money at the market to purchase a sack of salt, as well as some pretty baubles that her sisters could sew onto their gowns.

She paused, mid-step and flattened herself against the tree. She'd glimpsed the deer in a gap between the trees before her. With a soft smile Anya reach for the quiver of arrows on her back. One shot was all she needed from that distance.

She wasn't as good with a bow as she was with a sword and dagger, but she didn't miss all that often. Not anymore. The poles in their fence had enough holes in it to attest to that. She almost laughed aloud at the thought.

But then she froze, her hand brushing against the feather of one of the arrows.

Her breath left her in a soft exhalation. She scanned the gnarled trees, tracing every twisted branch that suddenly seemed to be reaching out to her.

Was one village girl not enough, the werewolf was still hungry? With slow movements she placed the already strung bow on the ground, the deer in the clearing beyond all but forgotten.

But she'd not taken a step when a solid form crashed into her own, sending her sprawling across the ground with it on top of her.

A snarl escaped her and she acted on instinct, twisting in the way she'd learnt in the city, she shifted her weight, dropping suddenly so her attacker overbalanced. And then she pounced, pinning them on their back her knife at their throat where the pulse was beating rapidly.

A throat that was all too smooth. Her heart started beating faster. Perhaps it was a fae beneath her?

She dug her knees deeper into their sides. But then she noticed the small trickled of red blood, human blood, that ran from her blade. It was not the silver of a fae blood.

"Fae's teeth, Anya, get off me!"

Anya blinked and yanked back to hood of the cloak to reveal a mop of unruly chocolate hair and mahogany eyes that were dancing with laughter. Mariia's older brother was laughing at her.

And so she punched him.

Which only served to make him laugh even louder.

With a scowl Anya pushed herself up, placing a foot on his chest so he couldn't move. "You scared away the deer, you oaf!"

"And you cut me with your pretty knife," Elias grinned at her. "I'd say we're even."

Anya swore: a string of curses that would have impressed the most seasoned sailor. "We'll be even if you help me get another. Deal?"

He would agree, she knew he would. She'd been friend with Elias since their arrival at the village, he'd helped her learn how to shoot and she'd taught him how to use a sword.

With a soft laugh she picked up her bow from where she'd placed it behind the tree, smiling as she realised the string hadn't snapped. But as she straightened, there was a glimmer of something in the corner of her eye. "Maybe we should get home Elias, I think it's going to snow soon and I haven't put the horse away."

"What about your deer?" He was worried, she could hear it in his voice.

But she just shook her head. "I'll come back tomorrow." Because we might not live til tomorrow if we don't go.

….

Adresyn shivered as another snowflake found its way down the back of his shirt, his horse dancing nervously beneath him. He hoped the girls were fine, that they'd fixed the shutters, so they closed fully to keep the snow out.

He didn't know when he'd left the track; it had been barely visible from the start. For the creatures that used it frequently did not tread as heavy as humans or horses. His mare was growing increasingly agitated as the snow fell harder, covering everything in a soft layer of white. It was picturesque, but Adresyn could not pause to admire the spectacle.

He couldn't tell what creatures were watching from the bowers of the trees, just beyond sight, any more than he could tell if he was going in the right direction. He wished Anya was with him, she would know what to do, for she spent more time in the forest than any other.

Somewhere, within the dark recess of the forest, a wolf howled.

I hope it's not a fae-cursed werewolf.

He gripped the reins tighter, urging the mare onwards.

Another howl, closer. Always closer.

And the mare reared, a terrified neigh leaving it as he slid backwards.

….

Siri sighed, staring at her face in the cracked mirror as she applied more rogue to her lips and a soft tint to her cheeks. She smiled to herself, admiring the pleasant effect it had on her already beautiful face. A delicate face; small and heart-shaped with high cheekbones and a straight nose that tilted upwards slightly at the tip. Creamy white skin, like the most perfect alabaster, a colour that all the ladies of the Court hoped to achieve and despite her days in the garden, free of any freckles. Though her eyes were what captured everyone, she knew that. They were wide, with thick black lashes that didn't need to be darkened. But it was the colour that was startling; she did not inherit their fathers soft cocoa eyes, as Anya had, or the emerald-moss colour of Lina's eyes. No, of the three of them, only she had inherited their mothers stunning sapphire eyes that were the colour of a summer sky on a cloudless day. Eyes that perfectly matched the uncut sapphire that her mother had placed around her neck at her birth.

That she had not taken off since.

With a glance at her sleeping sisters, Siri rolled her eyes. They were so unconcerned; Lina at least had the sense to braid her hair before bed so it didn't tangle so easy. She knew what creams to rub on her hands so she didn't develop any unseemly callouses.

But Anya was a lost cause; Siri had known that since she'd turned three and ten. For the fae little girl had opted to continue her fencing lessons instead of forgoing them as she and Lina had. She had insisted on running around in breeches, despite her blossoming body. Siri suspected that she was aware of the leering looks she received for her growing beauty. Precious Anya, whom everyone had adored.

"Don't hurt her," Lina's voice startled her. It was so clear, so defined that Siri was sure she had been talking about her thoughts of Anya. But a glance to her sleeping sister showed that she was sleeping. If not soundly. She'd turned over, her plump lips parted, her eyebrows drawn downwards as if she were in pain. "You promised you would love her."

Siri's interest was piqued. Had Lina's dreams started once more? The ones she'd had as a child? "Who promised to love her?" Siri whispered, kneeling beside Lina's bed and brushing her hair back gently.

"The wild one, the one who must not be named," Lina whimpered. "He's going to kill her. He'll rip out her heart and eat it."

A tortured cry.

"Who's heart, Lina?"

A shaky inhalation.

"He's going to eat Anya's heart; after everything she did for him. The King's going to eat her heart."

….

"Papa, papa, come back to us!" It was Anya's voice, he was sure, sweet little Lavanya with her wild spirit and even wilder fighting style.

"Papa, don't give up." Was Siri pleading? With him? Bold, proud Siri?

"Papa, we need you," Lina's soft voice.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but white. A bone-chilling cold seared through him as he slowly sat up. Though nothing was broken, his horse was nowhere in sight. There wasn't even any hoof prints to tell him which way the mare had bolted.

But his daughters were there with him, in spirit.

His head was spinning, the blood pounding.

And he was cold.

So cold.

Opening his eyes a little more he froze, his breath caught in his throat at the vision before him. It was her. Beautiful, stunning, kind Kythaela. His Kythaela. His wife.

He knows it in his snow-chilled bones that it's her. Though her form blurs slightly as he blinks, she seemed to be beckoning him.

To follow her.

He would follow her anywhere.

Her footsteps make no sound, not like his do. The snow crunched beneath his feet, but still he followed her.

She wore a gown of the purest white, her auburn hair like a river of fire; so bright against the stark blacks and whites of the forest around them.

A wolf howled behind him in the distance. Something scuttled across the snow behind him.

But he didn't hear it, not quite. He just followed the ghostly apparition before him.

And then there were gates, opening before him, though he saw no one opening them. A snow-dusted path, with bushes one either side.

Beautiful, flowering rose bushes that looked as if they had been frozen.

But he didn't pause before them; no, he just followed the path, though she was gone. He palace before him was dazzling, a towering white marble structure that reached high into the sky with light streaming from the windows.

It seemed to promise safety, and warmth; he felt as if his limbs were about to fall off, for he'd not worn any furs. He'd not meant to go so far north.

He didn't think to question why the doors were open as if waiting for him.

Nor did he question the table that was laden with food. He knew the tales of fae food, about how it could make you fae-cursed, to ensnare you to the will of the fae. But he was so hungry. So, so hungry and the food was so warm.

The heavenly aroma invaded his brain and he ate.

He could see them, only if he didn't quite look at them. They flittered about in his peripherals, never harming, never getting any closer.

They were watching him.

And there was no harm in watching.

And so when he was full, he let them lead him. Though not quite leading him as guiding – up more stairs that he could count and through more corridors that he could remember. It was a bedroom that he found himself in, a fire crackling heartily in the corner. And without complaint, or even a word, he fell onto the plush bed.