They reached a portion of the keep that seemed to be traversed more frequently; the carpet had faded with footsteps and all the sconces upon the walls were already lit. As always, the hall was lined with portraits of nobles, the ostentatious golden frames crowding each other for visual supremacy. Beneath the portrait-plastered walls were queues of marble statues, all in varying states of dress: some were layered with finely-chiseled fur cloaks while others barely bothered to mask their nudity with long stone swoops of carved chiffon.

The hunter had questions that they wanted to ask the queen, questions that had long been burning at the back of their thoughts, but the pleasant warmth of the hand they held kept their queries simple. "All these portraits," they said, and they nodded towards one depiction of a sternly-faced woman in a gold-embroidered coat. "Are there any with interesting stories behind them?"

Annalise hummed. "That one in particular is of the Lady Lelia, who made a point of never doing anything interesting in the span of her entire life. Instead, she collected all the dramas of others and doled them out as gossip. She had the peculiar skill of being able to whisper so quietly as to only be heard when the listening ear was pressed right to her lips— and yet, that same secret whisper could be heard ten paces away, if she wanted it to be. Her rumors were rather infectious." Her helm tilted. "And she was a grandmother to Lady Alanna— thou'rt acquainted with her, yes?"

The hunter raised their eyebrows as they looked the portrait over once more. The tightly pouting mouth did seem familiar, now that she mentioned it. "How about that one?" they said, and they pointed to a portrait closer to the ceiling. The woman within had pale hair pulled back in a ponytail. A ruffle of fur framed a stretch of velvet across her chest, with lines interlacing across in a way reminiscent of a spiderweb. A chain attached to the fur held three hanging silver charms shaped like bells.

"Ah, Lady Sabine," Annalise answered. "A daughter of Sophis— the youngest sister to Calista and Dia. Of any of my broken-oath generation, she was apparently the most like my grandmother."

"She was like Cyllene?" the hunter asked.

"Aye." Annalise paused. "She was the kindest of my cousins, but her thoughts were always quite preoccupied with the arcane. She attended Byrgenwerth with my blessing and took to the labyrinth as if it were her true home." Her voice grew wry and nearly flippant. "Perhaps it was, really. The school's finest prospectors never were able to find her after that last expedition."

The hunter stared up at the portrait. They gently squeezed Annalise's hand. She did not respond, but to their relief, neither did she pull away.

"Have you any happy memories here?" the hunter asked.

"Plenty," she replied. "But every comedy here is tied to a tragedy. Weddings share altars with funerals. Lavish banquets are to be had afore duels to the death. We have gathered every sort of torture and every sort of joy to this castle." She lightly tugged at the hunter's hand before guiding them further down the hall.

"A collector of misfortune," the hunter recited.

"That We are, indeed," Annalise replied.

"Am I your newest acquisition?"

She made a low, thoughtful hum. Her hand slipped from theirs as she turned to face them.

"Have I any happy memories at all?" the hunter asked. "From— from before? You would know better than I. How do you know, by the way?"

Annalise tapped her fingers against the low neckline of her dress as she thought.

"I don't mean to bore you with many questions about my past, your majesty," the hunter said. "I just… well, the curiosity is there."

"'Tis no more than simple scrying," she replied. "I could show thee."

The hunter did little to hide the eagerness in their expression. They nodded enthusiastically. "Please."

"Then I suppose that I must," she said, and she laughed, the sound of it subtle behind her helm. "What other questions have thee for the gleaning?"

"I have many questions, but in truth most are not about myself," the hunter replied. "And I do not want to be too bold."

"Know that thy careful boldness is appreciated. Thou shalt not be broken upon the rack for a mere question." She paused. "Unless, of course, it displeases me. Or if it pleases me. Such is the way of monarchs."

The hunter shifted their weight from one foot to the other. "All these portraits," they said. "Are any of them of you?"

The helm tilted and Annalise was silent for so long that the hunter began to genuinely worry. "Portraiture grew more refined during the early years of my rule and I have kept quite still for my share of depictions, but I always did prefer the physicality and permanence of sculpture," she stated. She drew close to the hunter's side and gestured towards the wide array of statues. "A few are allegorical. Most are the long-dead beastly kin of Lycaon. A select remainder depict his survivors and their offspring. One is me. Wouldst thou like to guess?"

The hunter stared wide-eyed at the crowd of stone-hewn forms.

"Thou'rt incapable of deciding?" She leaned against the hunter's side and pointed to guide their line of sight. "Look closely— is there nary a spark of familiarity for thee?"

The hunter glanced at her, then back to the statue: a carved sheet draped over one beckoning arm, a scrap of the fabric fluttering over the hips in a coy attempt at decency, a bare chest, and a direct gaze, confrontational. They then looked at literally anything but the queen or the statue as they stammered.

Annalise laughed, quietly but for long enough that she brought one hand up to her helm as if to cover her mouth.

The hunter let out a sigh of joint consternation and relief. "So, who is that really?"

"Someone the sculptor must have fancied," she replied. "But 'tis meant to be a spirit of boldness. A touch to the statue's thighs is a blessing to one about to embark on a hunt. I thought thou mayst appreciate such a thing."

The hunter smiled but their neck prickled when they heard a scraping sound. It was followed by footsteps, slow and staggering. A figure had entered the far end of the hall; he walked towards Annalise and the hunter by laboriously pulling himself along with a tall, gnarled staff. His hair was white and wild. His robes held a hint of golden sheen, but they were tattered to a dingy brown. And his face— desiccated, the sockets gray and empty, his mouth open to suck in air past long and gumless teeth.

But atop that fearsome face was a gleaming crown, studded with a rich rainbow of jewels, and so the hunter stared. There had been statues and portraits of past royalty wearing similar crowns— surely they were now looking upon the king of Cainhurst.

Had Annalise ever even mentioned him? He had not sat at the head of the banquet; he had not observed the duel from the highest seat of the arena. The hunter was certain that they had not glimpsed him at all during the extent of their stay in the castle.

The king doddered further forward, his staff slamming against the ground as he leaned his weight against it. Had he grown feeble with age? How old was he? Had this been a royal union born of love or out of some political convenience?

Their wildly spiraling internal questioning gave way to more immediate concerns: he was coming closer. Decorum was of utmost importance. The hunter dropped to one knee and imitated the customary Cainhurst bow.

The king kept his lurching pace. He walked past the hunter without noticing them. They kept themself low in the bow, just in case.

From their side, they heard Annalise laugh; it was not the softly teasing amusement of before, but something with a rough, almost vicious quality. The hunter stared up at her with wide eyes.

"Up," she commanded with a quick wave of her hand. "Up, up."

They clambered to their feet. The scrape-shuffle-scrape of the king continued down the hallway.

"Your majesty," the hunter said. "I mean no offense, but—"

"Nay, 'tis not the king," Annalise answered. When the hunter gave her a look of pained bewilderment her helm tilted and she waved dismissively.

"'Tis merely Our jester," she said, and there was just enough flippancy in her tone that the hunter knew that she was concealing a raw rage.

And Annalise knew that the hunter had spotted the frayed edges of her illusion; her helm now faced them directly and her shoulders had stiffened.

"I'm curious," the hunter said. "Of course I am. But… one revelation at a time, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Annalise echoed. "All in due time, then. First, we have thy happy memories yet to retrieve."

At the very least, she took the hunter's hand again.


The chamber the hunter found themself in was opulent, much like the rest of the castle. Here, though, things seemed especially luxurious. A dozen golden candelabras held up tall candle spires. The carpet was intricately patterned, with curls of purple and gold flora drifting over rich red. Thick embroidered curtains hung down from the ceiling, hiding the harshness of the stone walls. More of the marble statues were crowded along them, but the hunter noticed that many of them were broken. Several lacked heads. A few shoulders were cracked into raw stone while the arms lay discarded on the floor. Beneath the shattered elbows of a matronly woman was a stony bundle of cloth; an infant, perhaps, but the carving cut too deep for the hunter to see what was inside.

More curtains swept from ceiling to floor, partitioning the room. Annalise walked ahead of the hunter and pushed the drapes apart to reveal a recessed pit. It was a shallow square drop into the stone, only a few hands deep. Glass-lined lanterns sat upon the corners to provide a faint light. The interior of the pit was stuffed with plush cushions and tasseled pillows. In the center, however, was a golden bowl holding a pool of red atop a squat marble socle.

The hunter wrinkled their nose. They had grown accustomed to the sweet sting of iron blood that was ever-present around the queen, especially after receiving some distant dose of the same from the crow knight, but here it hung in the air as heavily as the velvet curtains.

It was not a steep step down into the pit, but the hunter took a few quick strides in order to beat Annalise to the cushions. As they kept their footing on the soft surface they offered their hand to assist her.

"Honestly," she replied dryly, but her fingers pressed against the hunter's palm as she made the brief descent.

She approached the golden bowl and knelt before it. The hunter took their seat adjacent to her and peered at the blood. The surface was as still and calm as glass.

"When all is melted in blood, all is reborn," Annalise said. "Thou knowst that more than most." She reached beneath the outer edge of the cushion beside her; once it was lifted, it revealed a small compartment cut into the stone. There was a knife, a vial of clear liquid, and a delicately embroidered handkerchief— a bloodied handkerchief, one that had once been pressed to the hunter's face with great care.

"Thou mayst have no sense of thy own, and they all have been made faint by those thou hadst slain, but in all blood there is an echo. It is exceedingly quiet, a single whispering voice in a vast orchestra, but thy past remains there true." Her helm tilted as she unfolded the bloodstained cloth. "I shall amplify it."

She picked up the clear vial, uncorked it, and poured a few drops onto the cloth; the air was cut with a sharply astringent scent. The rusty stains of dried blood began to flow as if they had just been spilled, beading up on the cloth in tiny droplets. She tipped the cloth over the bowl and the hunter's blood dribbled into the pool. The ripples created by the miniscule impacts disappeared within seconds.

She set the vial and the handkerchief back inside the compartment. Then, the thin silver blade was lifted to her palm.

The hunter watched, unblinking, as she sliced across her hand. Blood, dark and thick, crept from the wound. A droplet slid into the pool and the blood roiled.

"This curiosity of thine," she said as the last of the blood slipped from the gleaming metal of the knife. "What is it born of? Mere inquisitiveness?" Her tone shifted; there was ice in her tone again. "Or is it hope?"

The hunter frowned. "My own memory is a mystery to me. Of course I want to know more."

"Thou hadst asked for a happy memory. Thou'rt hoping to see thy kinfolk and compatriots." Her voice softened. "'Tis only natural to do so. And thou'rt aware that there is no recognition to be had— they are strangers to thee, now. If thou'rt seeking warmth in these recollections, thou shalt find none. Thy hope for some fleeting familiarity shall only lead thee to anguish."

"I understand," the hunter insisted. "I merely want to…" They lifted a hand and gestured vaguely before letting it drop back to their lap.

Her helm inclined in a slight nod. "Heed Our warning well," she said, and she held out her hand to the hunter.

The hunter noticed that the slice across her hand had disappeared, as if she had never made the cut at all.

When they let their fingers curl over her palm, the lights in the surrounding lanterns guttered out. There was still some illumination from the candles in the outer portion of the hall, but it turned into a thick murky red within the curtained pit.

"Fix thy gaze upon the surface," Annalise instructed. "Stare until thy own eyes grow doubtful."

A chill slithered uneasily across the back of the hunter's neck. They gripped at Annalise's hand and stared at the pool of blood. The surface was still unnaturally disturbed, constantly shifting in overlapping ripples. As the hunter's sight adjusted to the lack of light they felt their peripheral vision grow fuzzy. Pinpricks of color, too small to be properly discerned, flitted across the shadows. It was akin to the sensation of a palm pressed to a closed eye: while the hunter could still see their surroundings clearly, there was an incoherent mist of shifting hues draped over everything, and the swirling strangeness was the heaviest atop the surface of the ritual blood. The blood in the golden bowl was still roiling, but now the hunter was also sensing movement where there was none; minuscule shifts across the fabric of the cushions, wriggling vaporous shapes at the foot of the surrounding curtains, and behind them—

"Do not look away," Annalise said, and her nails pressed against the hunter's hand. "Look only to the blood."

They took a deep, shuddering inhale and stared at the red basin. There were images now, flat and vivid as if projected directly upon their imagination. Dozens of faces, pallid and mask-like, crowded their vision. Sweat beaded upon their brow.

"Persevere, good hunter," Annalise said quietly.

They swallowed and stared. The sickly faces shifted. Dried dribbles of yellow bile disappeared from spoiled-plum lips. The assembly of the dead livened and walked busily across the dirt floor of a village hall. Dyed cloth ribbons swept across the ceiling. A long table was loaded with food. An old woman held a wailing infant and shushed it. A man tossed a rambunctious dog some scraps.

The hunter spotted themself. They were in much plainer garb; mostly wool, it seemed, all in dull browns and grays. They were rolling some sort of large cask towards the feast; they paused to wipe sweat from their forehead. They locked eyes with a woman sitting upon a nearby bench; she made some brief quip and the hunter happily laughed.

"An old friend of thine," Annalise said, and while her voice startled them the vision did not relent. "She shared her birthday with thee, and was delivered by the same midwife."

The hunter stared at a fat fly that had landed upon a bowl of yellow butter. The past version of the hunter had spotted it, as well; the cask was abandoned as they swatted the bug away and grabbed a stray dish to place over the bowl as a makeshift lid.

An older woman placed a wooden platter upon the table. The past hunter greeted her with a grin. The two spoke; an elderly man, walking unsteadily with a cane, joined the conversation.

There was happiness here, and a sense of warmth, but the faces pale with the bloat of rot still haunted the hunter's vision. They glanced at the forgotten cask, at a woman drinking from a sloshing tankard, and at a man dipping a cloth into a bucket of water.

"They're all—" the hunter said haltingly. "You said—"

"A plague from unclean waters, yes," Annalise answered. "But it was not here, not now."

The celebration continued. The past hunter sat at a table, their cheeks flushed from drink, and they were swaying with the others around them, caught up in some impromptu and jubilant song. But in the smiling faces of their fellows there was still a sense of permanent stillness, a nightmarish awareness that the party was populated by the dead.

The hunter shuddered.

"Thou'rt upset," Annalise stated. "Is this not what thou hadst hoped for?"

They stared at the sweaty face of a laughing man. His cheeks were ruddy. His arms waved with excitement. But beneath the skin, thick like clay, was dead gray flesh.

"Gods, they're all dead. I can feel it." The hunter pulled away from Annalise's grip and clutched their hand over their mouth. "Can't you feel it?"

"One grows accustomed," Annalise said faintly, and though the hunter closed their eyes they could still see the scene imprinted upon their sight.

What was true memory and what was imagination now, they did not know. But the hunter did know that they had seen every person in this hall fall ill, succumbing with such vast swiftness that few had even been granted a burial. The same happy self sitting before them had later stumbled over greasy, fly-laden bodies, deliriously searching through the shelves of friends for food, for coin, for any possible route to salvation.

On the way out of one home, they had tripped by a corpse slumped against a wall, the cut of light through the window putrefying them faster in parts, leaving an unexpected slipperiness on the floor. The hunter had been terrified that in their pain and exhaustion that they would not be able to rise again.

The hunter had felt a feverish, mindless panic— I will not die here, I will not die here, I will not die—

Light brightened the room. The little flames within the lanterns had sputtered back to life. The hunter cracked one eye open. The blood in the center basin was still rippling, but it was slowly settling to a calm stillness.

Annalise tilted her helm. "As I said. Hope is a wretched thing, as it is answered only by reality."

Had that been reality? It had felt real, and both terror and longing had welled up within the hunter's heart with such awful strength, but it had all come to them like a dream, like a fantasy, and they felt—

No, what they were feeling now was surely that same insidious hope again, the same one that had made them insist that the night had ended and that the false dawn was a true one.

"I feel— I don't feel well," they stammered. "My apologies, your majesty, but if we— if we could speak again, at a later time—"

"Thy exhaustion is well earned," Annalise said flatly. She busied herself with tidying the scant ritual materials in the compartment beneath the cushion. "Return to thy chambers. Rest. Hold audience with Us in the library when thou'rt recovered."

They rubbed their palm across their forehead. After a long moment of uncertain silence, they spoke. "I— thank you. Thank you for showing me this. If you wish to share it, I would love to hear more of your past, as well. You have told me so much and yet so little." They faintly laughed. "Better to speak of yours than mine, in any case. Mine is a sad and meaningless tale to the both of us."

There was a quiet sigh from behind the helm. "Any past of Ours is similarly sad and twice as futile. But if thy taste for grief has been sated, then it need not be revisited. Please. Rest well. We look forward to our next encounter."

"No," the hunter insisted, and then they shook their head. "I mean— if you care to share it, I will listen."

The cushion was placed back over the compartment. Annalise brushed her fingers off on the cloth of her gown. "Then I shall. When next we speak, I will tell thee of the King of Cainhurst."


The air outside the castle, as slicingly cold as ever, was a welcome change from the muffling stillness of the scrying chamber. The frigid gust rushed past the hunter's face as they crossed the bridge path. They squinted against the worst of the wind and quickly made for the grand door at the other end.

They supposed it would be best to return to Elaine's chambers. It would just be a turn down the hall, then down the narrow spiral steps— the steps that were down the path marked by the painting of the woman with pale green eyes and a red overcoat— or was it the painting of the older woman with the ruby earring? The hunter couldn't remember.

And what would they do upon finding Elaine's bed again? Rest? Rest, knowing that past the pale veneer of the morning sky was the hunt? Rest, and in closing their eyes reinvite the pale dead faces they could never truly grieve?

They took the next stairwell they saw. They did not think it was the correct one; upon reaching a dull wooden door at the bottom they knew so. They pulled the latch anyway and braced themself against the cold. This passageway opened to the central courtyard, the one beneath the bridge path to the keep and the massive door to the exterior of the castle. To their left was more statuary, a fountain, and some carefully maintained shrubbery, though the leaves were tinged with dying fall browns. To the right was the rocky slope that dipped towards the deep foundations of the castle and reeked of iron. Ahead of them was the smaller but grander golden door that opened to the gleaming entrance hall.

This would be easier, the hunter thought; they remembered the path through the castle they took when they first arrived much better than whatever path Elaine had taken them on after their bath.

They began to walk. Their boot brushed against something that rolled and clattered against stone. They paused and looked down.

It was a small bell, about the length of their thumb. When they picked it up, it gave a quiet, tinny ring that pricked at their memory.

They had seen a bell of this kind before. But where?

It was too small to be the of resonant sort used to call for other hunters; those were also typically made of well-kept silver, while this seemed to be a dull brass. The topmost metal ring of the bell had snapped, as if it had been broken off of something. The hunter rolled it in their palm and tilted their head.

They glanced over towards the shrubbery.

"Good hunter?" Elaine asked.

They turned on their heel. They clutched the bell tight to their palm, as if to hide it.

"Whatever are you doing?" she asked with a grimace that managed to be haughty and concerned all at once.

They pushed past their trepidation and forced their fingers to uncurl. They held up the bell. "Do you know what this is?"

She frowned at it. "A bit of rubbish."

"Anything more specific come to mind?" the hunter asked.

"A bell?"

"Well, yes, but—" The hunter sighed. "It's from something, I must know what, but I can't recall."

Elaine squinted at them.

"Whatever are you doing?" the hunter countered. "And… may I join you?"

"Nothing particularly exciting," Elaine said with a shrug. "I was just speaking with Irene about the way Sofia had her last gown tailored— taking the hem that high, really— and we were considering holding our tea out of doors but the weather coming in is rather brisk, isn't it? So we decided to move it all to the library so that Alanna could work on her recital. She's been butchering that poem for weeks, really. I was just out here to see if Emmeline would like to—"

The hunter nodded in appropriate intervals, but their mind was elsewhere. Where had they seen the damned thing? Had it been attached to one of the carriage horses and fallen off? Was it some component of a hunting tool? It pulled at their memory so insistently— if they were to return to the Dream and search through the workshop chest, they could probably find something akin to it.

The Dream! Of course. Recollection sparked through their thoughts. The same little bells were atop the messenger-tended lanterns.

"A lantern," they blurted out, and Elaine furrowed her eyebrows. "Have you seen a lantern around?"

"…a lantern?" she said slowly. "Upon the steps, I suppose, but they won't be lit. It isn't dark out. Why?"

"Not a lantern for light, I mean the sort with the little…" they pantomimed tiny messenger movements with their fingers and Elaine's confusion only grew. With a huff, the hunter turned and started peering through the bushes.

"Are you quite mad?" Elaine asked.

"No," the hunter said as they shoved their hands inside the twisting and brittle branches.

"Then what is it? Have you caught the scent of something?"

"I'm not a bloodhound," they griped as they glanced over the stony ground.

"Well, you're acting like a dog after a hare," she said with a sniff. "And don't tear my shirt!"

The hunter paused to roll up their sleeves. When they reached back into the foliage, the twigs scraped at their skin, but one part of the shrubbery shifted. The roots were loose in the soil.

They pushed the portion of the shrub aside. They stared down at a warped piece of metal, snapped near the base. It would have been an innocuous bit of scrap embedded in the earth, but scattered across the dirt were tiny metal links— broken pieces of the fine chain that would have fastened the bells and the lantern to the stave.

The hunter stiffened. They took a deep breath. Uneasiness settled in their gut.

Elaine peered over their shoulder and frowned. "Some old part of a post for the horses?"

"A hunter's lantern," they said. "Someone broke it, and hid that they broke it."

"What makes it a hunter's lantern?" Elaine asked.

The hunter slowly turned and watched her.

She pouted. "Now that's a scary look," she said with a half-step back. "Why are you upset?"

They opened their mouth to speak, and then closed it.

Why were they upset?

To see a broken lantern unsettled them, of course, because it signified some hostility towards a hunter of the Dream. But for there to be hostility here— the crow, the queen, and all the nobles had welcomed the hunter, had fed them, bathed them— had played at killing them, but only played. The crow treated them more than kindly, and the queen had held their hand through their grief.

Guilt crept up their spine. Breaking a lantern didn't hurt the hunter, not really; if they thought about it, it was a reasonable defense. The hunter couldn't truly be killed. If they had turned against Cainhurst for some reason, they would become an inexhaustible threat. But if they were to die and be sent back to the Dream without a lantern on the island to return to, then it would be far more difficult for them to approach from the mainland and attack again.

And the lack of lantern didn't keep them from leaving if they needed to do so; there was that rune, ever-present at the back of their mind, that would allow them to reawaken safely.

There. The hunter had no reason to be upset.

Why, then, did their throat feel so tight?

"Sorry," the hunter said. "I merely— I merely thought…" They trailed off.

Elaine frowned and pursed her lips, her glare clearly telling the hunter to continue.

"The dream is my home," the hunter finally said. "When the night is over and I really wake up— where will I go?"

"Haven't you got a home?" Elaine asked with a quirk of her eyebrow.

They pressed a hand to their forehead. "I…"

Elaine crossed her arms and stared at them.

"All of them," the hunter said. "It— it surely couldn't have been all of them. There were so many with me in the hall. Some must have fled, some must not have fallen ill. I cannot be the only one that lived. I cannot!"

The impatient sternness melted away from Elaine's expression as the hunter began to shiver. She approached the hunter and gathered them in her arms.

The hunter gulped down a breath and pressed their face into her shoulder. "Gods, she's right," they mumbled. "Hope only hurts me. It makes me lie to myself."

"I used to wait at the door every night of the hunt," Elaine said. "The same way Emmeline does. One night I had no one to greet. And another night, and another. It took months, really. For me to stop waiting at that door."

The hunter hugged her tightly and squeezed their eyes shut. Their fingers pressed against her back.

Pale faces and dead clay flesh pushed beneath their fingertips, cold, always cold— the hunter inhaled sharply. Their hands twitched. Elaine patted their back. The hunter tilted their head against her shoulder and held their breath to keep from screaming. As seconds slid past they calmed themself. Elaine's pulse was evident against them, a light fluttering pressed to their cheek. She was warm— her back had only been cool to the touch due to the wind.

Elaine was alive, the hunter told themself.