CW: Gore, violence, murder, cannibalism
PROLOGUE
Serrai
Prince Serrai shook under the floorboards of his family’s summer cabin, the blood of his sister dripping down through the knots in the food into the cellar. Fat red drops slid down his hair, down his body, soaking into the dirt floor beneath him until the ground was as wet with crimson as his blonde locks. It was still warm where it hit his skin. Sometimes, when the cabin shifted above him, he swore that she was still breathing. But then the cabin would settle, and all he could hear was the creature picking over its kills. Perhaps it was gone, but the slamming of the cabin door against the wall reminded him that it wasn’t. He knew not what the beast was doing, but he knew that he had to stay quiet, lest he be dragged kicking and screaming into the late afternoon sun by large bloodstained hands.
Serrai could see only by the dappled light streaming down from between Uda’s outstretched limbs and the broom she’d grabbed to defend herself when her magic had failed. Serrai huddled, his legs tucked into his chest, biting into his hand to keep from screaming or breathing. The floorboards whined as they bent. Someone was still up there. He could hear each step on the creaky floorboards of the ancient home as someone far heavier than his siblings paced the cabin. He could hear their panting, could hear the rumble over the floorboards of the bodies that they were dragging outside one by one. He could hear snapping that sounded too loud and too wet to be wood. He heard something slurping. He couldn’t hear his siblings anymore. He hadn’t for what felt like hours. Their voices, the cacophonous screams that sounded loud enough to wake the dead, and their pleading cries had vanished, faded, snuffed out like they were never uttered. His ears rung. His head hurt. Yet, he couldn’t cry. That was the last thing he’d been told.
Don’t cry. If you cry, he’ll find you.
Tunis had cried. Serrai had seen him dragged from the cupboards, seen the thing that invaded their home close it’s jaws around his neck. He’d shut his eyes before the teeth clamped down, but he’d heard the little gasp his brother made before he was tossed to the floor too. He’d seen the look in the creature’s eyes as his clawed hands closed around Tunis’s thin wrist. Unfocused but pin-prick slitted pupils looked at his brother with nothing but hatred. It walked on two legs, though it’s jaws were not human. They were longer than the hounds that protected the royal gardens. It was a monster. Like a fairy-tale brought to horrible life. That was what kept Serrai under the floorboards. He knew there to be many spiders down under the ground with him, and while those…things, even just the thought of them, usually sent him into a panic, he’d gladly let them crawl over his skin if it meant he’d be safe. Nothing waited for him above the cellar but death.
He felt like he couldn’t see, like everything was blurry. It didn’t feel real, even though the coolness of the cellar floor was seeping into his skin. Serrai was waiting to wake up, or to have Faroe shake him to pull him out of his imagination as Adal read them a story. The only thing that reminded him that he was not in a realm created by woven words was the blood steadily dripping onto his face.
Something grabbed Uda’s leg, lifting up her stiffening body. Light streamed into the cellar, making Serrai blink. Her body was harder to move than the others. It didn’t drag like theirs had. He could feel each board that his sister’s head bumped as she was moved. The blood wasn’t falling anymore, but that didn’t make Serrai feel better. Now there was nothing grounding him. Now he didn’t know where Uda was. His chest started to ache with the effort it took to keep it still. He felt his head swim. It felt like his hand wasn’t between his teeth, like Serrai was watching himself try to stay quiet from deeper in the cellar. He crawled forward, reaching for his body, but he couldn’t touch it. All he could do was watch himself be as still as death as Uda’s body was moved. Even then, it was all he could do to keep from screaming, from begging the monster to leave her body with him, leave him something to hold onto.
The footsteps stopped. The monster sniffed. Serrai felt himself re-enter his body, but he was still weak, still hazy. When the creature demanded to know where the seventh one was, unsatisfied with the rest of the carnage he’d wrought, Uda told the beast that the seventh child died in childbirth. Serrai had heard that loud and clear. The idea that the monster realized he’d been lied to put so much fear in Serrai’s heart that his stomach churned, threatening to erupt. “Is someone there?”
The voice was human. It wasn’t the guttural growling he’d heard early, or the self-satisfied snarling that accompanied the sounds of eating. It was deep, coming from an adult, but it was human. The animal growl returned, but Serrai made no moves. He didn’t breathe. The creature entered the kitchen. Serrai could see its feet through the cracks in the floorboards. The boots of the monster were wet with gore, claws bursting from the toes, equally covered in organs and tendons. They were huge. “Come out,” it growled, “and I’ll kill you quickly.”
Serrai didn’t breathe. He didn’t move. He felt like he was going to pass out, but all he could think was that he couldn’t breathe, or that choice would be taken from him. The voice snorted, the monster retreating. It wasn’t until the door shut that Serrai allowed himself to take a small breath, keeping himself conscious to listen to the sound of his sister’s clothes being torn off her body like opening the rind of a pomegranate to get to the seeds underneath, then the sound of the seeds being sucked into a gaping, unforgiving maw.
Serrai’s body lost strength, falling to the ground. He knew the earth beneath him was soft enough to muffle the sound of his body meeting it. He curled in on himself, shutting his eyes and allowing tears to stream down his face. This was a nightmare. He couldn’t wake up. The blood on his face felt cold now, the chill of the cellar sinking deeper and deeper into his bones the longer he was down there. He couldn’t wake up. This wasn’t a nightmare, and he couldn’t wake up.
And then, the cabin finally fell silent, and that felt just as loud as the screams of his siblings begging for their lives.
#
The cellar door opened. Serrai lifted his head. He wasn’t sure when he’d lost consciousness. It could have been days. It could have been hours. He feared it was minutes, and the monster had returned. Using the last of his strength he tried to push himself further beneath the house. The threats of spiders seemed trivial now. The light was nearly blinding, and he couldn’t see. He whimpered, kicking up dirt as he moved. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t…
“Serrai?”
Serrai stopped moving, trying to process who had spoken. Something grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him. Serrai tried to kick, but he was powerless. The hand easily wrapped around his ankle joint, large and warm and very much an adult. He started to cry. He knew Uda told him not to, but he could do nothing but.
“Please stop, Rai-rai. It’s okay.”
Serrai stilled at the familiar voice, stopping his thrashing for a few seconds. That was all that was needed for him to be fully dragged to the door of the cellar, a blanket waiting for him as he was lifted free. As the young prince’s eyes adjusted he could see a familiar head of golden blonde hair, two eyes that matched his left, blue as the summer sky. As soon as the blanket was wrapped around him, the wool as soft as goose-down, Serrai was placed into the arms of his uncle, Prince Osage.
“Hi, Rai-rai.” Osage cooed, holding Serrai close but touching him as little as possible. His smile was forced, pinched almost. He was trying to comfort Serrai as best he could with only his face, as his hands pressed Serrai’s small body to his chest. The blood was drying, tacky and sticky on Serrai’s skin, but he knew he was still covered. He knew why Uncle Osage, famously germaphobic, wouldn’t want to touch it. Serrai had no choice. He could feel where it was on his skin, every droplet dried. He was torn between wanting it off his skin and wanting to keep it on his skin as long as possible, keep his siblings close as long as possible…
“Where’s….where are they?” Serrai asked. His throat was dry after he’d breathed in nothing but dirty air for hours. He coughed, his uncle pressing his head into the thick silk of his tunic to keep the germs contained. His uncle rubbed his back, pressing soothing circles into Serrai’s cold skin.
A face emerged from behind Uncle Osage. Captain Bethrow and his child, Squire Bethrow, approached like the trained soldiers they were, so quiet that they barely made a step. Their faces were blank, but Squire Bethrow looked green, like they were going to be sick. They were pale despite their sepia skin tone. That didn’t bode well at all. Serrai couldn’t remember seeing either of them show an emotion, much less go pale and visibly nauseous. Captain’s locks, interwoven with beads, were twinkling in the light. After so much time in the dark, it was too much to take in. Serrai shut his eyes again. “Your highness. We’ve searched the entire area. There’s no sign of them.”
“Then we must away, Captain.” Osage hugged Serrai tighter. “We must make sure my brother and his wife don’t fall victim to this…monster as well.”
Mom and Dad, Serrai realized. He started shaking again, tears leaking from his eyes, his body tensing as he lost all control of it. Osage grabbed the back of his neck, keeping his face pressed down. Serrai couldn’t breathe. Even though his uncle wore the finest silk, it was still hard to breathe through the thin fabric.
“My best soldiers have intercepted their carriage.” Captain Bethrow spoke, hands on his hips as he scanned the kitchen. Serrai wondered how it looked. All he could see over his Uncle’s shoulder were the cupboards open, their doors hanging on by their last nail, and bloody hand prints along the painted walls. He looked back down. “We re-routed them back to the palace. They’ll be safest there.”
“Good.” Osage cleared his throat. “But still. Even if Robin and Acraida are safe, I don’t want my nephew to stay here for longer than he has to.”
Serrai managed to lift his head once more. Captain was looking at him curiously. When he spotted the prince looking, he gave him a small, forced smile. “Yes, I agree.” He turned to Squire Bethrow. “Prepare a space for the princes in our carriage. I shan’t be letting either of them out of my sight until we’re at the palace. This is a declaration of war.”
“Right away, sir.” Squire Bethrow nodded at their father, and bowed to Osage before vanishing from Serrai’s field of vision.
“Are my….” Osage began to ask.
“We’ve sent protection to your family as well, my prince.” Captain Bethrow provided. “They are already on route to the palace.”
“Thank The Child.” Osage let out a deep breath.
“Indeed. Though I doubt The Family was anywhere near today.” Captain Bethrow said solemnly, his forced smile vanishing and the tension in his jaw increasing. Even though he knew the young prince to still be watching, he felt no need to pretend before him. That made Serrai worry. As a royal child, he was more used to pretending than he wasn’t. He suspected many children were, especially in situations like this.
“Where are they?” Serrai asked again, his voice a wheeze—half from the remnants of the cellar in his lungs, half from the pressure Osage was putting on his chest as he held him still.
Captain Bethrow and Osage looked at each other. Osage’s face fell. “Rai…surely you know what happened. You were here. You do not need me to confirm what you already know.”
“Where are they?” Serrai asked again, his eyes finally adjusted to the light as he was carried through the cabin. It was dusk. It had been late morning when Uda shoved him into the cellar. He couldn’t smell death, not the way he expected. The antique furnishings were broken, their pieces scattered across the floor. Uncle Osage had to weave his way through the debris, making his way to the open front door. “Where are their bodies?”
Osage looked to Captain Bethrow. The Captain nodded. Osage bit his lip. “There aren’t any.”
“What?”
Osage adjusted Serrai on his shoulder, letting his head up but placing a hand over Serrai’s eyes. “Hush, Serrai. It’s better that you remember them as they were, not as…”
Serrai started thrashing, trying to sneak a peek from between his uncle’s fingers. Osage’s saunter sped up. Serrai could feel the air past his air as they moved, so fast and so determined his uncle seemed to be to protect him from untold horrors. “Where are they, Uncle?! What do you mean, there are no bodies?” He caught more fleeting glimpses of the cabin, of blood on the curtains, on the walls, on the ceiling through the gaps in his Uncle’s fingers. Of pieces of bones littering the ground, of pink organs only just starting to grey. “Uncle Osage, please! Where are they?”
The door slammed shut behind them. Osage took Serrai off his shoulder, placing him on the ground. There was a bloody hand-print on the door, vivid and bright on the pale willow wood. The…that monster had shut the door when he’d left. He was ashamed of what he’d done. Serrai felt dizzy with the realization. The sun was behind the cabin, casting it in an eerie orange back-light. There were pieces of…hair, it had to be Quadrella’s, she was the only one in the family with red hair, covering the ground, mixed with bits of clothing, bits of bone. He knew that the horrible creature had dragged his siblings out one by one. Where were they? Why weren’t they there? Osage knelt to his level, putting his hands on Serrai’s shoulders, looking him deep in the eyes. His uncle, normally so jovial, was stricken and scared, his hands vibrating on Serrai’s shoulder, his eyes wide and wet. “Serrai…I don’t know. Their bodies aren’t here.”
“Then they could still be alive, right?” It made sense. Maybe they escaped. Maybe they….
“Rai…you were under the house the whole time. Can you really tell me that you think they might be alive?”
Fresh tears streamed down Serrai’s face. “No. But I…I wanted to believe it.”
“I know.” Osage finally allowed a tear to fall. “But they’re gone, Rai. Not even The Family could bring them back.”
“But where are they?” Serrai started sobbing, started blubbering.
“Why do you keep asking that?” Osage growled. Serrai stopped crying for a brief moment, looked into his uncle’s face, twisted with impotent rage, and started crying again. Osage sighed, the unflinching anger so unfamiliar to his nephew melting away into exhaustion. “I’m sorry, Rai. I’m so sorry.”
“Please tell me,” Serrai cried, not bothering to wipe his tears, letting them fall without boundary or stopping. “Please.”
Osage took a deep breath. “Rai….your siblings….”
Captain Bethrow appeared behind them again, putting a hand on Osage’s shoulder. “Osage…I’ll tell the boy. Go and get into the carriage with my squire. Ask them to give you some of our fine wine and prepare something for the young prince.”
Prince Osage stood up, his hands not leaving Serrai’s shoulder until he stood too tall to reach them comfortably anymore. “I’ll…” Osage worried his lip between his teeth. “I’ll let them know that you eat no meat, my dear. I’ll see if they have something nice for you. Maybe something sweet.” Serrai nodded, unsure of what else to do.
The Prince walked down the path leading to the road from the cabin, looking back over his shoulder at his nephew. Serrai kept shaking, kept crying, looking up at Bethrow. The anticipation was making him sick, making his gut clench as his body tried to purge food it didn’t have to give. Bethrow knelt, the same as Osage, but didn’t touch him. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, your highness. Serrai. But, as a friend of the family, I thought I should be the one to do it.”
“Please tell me,” Serrai whispered, the only thing he could manage to do. “Please.”
Bethrow looked away. “We have reason to believe….your siblings remains were consumed by the being who attacked the cabin.”
Serrai felt himself grow dizzy. It was unfathomable. It was disgusting, it was unreal, it was….his vertigo took over and he stumbled backwards before falling to the ground, his eyes beholding a mess of entrails at the door to his summer home before blessedly shutting.
Draven
The entire hallway leading to the throne room felt colder than usual as Draven walked, each step echoing around the stone walls. Amarilla was blatantly yawning as she led Draven in by the hand, hiding her mouth behind her gauntlet as the spires of the grand throne came into view. The prince had no such luxury. Despite being roused from his sleep in the wee hours of the morning and wrestled into his finery by his personal guard, he had to show no weakness. In the throne room, basic human functioning was tantamount to being a loathsome weakling. He chewed the side of his face to hold it in, but the chill was rapidly waking him up. Amarilla tugged on his hand, pulling him further into the room. “Your mother’s waiting, Draven. Step lively now.”
“Where’s Father?”
“He still fights at the border, my prince. He still hasn’t returned. Your mother is the only one who awaits us, as far as I know.”
“I figured,” Draven murmured. “That’s why I’m in armour and not pajamas.”
“Keep that lip to yourself, my prince.” Amarilla adjusted her neck-piece. It was backwards, like she too had been awoken suddenly and told to dress quickly. “You know your mother doesn’t find you nearly as funny as I do. You don’t want to be sent to train with Captain Pinn again, do you? Neither of you enjoyed that punishment.”
Draven snorted but went quiet. He didn’t want to have to train with the guard again. The cut on his leg hadn’t healed yet and his back still hurt. He gripped Ama’s hand tighter, moving closer to her. “I’ll be good.”
“You are good, Dray. Just….try to be what your mother wants, yeah? Give yourself one yawn before we enter, we’re nearly there.”
Draven agreed, taking a long, drawn out yawn, going right back to chewing at his mouth and fiddling with his ring.
The last time he’d been woken in the night was two weeks prior, when the entire family was awoken to learn that Berlin…Berlin had been killed in battle. That’s what mother said. Amarilla and Merka said that if an Eridanian soldier hadn’t gotten lucky with a sword the wolfsbane would have made his heart explode in his chest. The funeral seemed like yesterday, being forced through Lupercalia to the capitol’s main temple in his stiffest clothes, holding toddling Reifa’s hand in his while rocking baby Rachel, both crying at either side. Aldith refused to hold anyone’s hands, needing both of them to wipe at her eyes while no one was looking. Cathrel barely moved the entire day, only departing their carriage when Mother asked him to help drag Father from the carriage up the stairs of the temple, standing as still as a statue as the priests read the scriptures to the gathered crowds. Draven couldn’t help the rapid beating of his heart, steady and yet as panicked as the footsteps of a running rabbit. He wondered who had died now, in a dark part of his heart. Father…no, it couldn’t be.
He gulped, stopping at the cusp of the throne room, looking into the room without seeing anything. Everything was blurry, like he’d been hit over the head with the hilt of a sword. Everything in him screamed at him to stop, to turn and run back to his room. Ama tugged him in, glaring at him to keep him in line. Draven’s feet felt like stone as he entered the room, the idea of seeing his mother making him more afraid than anything else. The room was even colder once they entered, Draven’s breath a mist in the air as he allowed himself a deep breath before he saw Queen Estrilda.
His mother wasn’t alone. She sat straight up in the throne. The twisted metal representing the branches of the wailing willow that had been cut down to build the first support beam that made the current iteration of the Taikan royal palace cast odd shadows across the room. The room was empty but for the throne and the stairs leading up to it. Without the finery, which had been removed as part of the mourning period for Berlin, the room seemed grey and empty. Each step echoed as they approached the throne. Estrilda was wearing her finest clothes, her blood-red gown under her blackened silver armour, the beads of her crown highlighting her intelligent and narrowed green eyes. Her ears were upright, perky, and Draven found himself matching her as he came closer. None of this was unusual. What was unusual was the man standing behind her, if he could be called a man at all.
He was tall, easily head and shoulders taller than the top spire of the throne. His skin was forest green—when Draven got closer, he could see that what he thought was skin was in reality deep green moss growing over dark grey skin. The man’s eyes were grey, just grey, lacking a pupil or iris. He had the ears of a Taikan, but nothing else about him read as anything Draven was familiar with. He had long dark hair, some patches as black as night, some green as a freshly sprouted pine tree, some as brown as a chestnut. Some patches atop his head had leaves growing out of them, and some of it was woven into intricate braids. The man wore a long brown cloak, the furred collar of the top making him look wider, more imposing. He wore a crown of thorns and sticks, staring down at Draven like Draven was an insect scrambling across the floor. Beyond his looks, which were disarming, his mere presence felt suffocating. Draven felt dizzy and woozy, like he couldn’t breathe. He knelt down before the throne out of habit, looking up at the strange man. It took Amarilla subtly nudging him to remind him to tear his eyes away from this mysterious visitor and pay respect to his mother. “Hail to thee, Queen Estrilda. Mother.”
“Hail to thee, Queen Estrilda.” Amarilla said.
“Rise, Prince Draven. Son.” Draven stood slowly, his body starting to feel exhausted. He hadn’t felt this heavy walking here. Was it the anxiety reaching it’s peak, or was it the way their visitor sucked the air from the room? “Rise, Captain Daemus.”
Amarilla stood as well, keeping her eyes focused on the queen. “I thank you, your highness.”
Estrilda’s eyes darted briefly to the man, was if waiting for him to speak. “So this is the boy,” the man said. “He is smaller than I thought he’d be, but I suppose that’s normal for your kind.”
“We are not all blessed with the stature of the fey, my lord.” Estrilda answered. My lord?! Estrilda didn’t speak with this much deference to…anyone. The Family themselves could appear before her and she’d demand to know why they were dirtying her carpets with their feet. Draven’s eyes widened. “Still. This is my son, as I spoke to you of. Rest assured. He is strong.”
“Is he now.”
After a few moments of silence, waiting for the man to continue, she spoke once again. “I would like to introduce you to a visiting royal guest, Prince Draven. This is Hamameleth Sabaliel, the King of the Forest.”
The forest? Draven thought, biting his lip at the last second to keep from speaking. That wasn’t a recognized…anything in Auregehenna. What did he rule over? Still, he had to mind his manners. “I welcome thee to Taika, your highness.”
“Thank you.” Hamameleth’s voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “I shan’t stay long.”
Draven wasn’t sure what to do with that. He looked to his mother. She was tense on her throne, her hands white-knuckled as she gripped the armrest. “King Sabaliel comes to us from the fey realm.” Draven felt his blood run cold. “He cannot stay in our realm without an anchor for long,” Estrilda explained. “That is why you are here, Draven.”
“Mother?” Draven asked softly. “What…”
“Do not speak out of turn.” Estrilda’s eyes narrowed further, becoming slits on her face, the green of her eyes impossible to see. Her gaze softened. “My son. We’ve suffered greatly in these past months. First, the death of Berlin, and then the loss of the war….I know I can speak for you, that you have been suffering along with your family.”
Draven was silent, waiting for his turn. Estrilda nodded at him. “I have, mother.”
“This humiliation cannot stand.” Estrilda growled. “Eridanus is weak. This victory is an aberration. When the next battle comes…”
“But mother,” Draven asked softly, bracing himself for the penalty of interrupting, “the war is over now.”
“The war is over,” Estrilda’s growl became a snarl, “when I say it’s over.”
The punishment did not come. Draven continued to stare at his mother, confused. His head was swimming. He had no idea what to make of any of this, and he had a lingering sense of dread.
“King Sabaliel has offered us the aid of his magic, but he has asked what I feel to be a reasonable price.” Her eyes moved from Draven to the ground he stood on. “He needs an anchor to move freely from his realm to ours. You will be that anchor. You will be his changeling.”
Draven’s eyes widened. He’d read the stories. Of course he had, everyone in Auregehenna knew the stories of the continent’s founding. He knew of changelings, of what they were used for, of the damage that lingered after they’d returned and founded Auregehenna. His heart seemed to stop, his breathing halting as he processed it. “No,” he whispered, “please.”
“The deal has been made. It is already done.” Estrilda spoke softly. “I know you will make us proud. I know you will come back and be able to help make us all stronger warriors. You are too young to fight. This is what you can do for our kingdom.”
Draven looked back to Hamameleth. The fey was focused on him, his gaze piercing—literally. Draven could feel little pricks on his skin the longer the fey watched him. It made Draven shudder. He felt like this creature had already deemed him weak. He felt like this creature cared only if he lived or died because Draven couldn’t be an anchor dead. “Mother…”
“Draven.” Hamameleth spoke. “I give you a week from this night to settle your affairs in this realm. It matters not if you do, for I will take you to the fey realm regardless.”
Draven wanted to run from the room, or tell his monster where he could stick it. But his last week in his home would be miserable if he did. He had no doubt that this creature would make good on his word. In all his readings about the fey, that was one thing that remained consistent. “Thank you.” Draven knew this to be what his mother wanted him to say.
She smiled at that. “I knew you’d be able to make me proud, Draven.”
Draven nodded, looking at the floor.
When he looked up again, the Forest King had vanished. Only a black mark remained on the stone harvested from the top of the Wahtitian mountains showed that he was ever there at all. Amarilla spoke for the first time since greeting his mother. “Estrilda, you can’t do this.”
“I have to, Ama!” Estrilda stood, using her position to loom over them. “You don’t understand.”
“I’ve lost a child too, Estrilda.” Ama replied, crossing her arms. “It is a wound that never closes. This will not…”
“I don’t care if I close the wound!” Estrilda snapped. “This wound can bleed forever! It will bleed forever! I want someone to pay. If I am to bleed, I want them to hemorrhage.”
“Draven bleeds too,” Ama pointed out. “All your children bleed with you.”
“Not the same way.” Estrilda looked to Draven. “You may hate me, Draven. I know that. But don’t hate your country, or your family. You are a prince. I’ve taught you from birth that this role means sacrifice.”
“How long will I be gone?” Draven asked, his voice breaking.
Estrilda bit her lip. “Ten years.”
“Ten…”
“Draven. Please. That is what he asked for. I tried to argue, but he wouldn’t budge.” Estrilda hung her head. “This is the only way I can honour your brother’s memory. We cannot defeat those filthy tree-humping cowards on our own, since they have twisted the other nations to their side. If they have allies, we need them ourselves. We need allies strong enough to give us a fighting chance.”
“Why not Aldith? Or Cathrel?” Draven dare not mention the twins. He knew them too precious to risk. If they’d been the ones this deal had been offered with, he would have taken their place in a heartbeat.
Estrilda looked him in the eyes. “Because you’re the only one strong enough to survive it.”
Draven doubted her. He truly did. But he made up his mind that if his mother thought him strong, even to a small degree, he would do his damnedest to prove her right.
Even if it killed him, whether his body perished or his spirit was broken.
Elk A. Scott 