It has long been known that when the wild hunt rides beneath a full moon, they often claim for themselves lost and unhappy souls, coaxing them along on their destructive path. Oftentimes, those poor souls are never seen again. Drunkards get lost on their way home from the tavern. Sailors docked for the week will wander off, unnoticed by their peers. It is said that anyone who dares step into the moonlight during the witching hour could find themselves the next morning alone and shivering, covered in blood and gristle from whatever beast the hunt captured in the night, though they have no memory of the events that transpired. It’s a seduction of sorts, the call of the hunt. Some men and women long for the chance to be feral themselves. Vicious and brutal. Where bloodlust sings a raucous ballad in their veins. There was a time, even, when it was thought to be a gift, to be taken for one night by the hunt, so long as you lived through to see the sun rise and did not lose yourself in the night. If you did not become one of the phantoms destined for eternal servitude to the Erlking’s court.
But even those who once believed that to join the hunt was its own sort of dark honor knew that there was one type of soul who had no business being among the ghouls and hounds.
The innocent souls of children.
But every decade or so, it was this very prize that the hunt sought. For the Erlking had made it his duty to bring a new child to his love, the cruel huntress Perchta, whenever she should grow bored of the last gift he’d presented. Which was, of course, when that child should grow to be too old for her liking.
At first, the Erlking claimed whatever lost babe might be wandering in the Aschen Wood. But over time he prided himself on securing for his love not just any child—but the best child. The most beautiful. The most clever. The most amusing, if you will.
It once so happened that the Erlking heard rumors of a young princess who was proclaimed far and wide to be the most lovely girl the world had ever known. She had golden, bouncy curls and laughing sky-blue eyes, and all who met her were charmed by her exuberance. As soon as he heard tell of the child, the Erlking was determined to claim her and bring her to his mistress.
And so, on the night of a cold Hunger Moon, the Erlking and his hunters rode to the gate of a castle, and with their magical wiles, lured the child from her bed. She walked down the candlelit corridors as if in a dream, and out across the drawbridge, where she was met by the wild hunt. The Erlking promptly swept her onto his horse and carried her off into the woods.
He had invited Perchta to meet him in a forest clearing to receive her gift, and when he showed her the child, so bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked beneath the full moon, the huntress immediately fell in love and vowed to dote on her with all the affection a mother might bestow on a most beloved daughter.
But Perchta and the Erlking were not alone in the woods that night.
For a prince—the very brother to the stolen child—had also awoken, a feeling of dread thumping in his chest. Upon finding his sister’s bed empty and all her attendants in an enchanted sleep, he ran to the stables. He grabbed his hunting weapons and mounted his steed and raced off into the forest, alone but unafraid, following the haunting cries of hellhounds. He rode faster than he had ever ridden before, all but flying along the path through the trees, for he knew that if the sun were to rise with his sister trapped inside the Erlking’s castle, she would be trapped on the other side of the veil, and lost to him forever.
He knew he was getting closer. He could see the towers of Gravenstone over the boughs of the trees, highlighted beneath a brightening winter sky. He reached a clearing outside the swampy moat. The drawbridge was down. Ahead of him, Perchta had the princess on her steed, racing toward the castle gate.
The prince knew he would not make it to her in time.
And so he readied his bow. Nocked an arrow. And prayed to any god who would hear him that his arrow would fly true.
He shot.
The arrow crested over the moat, as if guided by the hand of Tyrr, the god of archery and war. It buried itself into Perchta’s back—straight through to her heart.
Perchta slipped from her mount.
The Erlking leaped from his steed, barely managing to catch her in his arms. As the stars began to fade from his lover’s eyes, he looked up and saw the prince bearing down on his castle, desperate to reach his sister.
The Erlking was overcome with fury.
In that moment, he made a choice. One that haunts him to this day.
It is impossible to say if he might have saved the huntress’s life. He might yet have carried her into his castle. They say the dark ones know boundless ways to tether a life to the veil, to keep one from slipping beyond the gates into Verloren. Perhaps he could have kept her with him.
But he chose different.
Leaving Perchta to die on that bridge, the Erlking stood and snatched the princess from the abandoned horse. He pulled a gold-tipped arrow from his quiver and, gripping it tight in his fist, raised it above the child. It was naught but an act of coldhearted revenge against the prince, who had dared strike down the great huntress.
Seeing what the Erlking meant to do, the prince ran at him, trying to reach his sister.
But he was driven back by the hounds. Their teeth. Their claws. Their burning eyes. They surrounded the prince, snapping, biting, tearing at his flesh. He screamed, unable to fight them off. Fully awake now, the princess cried her brother’s name and reached out to him as she fought against the king’s hold.
Too late. The king drove the arrow into her flesh just as the sky was set aflame by the first rays of morning light.
Chapter 13
Serilda wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d sat down. How long she’d had her back pressed to the cold cell wall, eyes shut, wrapped up in the story as if she were watching it happen right in front of her. But as the tale came to a tremulous close, she inhaled a deep breath, and slowly peeled her eyes open.
Gild, still seated on the stool on the far side of the cell, was openly gawking at her.
He looked positively aghast.
She stiffened. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shook his head. “You said stories are supposed to be vibrant and exciting and … and wonderful. Those were the words you used. But that story was”—he searched for the right word, finally landing on—“awful!”
“Awful?” she barked. “How dare you.”