Serilda thought the full moon would never come. Every night she looked out at the moonlight dancing on the lake’s surface and watched as it grew—first a teasing crescent, then gradually waxing night after night.
During the day, she helped around the inn where she could and spent hours gazing at the castle, wondering if Gild was in his tower, gazing back at her through the veil. She yearned to go back and was constantly resisting the desire to cross that bridge, but then she would remember the screams and the blood and the drudes, and she would force herself to have patience.
She kept busy with her attempts to uncover more of the mysteries of the castle and the hunt, but she felt that she was running into a stone wall at every turn. The ledgers of dead bodies left behind after the hunt held no clues to her mother’s disappearance. There had not been any bodies found that Mourning Moon. The closest possibility was a young woman found a few months previously on the Lovers’ Moon, but Serilda did not think her father would have been so mistaken on the timing.
She did not know what to make of the revelation. Her mother might have been killed inside the castle walls, and her body never found.
Or she might have been abandoned somewhere far away from Adalheid, as her father had been.
Or she might not have died at all.
Serilda had also spent countless hours talking to the townspeople, asking what they might know about the castle, its inhabitants, their own family histories. Though there were still some who were afraid of Serilda and wanted to chastise her for tempting the wrath of the Erlking, most of the citizens of Adalheid were happy to talk to her. She figured it didn’t hurt that Vergoldetgeist had been most generous this year, and the whole town seemed to be celebrating their good fortune, even if they always fell quiet about their new riches whenever they noticed Serilda in their midst.
In speaking with the townspeople, Serilda learned that many had had families living in Adalheid for generations, and some could trace their lineage back a century or two. She even discovered that the former mayor she had seen at the public house after the Hunger Moon had a journal long passed down through his family. He was most eager to share it with Serilda, but when she flipped back through the pages, she found entire columns of text missing, pages left blank.
It was impossible to tell for sure, but from the context of the surrounding entries, she suspected the missing pages all had to do with the castle and the royals who she was sure had once lived there.
In the evenings, she earned her keep at the inn by telling tales to whoever was gathered around the fireplace in the public house once they had finished their evening bread. She did not tell stories about the dark ones, worried that they would be too frightening for those who knew all too well that the Erlking was not merely a story for amusement. Instead, she regaled the citizens of Adalheid with tales of witches and their newt familiars. The old spinster who slew a dragon and the moss maiden who climbed to the moon. Cruel sirens who trapped sailors in their watery castles, and kindly land wights who rewarded worthy peasants with a wealth of jewels.
Night by night, the crowd grew in the public house, as word of their new resident storyteller spread.
Night by night, Serilda waited.
When the full moon finally arrived, it was as if a mourning shroud had fallen over the city. All day long, the villagers were quiet and subdued as they went about their business. When Serilda asked, Lorraine said it was always that way on the full moons, but that the Chaste Moon tended to be the worst. With the Feast of Death behind them, this night would determine whether or not the wild hunt was satisfied and would leave the families of Adalheid be.
The public house that evening was the emptiest Serilda had seen all week. Half an hour before sunset, the last guests retired to their rooms.
“But can’t I hear a story?” Leyna pleaded. “Serilda can tell me one in her room?”
Lorraine gave a shake of her head. “We do not invite ourselves into our guests’ rooms.”
“But—”
“And even if you were invited, we retire early on the full moon. I want you fast asleep before the witching hour. No arguments.”
Leyna scowled, but no arguments were made as she trudged up the stairs to the rooms she and her mother shared. Serilda tried to hide that she was grateful for Lorraine’s intervention. She was not in a storytelling mood tonight, distracted by her own anticipation.
“Serilda?” asked Lorraine, extinguishing the lanterns around the public house until it was lit only by the embers in the hearth. “I don’t mean to be insensitive—”
“I won’t be here,” said Serilda. “I have every reason to believe the Erlking will summon me, and I would not dream of bringing his attention to you and Leyna.”
Relief flashed across Lorraine’s face. “What will you do?”
“I’ll go to the castle, and … wait.”
Lorraine grunted. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”
Sighing, Serilda stood from her favorite seat beside the fire. “May I return tomorrow?”
Lorraine’s face wrinkled with unexpected emotion. “Dear girl. I most certainly hope that you will.”
Then she reached her arms forward and embraced Serilda. It startled her and filled her with more warmth than she would have expected. She had to squeeze her eyes shut to ward off the threat of tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Be safe,” commanded Lorraine. “And make sure that you have everything you need before you go. I will be locking the door behind you.”
The sun had dipped beneath the city wall when Serilda left the Wild Swan. In the east, the Chaste Moon was glowing somewhere behind the Rückgrat Mountains, tingeing their distant peaks in silver. This moon was meant to symbolize newness, innocence, rebirth. But one would not have known that this was the month of such tender optimism walking along the dim streets of Adalheid. As night settled over the city, lights vanished from the windows. Shutters were closed and latched. Shadows overtook the castle ruins, slumbering on their solitary island.
Soon they would awaken.
Soon the hunt would come storming through the town and into the mortal world. The hellhounds would howl, the horses would stampede, the riders would seek out what prey they could find—magic creatures like those whose heads graced the castle’s halls, or moss maidens and forest folks, or humans who weren’t wise enough, or superstitious enough, to sequester themselves behind locked doors.
Serilda arrived at the bridge just as the moon was cresting the mountains, casting its sheen across the lake. As before, she wasn’t fully prepared for the moment when its beams struck the ruins of the castle, transforming it from desolate ruins to a home worthy of a king.
Even if he was a wicked one.
Standing alone beyond the drawbridge, Serilda had never felt so insignificant.