PART ONE
PROLOGUE
Prince Roan Snowsong, Heir Apparent to Fates Mark
As my senses return to me, I hear the small, unassuming sounds of woodland creatures scurrying through the underbrush—claws scratching along bark as small feet carry tiny bodies through busy work.
Drip-drip-drip. That sound is distracting, but due only to the slow cadence, the way I expect it to speed up or falter in some way, and yet the slow, plopping sound of a thick liquid landing in a puddle of its own making doesn’t falter. It’s distracting, but I push it out of my mind.
Leaves rustle in the gentle breeze, and with every sway, the ancient pillars above me whisper to one another in a language lost to me… lost to my kind, but not forgotten. Birds call out morning greetings to one another, quiet peeping sounds of countless animals unfazed by my bleeding presence, each of these sounds so familiar to me, and yet their presence fills me with despair.
I’ve died and made my way to Elysium.
There’s no other explanation for the sounds of life around me—not with the devastation that has befallen the Southern Lands—and I’ve failed. My wife, my father, my prince, and my fate… I’ve failed them all. Hundreds of years of training and combat, and none of it mattered when treachery lay within our own numbers.
The witches attacked us at the fae door, thousands of them lying in wait as though they knew we were coming, and the ambush was unavoidable. Prince Soren commanded our group, only a handful of soldiers accompanying us, and after hours of bloodshed and death, I was separated from the rest and gravely wounded. The only refuge to take cover was the looming line of dark trees and something from within beckoned me. Pushing aside generations of rumors and whispers of the forest of madness, I stumbled towards it with determination only to come upon unspeakable horror at the edge of the tree line.
Well-accustomed to war and bloodshed, my gut churned violently at the sight of the field of carnage laid out before me.
At least a thousand high fae soldiers lay in haphazard, gruesome pieces with no other signs of conflict. Innards spilled, flesh torn, mouths gaping open in the male’s last screams though an eerie silence lies over the carnage, their deaths were clearly an excruciating torture that defies reason.
Rooted to the spot in my revulsion, it’s only the steady flow of blood from my own wound that forced me to move once more and as I passed the corpses, I recognized enough of the dead soldiers to be sure it was the battalion from Yris Soren sent for. We assumed the males were never sent, another of the regent’s deadly games, but instead his own guards have been decimated by some evil I have no name for.
The raving witches didn’t dare follow, instead halting at the perimeter of the killing field as though they too fear the magic wrought there. Their jeers and snarls at my escape followed meinto the forest but there’s no chance of my rescue now. Even if the fae responsible for those atrocities is gone, no high fae would ever come searching for me here, not even Soren himself. When I finally collapsed only a few feet into the murky woods, the blood-loss claiming me, I knew my demise was inevitable.
No one makes it out of the forest of madness intact.
Regret fills me, clouding my mind further. I wasn’t expecting to find such lucidity in my journey to Elysium, but perhaps this is the fate of those without the ashes to aid their journey. Will I ever reach the gates, or am I cursed to dwell in this forest, filled with sorrow for those who would welcome me in the Fates-promised resting place?
Pain washes over me once more, a gasp of agony wrenching from my lips, and the truth lies plainly before me.
Every person I love… I’ve failed them all.
“Fates guide my hand, steady this soul to this plane and not to the finality of Elysium. Let us keep him here on the path set before him, as you command, and keep the balance of this world in check.”
The melodic syllables wash over me like the warmth of the healing baths after a long and treacherous journey through the worst blizzards of the Shard, soaking into my bones until the despair is wiped away.
Though at first the words are indistinguishable, the prayer in the old language slowly comes within my grasp. Spoken perfectly, with no accent or tripping over the unwieldy intonations that still fall clumsily from my own tongue even after half a dozen centuries using it, it’s soothing to my fractured state, until the anomaly of its use finally hits me. The prayer is spoken as though by one of the First Fae themselves, unmatched in skill, and of the handful of high fae who still know the language, none speak it that way.
Hands press against my side, and the answering pain that lances through my body wrenches me from my musing and slams awareness into me. I’m alive. That feeling is real, physical, and not just the agony of my failures. The dripping sound steadily blends until it's more of a gush, and I realize it’s my own blood, pouring onto the forest floor.
My eyes finally open, my vision clouded, and a groan falls from my lips once more. My limbs are too heavy to move, my head lolling uselessly on my shoulders as I struggle to gain control of myself. When I finally fix my gaze on my companion, my groan turns into a snarl.
A witch.
Leaning over my corpse-like form with her hands delving into the wound in my gut, she fixes her eyes on the cleaved flesh as the silken rope of her mousy braid spills onto my armor. She ignores my savage, if wordless, warning as she works. I strain to lift my arms, to shove her away, to flee from her before she casts her evil against me, but they don’t move from my sides, utterly useless.
The witch’s lips still move with her pleas to the Fates for my safety as she works diligently, disregarding every aggressive sound I make. Words are impossible; no matter how I form them in my mind, I can’t free them from my lips, and instead I groan and snarl at her like an animal.
When her eyes begin to glow, I almost lose the last scraps of my senses, sweat breaking out over my forehead and a tremor taking over my declining form. Her magic flows through her hands and into my body like bolts of lightning shooting down my legs in unstoppable fury. The pain that blooms is excruciating; bursts of white light dot my vision, and my heart quickens in my panic.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, she switches to the common language to address me. “You must stay calm, lestyou bleed out before I have a chance to repair the veins. You’re lucky no arteries were hit by those arrows, a close call narrowly avoided by the Fates’ mercies.”
Sweat drips down my temples, and my tongue is clumsy in my mouth as my head lolls again without my direction. A canopy of leaves dances above me, peaceful even as I’m tortured by this Fates-cursed female, and the insanity promised by this cursed place creeps into my mind, intent on claiming me.
“You followed me… into the forest of madness… to prolong this torture? No use… I won’t tell you… anything. You'll never get out alive…”
From the corner of my eye, I catch her shaking her head at me again, but her words are as steady as ever. “If the forest let you in, Prince Fates Mark, then you mean me no harm. Rest assured, the trees led me to you to ensure your survival. They know of the importance of your future, as do I, with our fates so deeply intertwined.”
