CHAPTER 1
MONSTERS HAD LITTLE respect for mealtimes.
Branwen crouched behind a thicket of briars. The late-autumn sunlight cast the forest into shades of crimson and gold. The lush scent of sun-warmed blackberries made her stomach clench with hunger.
It had been hours. Perhaps she should give up this hunt and return in the morning. She was reaching for her small lantern when she heard it.
A whisper of leaves. The murmur of a footfall against damp earth.
Branwen swallowed, her tongue suddenly too dry. She touched the knife at her belt. Her bow was at home; the thick undergrowth and close trees ensured that this hunt would need to be at close range.
A woman rounded a bend in the path. Sunlight caught in herred-brown hair. She carried a basket brimming with loaves of bread, apples, and cheeses.
Or so it seemed.
In the immortal lands, one could not trust mortal senses.
Branwen reached up, her fingers alighting on the iron-stitched cloth she wore across her right eye. Quietly, she pulled it free.
And then the world changed.
The forest glittered with unseen power. Branwen blinked several times, waiting for her eye to adjust. Then she looked at the woman. She half expected to see one of the folk: hair woven with vines, inhuman eyes, or too-sharp teeth. It was not unheard of for one of the folk to visit the village wearing the guise of a mortal.
But nothing about the woman changed. Her hair was still a ruddy brown, a flush on her cheeks as she carried her day’s shopping.
It was just a human woman.
Branwen blew out a breath and sat back on her heels. She would wait another hour, then return home. One did not remain in the forests of Annwvyn—even the outskirts—after dark. She slid the blindfold back into place. Using that eye for too long left her with a headache that throbbed through her whole skull, made her flinch away from light and sound. It was best to use her power sparingly.
The traveler continued along the path. There were always a few willing to risk the edges of Annwvyn. Most of the time, they came out unscathed. Some emerged with bloody injuries or enchanted trinkets. And some simply vanished.
A noble, Barwn Ifor, lost his son a few weeks ago, after the young man ventured too near Annwvyn. The hunt to find him had led Branwen to this briar patch and this very ordinary-looking traveler.
The traveler stumbled over a root in the path and grumbled quietly to herself. Sweat beaded on her brow, and she paused, setting down her burden long enough to swipe at her forehead. She knelt beside a stream and cupped one hand, reaching for a drink. Sunlight danced merrily upon the water. It looked so clear and refreshing that Branwen dragged her dry tongue across her lips. It was easy to imagine how sweet that water would taste, how refreshing it would feel against her dirt-smudged fingers. The traveler cupped a handful of water.
And then a hand surged from the stream and seized her.
The woman shrieked. She thrashed like an animal caught in a snare, but the grip was unbreakable. It began to drag her toward the water. She reached for roots, for ferns, for any handhold. But it was a useless struggle, and slowly she was dragged into the stream.
Branwen surged to her feet. Her legs tingled with disuse, and she stumbled as she ducked out from behind the briars.
There were a few charms against magic. Iron was the most common, but to scatter iron into Annwvyn was akin to walking into a prince’s great hall with a cup of poison. It was an insult at best and a declaration of war at worst.
Branwen shoved a hand into her pocket and withdrew a handful of dried gorse. It was less potent than iron, but it would also decay and leave no trace. She tossed the leaves into the water, where they bobbed merrily in the current. One of them touched the hand emerging from the water, and it flinched in pain.
The hand slipped back beneath the waves, and the traveler scurried to the path on hands and knees. When she saw Branwen, she let out a startled noise.
“Run,” snarled Branwen.
The traveler did not need telling twice. Leaving her fallen basket, she rushed up the path. Branwen listened to the thud of footsteps, to the ragged breathing, to those last mortal sounds. And then Branwen was alone with the monster that rose from the water. That stream should have been far too shallow to hide anything larger than a fish or frog. An illusion must have hidden this unseen creature.
Nothing beneath the trees of Annwvyn could be trusted, save for names and oaths.
The woman who stepped from the stream had hair black as obsidian, skin pale as sun-bleached driftwood, and the kind of beauty only glimpsed in paintings. She wore a white gown sodden with creek water. She looked like a maiden spun from magic and tales, just waiting for the right hero to save her from this place.
Branwen inhaled deeply a few times, blowing out each breath in its entirety—the way she prepared to dive beneath choppy waters. Then she pulled a small flask from her belt and tipped it into her mouth. Alcohol burned at the corners of her chapped lips, and she had to resist the instinct to swallow it down.
The corners of the woman’s mouth curved into a gentle smile. She opened her mouth and began to sing. It was as lovely as the rest of her: clear and perfectly pitched. Slow and gentle. The kind of melody that should have rocked babes to sleep.
