The first snowflakes of the season began to fall around us, small white flakes that hissed and evaporated before they could reach the pit’s edge. The contrast was obscene. Winter’s first gentle touch against hell’s eternal burning.
“Please,” I begged, no longer caring how pathetic I sounded. My eyes found the Dark Lord’s, searching for any hint of compassion in those burning depths. “Please don’t do this. Take me instead. Let them go, and I’ll give thee whatever thou wants.”
The Dark Lord’s laugh was the sound of glaciers cracking, deep and ancient and utterly without warmth. “Child, what makes thee think I need thou’s permission to take what I want?”
He moved closer, each step leaving blackened prints on the stone. When he stood directly beneath me, his height was such that his face was level with mine despite my being suspended in the air.
“I already have what I want,” he continued, voice like velvet dragged through gravel. “Three princes who defied me, trapped in forms I didn’t chose for them, about to spend eternity in my domain. And you, little goddess-child, the key to ensuring they never escape.”
I shook my head, not understanding. “What do you mean? What key?”
“Surely you’ve wondered by now,” he said, reaching up to brush a cold finger along my cheek. His touch left numbness in its wake. “Why your blood heals rather than bleeds. Why your eyes match the creatures of old magic. Why the roses drink from you in haste but never drain you dry like your father.”
I had wondered. Of course I had. But hearing him speak of it made it suddenly, terribly real.
“The witch has the answer,” he said, gesturing to the black-haired woman whose chanting had never ceased. “Show her, Enid. Show her what power she carries.”
The witch—Enid—turned her clouded gaze toward me, and I felt something cold slide beneath my skin. Not physical, but something deeper, something that reached into the core of my being and took hold. It was the same power that had risen in me when I’d thrown Gaspard across the room, when I’d survived the drowning cage, and when the unicorn had touched me in the hidden grove.
Except now it wasn’t rising. It was being pulled from me, forcibly extracted by Enid’s magic. I tried to call on it, to use it against them as I had before, but it slipped away like water through cupped fingers. Pain lanced through me as my essence, my magic, was drawn out for the witch’s use.
“Yes,” the Dark Lord murmured, watching with satisfaction. “The last true daughter of the forest goddess, carrying power she doesn’t even know how to use. Perfect for our purposes.”
“What—” I gasped, each word a struggle as the witch continued to drain me. His revelation about being the goddess’s descendant didn’t compare to the gravity of his implications. “What purposes?”
“You, my dear, will be the anchor for their punishment.” His smile was beautiful and terrible. “Their immortality requires fuel. A constant source of life and power that will ensure they never die, no matter what torments I devise for them. You’ll need neither food nor drink nor rest, for your body will exist in perfect suspension, feeding their eternal suffering with your endless life. Though, thou will feel hunger and thirst and exhaustion.”
Horror washed over me as I understood. I would remain here, conscious, aware, but unable to die. And my power would keep the princes—my beasts, my loves—alive in hell for the Dark Lord’s amusement.
“They’ll remain below, and thee above,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Never to see each other again. Never to touch. Just the knowledge that you exist, perpetuating each other’s torment for all eternity.”
“No,” I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks. “No, please.”
“Wait,” Gaspard interrupted, stepping forward. The darkness around him had solidified, no longer writhing but settled into his skin like a permanent shadow. “That wasn’t our arrangement. Isabeau belongs to me. That was the whole point of this—to destroy the beasts and reclaim what’s mine.”
The Dark Lord turned to him, amusement dancing in his fiery eyes. “Ah, yes. Our arrangement. Let me remind you of its terms.”
His voice shifted, taking on the cadence of formal declaration. “Enid crafted your contract with exquisite care. I would help you destroy the beasts who took your bride, but the price would be your greatest treasure.”
Gaspard pulled something from his satchel. A horn that gleamed pearlescent even in the unnatural darkness. “I brought it. The unicorn horn, rarest trophy in my collection.”
The Dark Lord’s laugh was like breaking glass. “Foolish hunter. A unicorn horn does nothing for me. Only if thee could get one to bend to my will would there be a bargain. Useless creatures never allow a touch from man or they become tethered to their rider. Besides, that trinket is not thou’s greatest treasure.” He gestured toward me, suspended and helpless above the pit. “She is. Thou’s obsession. Thou’s fixation. The woman you would sell your soul to possess.”
Understanding dawned on Gaspard’s face, quickly followed by fury. “That’s not—you can’t—”
“I can and I have,” the Dark Lord said simply. “The price for trapping the beasts is that you will never touch her again. Never claim her. Never possess her.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate. “And should you ever break this condition—should your hand ever brush against her skin with intent—the curse will shatter. The beasts will be freed, and you will take their place in my realm.”
My heart leapt in my chest. A loophole. A way out. If I could somehow convince Gaspard to touch me, to break the curse...
The thought was repulsive. The idea of inviting his touch, of tempting him into claiming me, made bile rise in my throat. But for Laurent, Marcel, and Bastien, I would do it. I would endure anything to save them from eternal torment.
Gaspard must have seen the calculation in my eyes. His face contorted with rage, the darkness around him flaring like a struck match.
“You tricked me!” he snarled, lunging not at me but at the Dark Lord himself.
It was like watching a child attack a mountain. The Dark Lord didn’t even bother to move. He simply snapped his fingers, the sound unnaturally loud in the howling wind.
Gaspard’s legs bent backward with a sickening crack. The sound of breaking bone was unmistakable, as was his scream. High and thin and animal in its pain. He collapsed to the ground, his legs twisted at impossible angles, blood soaking through his hunting leathers.
