This day, I have brought not joy but anger and sorrow.
This day, I have lost much.
I do not want to spend the night in this barren bed with a mind that refuses to quiet long enough for me to rest. What is the point?
My empty time would be better used elsewhere.
I stuff a few necessities into my rucksack and then bring Biscuits to the castle entrance, where two guards watch over my friends. Their jaws hang when I hand Biscuits’s lead to one of the males and tell him to make sure the queen gets her goat in the morning.
Kerris Dawn’s father is a farmer of goats; she will know how best to take care of my Biscuits. He will be happier with her than with me.
I leave Dusk as well, not wanting to risk bringing him across the canyon bridge. Besides, he would not like to leave this lush grass for what little grows in the Unseelie lands. This is best for him.
The walk will do me good. Keep me busy.
The road is silent beneath my boots, but the boards of the bridge creak and whine. Two Unseelie stand from the bonfire where I spent most of my youth, watching out for our people, yes, but mostly to spend time with my friends. To feel less alone.
These young males are known to me, but I do notknowthem, so I nod and continue down one of the many hunting trails that traverse the dark forests. The trees here stand as tall as the castle spires, with twisted limbs piercing the forever gray sky. There is a stand built high in the trees where I can spend this night. In the morning, I will hunt for any game I can find and bring it to the village. The hunters are constantly foraging for food to help our people survive. I have shirked my duty to them for far too long. At least my isolation will be of use to someone.
Rough bark scrapes my spine, keeping me rigid against the tree’s thick trunk. At the end of the branch perches a fuzzy gray squirrel. Squirrels do not provide much meat, but some meat is better than none. His eyes, dark like mine, lift to where I sit, and his fluffy tail jerks in greeting. When I was little, I used to dream of having a pet squirrel. Even started feeding one who lived in a nearby oak. Named him Stumpy because he enjoyed sitting on this little stump.
What if this one is related to Stumpy?
I can almost hear Gryffin’s gruff voice saying that is nonsense and that I am a fanciful buffoon. Ghost Gryffin is not wrong. Fanciful buffoons make up stories about false females so they can spend time with beautiful Seelie.
When I glance back up, the squirrel is gone.
Thank the gods. I would have hated to kill it.
Far below, a rabbit hops from beneath a bush, its little nose twitching in the air. Awfully twitchy, rabbits. So fluffy too, with their tiny white tails and long back feet. Rabbits are delicious, but how can I take the life of something so cute and cuddly?
My head falls back against the trunk. This is why I need my friends. Ever would remind me that if we do not kill, we do not eat. Thankfully, the rabbit returns to the bushes before I reach the ground.
With my feet back on the earth, I head east, where I stumble upon a doe and a fawn.
I cannot kill a mother, now, can I? To leave the fawn without its parent would be unnecessarily cruel. They bound away, their lifted tails like small white flags disappearing into the fog.
Why is there fog only on our side of the canyon? I used to think fog was smoke from a great fire. Then Gryffin told me it was the clouds. I did not believe him until he gave me a Seelie book about clouds. He has books about everything hidden around his wagon, although he is not very generous in sharing them.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly rise.
There are eyes in this fog. Watching. Stalking.
I slow my gait, listening for the sound of footfalls.There. The snap of a twig. Closer than it should be. I keep moving until I reach the nearest tree and unsheathe my dagger. A dark shadow emerges from the bushes, bloodred eyes trained on me.
Small for a wolf, but the fangs bared are just as deadly.
This is a beast I do not mind killing.
One that will feed many fae in our clan for days. One that, if left to live, could take the life of someone I know. Someone I care for.
The bone hilt is familiar in my grasp, worn smooth from many years of doing my duty. The beast’s muscles bunch beneath its thick coat of white fur. It lunges.
I am ready?—
My boot catches on the tree’s twisted root, and I’m thrown to the dirt.
Razor-sharp claws rake down my ribs; pain explodes like fire. The coppery tang of blood floods my nostrils.
