By Naomi Necakov
(TW: abuse and violence)
No man is burdenless. We carry heavy cargo invisible to the naked eye but blinding to the soul. I harbor such weight during morning, noon, and night. A prince has no time for worrying—ease and grandeur are his only concerns. He does not wallow in his chambers and spend years grieving for his dead mother … at least that’s what Father tries to ingrain in me. A prince seizes the world and makes it his own. A prince rules, yet I rule nothing. Instead, I am ruled by sorrow.
My mother was a kind woman whose actions and countenance contrasted greatly with that of her standing, the daughter of a baron. She was neither snobbish nor vain. She did not beat her maids or servants as other ladies of the court did—she shared in their labors instead. My grandfather, of whom my mother did not speak much, would scold her for lowering herself to the level of a servant. She cared not for his opinions. Though I take great pains to describe my mother’s gentle soul, I cannot do her pure heart justice.
She had me out of wedlock eighteen years ago, a little after my father’s wife passed, and though my mother was shamed for her transgressions, she persevered. I do not like the word ‘transgressions’ as she was merely a woman in love, not a criminal. She would tell me the ways my father wooed her—roses at her doorstep every evening, scented letters full of promises and romance. She spoke with sparkling eyes about how he would let the walls around his heart crumble just for her. When she told him of my arrival, his warmth dissipated. She said I was the brilliant torch that guided her through the dark cavern that was her life.
That darkness passed to me. A decade ago, my mother was murdered by bandits who intercepted her carriage; our guardsmen were nowhere in sight. I was with her, but I could not save her. They tied ropes between the trees that lined the road, which tripped the horses and flipped the carriage over. Hooded figures ripped us from our tumbled seats—I remember the sound of my mother screaming as they dragged her by the collar of her gown into the woods. I cried for her, rushing after the men who took her, only to be grabbed and shoved onto the ground. A large cloaked man loomed over me, his silhouette blocking the starry night sky. He reached down, grabbed me by the arm, and pinned me against the crumbled carriage. I tried to struggle against his grip, but he quickly drew a knife, threatening to slit my throat. His face reminded me of a gargoyle’s: wide, disproportionate, and wicked. His breath smelt of rotten onions and his eyes were coal pits.
He twisted the knife against my neck, slightly breaking the skin. “Thought you could get away, little weasel?” he taunted.
My chest heaved rapidly as warm droplets of blood rolled down my collarbone.
He sneered. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘What’s happening to her?’ ” He laughed as his grip tightened around the knife. “Why don’t we go see?”
He dropped the knife to his side, hoisted me over his shoulder, and darted toward the woods where the rest of the men gathered. He dropped me onto the hard ground, and the flick of his knife sounded again in my ear. I was paralyzed. In the center of their vulture’s circle lay my mother, whose silver dress was in tatters, her jewelry strewn about her feet. Her left temple was swollen. I whimpered, and she turned to look at me.
“It’s alright, Faren,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s alright.”
There is always a pause before lightning strikes. Whenever it comes, it seems to last an eternity before the sky fractures with a shocking white light. This moment was no different. The sounds of the night were suddenly silenced all at once. One of the men raised a spear into the air, its blade gleaming in the moonlight. I watched helplessly as that same flash descended into my mother’s chest with a deafening squelch. My memories do not focus on the fountain of blood that sprouted from her chest, nor the laughs of the bandits, and how those cackles turned into screams as the guardsmen that had caught up to us slaughtered them. The only thing I remember with clarity was my mother’s hazel eyes filling with tearful agony as she passed on.
When I look at myself in the mirror, sometimes I see her eyes.
* * *
My half-brother, Eladin, cares little for me. He is Father’s favorite, and thus feels it necessary to torment me—the poor motherless bastard. We run into each other in the gardens at the palace’s entrance; neither of us is allowed indoors since Father has company. We both favor the same little corner amongst the labyrinth of hedges where a small set of marble benches, an angel statue, and a magnolia tree rest. There is little else we have in common, besides being motherless. It is peaceful here and, for once, Eladin does not immediately antagonize me. The evening sun says its farewells as it starts to dip behind the edges of the castle, bathing us in scarlet light. Eladin sits on the bench across from me, his arms folded against his broad frame. The rest of his body looks as if it is being pulled upright by a tightly-wound string. His jadelike eyes, which he inherited from our father, sit perfectly aligned on his chiseled face. As we sit in silence, I watch his angular eyebrows contort further and further in disgust. I wait for him to speak, but he says nothing.
I pick up a stray leaf that has fallen onto the bench and twirl it between my fingers. “I have not seen you today, dear brother.” His eyes flare at this. “I hope you are well,” I lie.
“Avoid referring to me so casually,” he warns. He turns his dark-haired head away to shield himself from my gaze. “Your nightly wailings could wake the dead.”
My hands clench together instinctively, crinkling the leaf. “My sorrows are weighing on me quite harshly as of late. It is of course around this time of year that Mother passed.”
“Silence your sorrows,” he says sharply. “Father says your mother is not worth grieving over. You should heed his advice.”
I say nothing to him. Perhaps he twists the pain of his lost mother into hatred for me. Then again, it is more likely he wants a reaction, an invitation to fight. I know better than to trip his snare. Eldain’s jade eyes pierce me in a similar fashion to the statue beside us. He realizes I will not move under his glare. He gets up, straightens his diamond-patterned tunic, and departs. The sound of dead leaves follows him until he is out of sight. The gardens are no longer comforting. I leave, dropping the crinkled leaf onto the grassy floor. I enter the castle with every intent of returning to my chambers. The stone hallway greets me, showcasing its display of torches and ominous paintings. Father was never one for decor. The eyes of a certain portrait, a woman holding an ermine, seem to follow me as I walk, causing me to turn my attention to the floor. I nearly bump into a cook carrying a steaming pot of water. As I bow my head to apologize, my eyes catch the familiar green hem of a certain someone’s dress near the kitchen’s threshold—my half-sister, Nyra.
In contrast to Eladin, Nyra cares much for me. She has done so since my mother passed, being the only one to comfort me over the years. She is bothering the chefs, sneaking some freshly-made sweets into her handkerchief when they aren’t looking. Though she is a year older than me, she never quite acts her age. She always sneaks out of the castle and into places she shouldn’t be. I don’t tell anyone of her excursions.
I squint. Somehow, she’s gotten flour in her dark brown hair and on the skirts of her frilly green dress. She turns around and notices me peering from the hallway. She gives me a mischievous grin, gesturing to her handkerchief.
“Want one?” she mouths.
I shake my head.
Her grin falters and she dips out of the kitchen, excusing herself as she accidentally bumps into the cooks slaving away at tonight’s meal. In the hallway, she looks up at me with doe-like eyes. It amazes me how little she and Eladin look alike, despite hailing from the same parentage. “What’s wrong, Faren? You never refuse a treat.”
I brush the flour out of her hair. “I’m not hungry.”
Her slender brows knit together. “Did Eladin say something to you again?”
I say nothing, but even with my silence, Nyra cuts through.
“Whatever he’s saying to you is nonsense. He doesn’t know how to care about anyone except himself.” She takes an aggressive bite out of one of the sweets from her handkerchief.
“It’s nothing, Nyra, truly.”
“You should have come to me sooner,” Nyra chides. She glances at the kitchen entryway, her eyes locking on a stack of crates. She turns to me with a newfound spark in her eyes. “We should go to the market. It’ll do you some good to get some fresh air.”
The collar of my tunic starts to feel tight. “You know how Father gets when we leave the castle.”
“He won’t realize we’re missing.”
She grabs my arm and we break into a run.
* * *
Nyra bribes one of the guards to let us leave the castle. He gestures for us to stand back as he pulls a lever embedded in the garden’s wall. The towering steel doors of the castle’s exterior wall crank open, and we step under the grand stone archway. It is the last barrier that separates us from Atrea City, a transition point between mundane castle life and a world full of infinite possibilities. I look down at Nyra’s heart-shaped face. I can see her calculating in her head where she wants to go while in town. She changed her attire to blend into the crowds. Her frilly dress has been replaced by a pair of brown slacks, a green tunic, and knee-length boots similar to my own. My attire remains unchanged. The hooded cloaks Nyra hastily grabbed from the guard’s station before we left are long enough to hide my ornate tunic. She assures me she’ll return them, but I don’t believe her.
I look behind us and see Father’s dark castle looming over the wall as we depart. I look away and focus on the sights before me. Fluted stone pillars surround the city plaza in a ring, and red and gold banners sway proudly from them in the chilly autumn breeze. Though the cloaks shield our identity from Atrea’s populace, they do not protect us from the cold. I wrap the ends of the coarse fabric around me in an attempt to keep myself warm. Atrea’s citizens walk about the plaza without a care in their hearts. I envy them. The sounds of singing, lute playing, horns, and drums fill our ears. A band of men in orange and blue motley bounce and swing to their music, their pointed shoes clacking in rhythm against the cobblestone. Nyra claps along to the beat of their song as we pass.
She turns to me and points at the beautifully intricate fountain in the plaza’s center. Its circular base is lined with white stone and metal. From its center erupts a marble platform that houses a stone-carved version of our family’s crest: a falcon. Some city dwellers sit at the fountain’s edge chatting away. Others toss shiny silver coins into the clear water.
On the plaza’s outer ring, rows and rows of merchant stands sit pleasantly side by side, each offering a variety of goods: colorful silks, fragrant toasted apples, crisp bread, knick-knacks, and other small treasures as far as the eye can see.
Nyra tugs on the hem of my cloak. “Look, they’re selling strawberry tarts!” she says pointing to a small orange cart.
“You just ate some pastries from the castle, did you not?”
“I always have room for more.”
I try to contest, but Nyra’s stubbornness wins out. We shuffle over to the stands and she bounces excitedly while perusing the pastries. As she looks over the offered treats, my eyes and ears wander to the stall to our left. A merchant in brown robes is speaking to an old woman, whose smile grows wider and wider in laughter as she listens to his story.
“You are too funny, sir.”
“But I am not joking, madam, it is true! I swear on the quality of my goods that the Witch of White Valley exists!”
The listener throws her head back in laughter. “A witch who can break any curse? I doubt such tales. Witches cast curses for goodness sake, they don’t lift them.”
“But she does, my friend! She does! She lives in a cottage at the forest’s edge in White Valley. Seek her out if you do not believe me.”
The woman continues to laugh, shaking her head as she pays for her purchase, and turns to leave.
Curses? Would my grief count as a curse? The question gnaws at my brain. Could something as chaotic and frightening as magic cure me? I tap my fingers against the side of my leg. White Valley is not far from Atrea City, about a half-hour walk. Father would have my head if I left the kingdom, but, seeing as I am already outside the castle walls, perhaps visiting this witch is worth the risk—magic and all.
“Faren?” Nyra calls out to me.
I blink. “Yes?”
“I asked which tart you wanted, but you didn’t answer me.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Nyra frowns. “You had such a distant stare in your eyes. Is everything alright?”
I nod. “Everything is alright.” I look over at the tarts on display. “I think I’ll take a blueberry one.”
* * *
Evening descends into night and I am restless. Nyra looks sleepily at me as we return to the city’s entrance. Some stray townspeople pass by us, sharing a similar exhausted look. The market’s energy has lulled, leaving everyone longing for their warm beds.
Nyra lets out a loud yawn.“Did you enjoy yourself, Faren?”
“I did,” I lie.
She smiles, fighting against another yawn. “I’m glad.” She walks back to the castle’s entrance but pauses when I do not follow.
“Aren’t you coming?”
I shouldn’t test my luck any longer, but I want to leave. “One of the stalls has something I want,” I say.
Nyra looks at me in a half-quizzical, half-weary manner. “Why didn’t you pick it up when we were there?”
“I didn’t realize I wanted it until now. You go on ahead, it might be a while.”
She sighs, which morphs into another yawn. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
It is time for me to usurp my misery’s throne.
* * *
White Valley stretches before me; countless dirt pathways weave through the lush verdant hills, all beckoning me to adventure and discovery. I have not set foot here since I was a child. My mother used to take me here on picnics ages ago—a distant memory long forgotten. I yield to the temptations and intimacy of it all and burst into a run. My lungs heave, an endless cycle of grasping air and expelling it, and, though it burns, I revel in the feeling. Beyond these hills are greater mountains dappled with pointed evergreens. They frame the cool, moonlit river with a detailed and extraordinary beauty that no painter could capture on dim, lifeless canvas. My breath hitches and I slow down, leaning forward with my hands on my knees. My eyes catch the hint of a story trapped within the dirt road: footprints. They are sharp and small, printed by a woman’s boot. Strangely enough, pawprints take their place as the trail continues. A chill of curiousness races up my spine as I track the footprints deeper into the valley, and eventually into the maw of the nearby woods.
Nature does not sing here. It is cold and foggy, and the trees stand like the turrets of Father’s castle. A small cottage, whose description matches what I overheard in Atrea City, sits at the river’s edge. Its circular windows are lit by candlelight, which pierces through the fog. They remind me of a wolf’s eyes. I gather my courage and approach the oval door, which has been left slightly ajar.
As I peer through the crack, I see her. A woman in a form-fitting dress with flowing sleeves sits behind a polished desk on the right side of the parlor, scribbling away with pen and ink in a leatherbound book. An array of golden candles flicker on her desk as she writes in measured looping strokes. The woman’s fiery orange hair is braided in ropes that cascade down her pale neck. Her face is cast downward, but I can tell she is beautiful. Her eyes are sleek and foxlike, and her lips are as delicate as rose petals. I do not wish to disturb her, but my hand drifts on its own to her door and knocks.
“Hello?” I crack open the door a little wider.
Her eyes, which I now see are deep blue, slide upward to meet my gaze. She studies me for a moment and a brief silence hangs in the air. She sets her pen down and closes her notebook with a graceful hand.
“A prince,” says the Witch of White Valley with a smile. “I have never had the honor of entertaining one of royal blood.”
I return her smile, though it falters. Neither my appearance nor my words betray my standing—how could she have sleuthed it out? I can feel my nervousness cause the edges of my mouth to twitch as I step past the threshold. “Do you often go on walks?” I blurt out, remembering the footprints I saw earlier.
She raises an eyebrow. “I do.” Her chair creaks as she rises, lifting her skirts in a courtly, yet coquettish manner. She bends around the corner of the desk and walks toward me. She dips her head and curtseys.
“Please, be at ease. There is no need to make an effort for my sake.”
Her smile returns. “I would feel odd if I did not make the effort.” She offers her hand, and I take it gingerly as if lifting a wilting blossom. My lips scarcely brush against her skin. Even after dropping her hand, her smile remains.
“What can I do for you, Your Highness?”
I swallow. “I heard you can break any curse. I was wondering if your miracles could help me.”
“What is troubling you?”
I glance behind her, focusing on the candles burning brightly at her desk. “Joy has fled from me, and I cannot reclaim it.”
She nods solemnly. “Loss,” her voice comes out as a whisper. “That is a very difficult curse to break,” she says, frowning. Her eyes blaze with a radiant pity.
“Can you not help me then?”
The witch’s signature smile returns quickly. “Of course I can, but that comes in the form of guidance. You must draw your own conclusions and learn to live for yourself.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say.
She pauses, turning her back to me to reach for something sequestered in a bookcase beside her desk that I had not seen when I entered. From her stacks of books, she unearths a medium velvet box, faces me, and opens the lid. Cradled by red cushions sits a stark white fur cloak with a bronze buckle.
“This will be your guidance. Find the key to wearing it, and your curse will be broken.” She closes the box and hands it to me. I accept it gratefully. It’s lighter than I thought it would be.
“Thank you, dear lady. How can I repay you?”
She smiles once more. “All I ask is that you return the cloak to me once the curse is lifted. Nothing more.”
I look down at the box. “Is there nothing else I can do to repay you? Why help me otherwise?”
“Consider it a favor to you, Your Highness. I have a feeling we will cross paths another time.” She gestures to the door. “Go now, your healing journey awaits.”
I cannot help but believe her kind-heartedness and profusely thank her as I retreat to the door. She closes it, and through her window, I can see she has returned to writing in her book. I silently thank her once more before leaving the woods.
* * *
I return to the castle a little after midnight, right as the night patrol starts. They will notify Father if they catch me out this late, so I raise my hood and stick to the garden’s hedges. There is a door on the left side of the garden that the guards use to get into the palace, the same one Nyra took when she swiped the cloaks we wore on our outing to Atrea City. She has pointed it out to me before, but I never thought to use it until now. Reaching that door guarantees my safety.
I hold the velvet box snuggly underneath my arm as I press my body to the hedges and watch the guards shine their lanterns on every crack and crevice like clockwork. Slowly, I move toward the door, keeping my breathing low and my steps quiet. I pause with tense limbs as I watch lantern light approach the corner I am about to turn. I fall back and sink behind one of the garden’s many angel statues. I hide my eyes beneath my hood and clutch the box. The sound of footsteps approaches, as does the lantern light.
I hold my breath.
The guard sweeps his lantern over the statue, and I dare not move. I pray the statue will conceal me. The velvet edges of the box are hard and press into my palms like a dull arrow’s edge. The guard’s boots shift in the dirt, and he takes a few steps forward. The light inches closer to my feet, and I resist the urge to curl in my legs. Any movement, and I would surely be detected. A shout from another guard causes the lantern light to jolt, and my pursuer yells back, hastily leaving the scene. I let out the breath I had held in for so long and relaxed my grip on the box. Its edges have left small, pink indents on my hands. That was something I would have to worry about later. The side entrance is only a few feet away now. I look around, trying to find the semblance of a guard or light, but nothing comes. Night’s darkness drapes over me as I swiftly enter the side door.
Nothing is stopping me now. I run down the torch-lit hallway, past the kitchen and the strange paintings whose eyes seem to follow me, and, just as I turn the corner to get to my chambers, my body comes in contact with something hard and sturdy. The wind is knocked out of me, and I drop the box.
“What have we here?” questions a familiar voice.
I look up, wheezing, and see cold jade eyes staring back at me.
“Faren,” says Eladin in a mocking tone. “You know you shouldn’t be out this late.”
“Leave me alone,” I try to say, but my lungs are recovering from the impact, so a shaky breath emerges instead.
His eyes flick over to the box. “What’s this?” He bends down to pick up the box, but I slap his hand away with what little energy I can muster.
“You cur,” he spits. “I will not let this go unnoticed. First thing in the morning I shall tell Father of your mischief.” He kicks the box away from me, deciding its contents are not valuable, and disappears into his room.
Regaining my breath, I pick up the box and rise. After locking my chamber’s door and discarding the guard’s cloak from my shoulders, I remove the witch’s miracle from its container. I run my fingers through the white fur. The cloak is oddly warm as if it was recently put near a hearth to dry. Something about it feels alive, but I cannot place what makes it so. I unclasp the bronze buckle and slide the cloak over my shoulders. It’s a little heavy, but not in a cumbersome way. The fur shields me from the chilly autumn air that breezes in from my window, and I close my eyes and lay down in my bed. In the darkness of my eyelids, I find nothing nagging at my brain. No thoughts of loneliness, or hopelessness. No internal criticisms. No sad memories of my mother. Nothing. There is only peace, and I find myself drifting to sleep.
* * *
My eyes open with the morning light, and, as I rouse myself from a heavy slumber, I notice a few oddities about my room. My ceiling appears higher than normal. The posts of my bed frame somehow morphed into the size of thin trees, and my pillow could cradle my entire body. I lean over the side of my bed and see that the distance from the floor has increased. I try to rub my eyes with my hands, only to realize I have no hands at all. In their stead are a set of white paws with sharp little claws. I try to walk over to the other side of my bed where my mirror sits, but I find my legs uncooperative. My bottom half lags as I drag myself along my bed. After strenuous effort, I catch myself in the mirror—but what I see isn’t me. A creature with white fur, large black eyes, a pointed snout complete with a pink nose, and a tail with a black tip stares back. I raise and lower my head, and the little beast in my mirror mimics my movements.
My brain recalls the cloak and the witch, and I bite my blankets in anger with my newly formed fangs. She must have tricked me, the vixen. The old woman in the market was right. Witches don’t break curses … they cast them. Suddenly, a harsh congregationof smells invades my nose, followed by footfalls. A loud pounding at my door shatters my train of thought, and I instinctively burrow into my blankets, using my snout to raise them high enough for me to slip underneath.
“Faren!” shouts Eladin from the other side of the door. “Open this at once!”
I tunnel under the blankets to the side of the bed and slide against the fabric, using my claws as anchors. The stone floor greets my paws coldly. I flatten myself underneath the bed’s frame and wait, keeping my eyes on the door. I can hear a muffled conversation from the other side, barely making out my father’s voice. The two continue to speak before one leaves and returns with more company a few minutes later. I hear my door creak and give way as they bust it open and watch as their large boots and the bottom half of Father’s red cane intrude upon my room.
“He must have gone in here, I swear,” says Eladin. “I heard him lock his door last night.” I hear him ruffle through my blankets. “Here, Father, this is what he was carrying when I ran into him.” He must be showing him the box. I hear its lid open, and a grunt from Father.
“There is nothing in here,” he says.
“H-he must have taken whatever was in it and bolted,” says Eladin frantically.
Father’s cane shifts, as if using it to straighten his posture.“Faren’s door cannot be locked from the outside. Where could he have vanished to, Eladin?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Perhaps the window, milord,” says the voice of what I assumed to be a guard.
“I would have heard him fall out into the bushes,” says Eladin defensively.
“No matter,” says Father, tapping his cane on the stone floor. “He will not survive long outside the castle walls. He will come crawling back soon enough.” I see his gray leather boots and red cane leave the room, followed by the various guards’ boots. Eladin’s feet, however, are planted firmly against the floor. He mutters a few curses beneath his breath before stomping out after them. The overwhelming odor that bombarded me earlier disappeared with him. I peek my head from underneath the bed frame, cautiously looking from side to side. The hallway is clear. Gaining better control of my hind legs, I scurry along the perimeter, putting my newly attuned nose to work. I could make out the faint scent of pastries—Nyra might have been here earlier. I can’t go to her now, not like this. I need to return to White Valley.
* * *
I am small enough to go unnoticed by the castle staff, but I cannot rely on that for long. As I slink into the open pavilion leading to the gardens and the castle entrance, I notice how frigid the air has gotten. Freshly fallen snow has draped the scene in a chilly blanket. I pause in confusion. Has winter come early? It was cold yesterday, but not exceedingly so. The scent of pastries fills my nose once again, interrupting my thoughts. Far off, I see Nyra draped in a brown cape, sitting in my usual spot while staring at the angel statue. Her lips are curved into a frown, and dark circles frame her eyes. She looks as if she has aged ten years overnight. Part of me wants to go to her, but my other half advises against it on instinct. Using the snow to my advantage, I leap and bounce with great celerity, weaving in and out of the pockets of powder. The way my body moves surprises me. Moving in this form had quickly become second nature.
“Oh my,” I hear Nyra say. I stop and whip my head around to see her gawking at me.
“How cute,” she breathes out, her frown melting away. “A little ermine. How did you get in here? You must be lost.” She rises from the marble bench and approaches me slowly. I freeze. She kneels in front of me, extending her hands. My legs want to run, but I force them to be still. Nyra is mischievous, but she’d never harm another living being. I let her scoop me up into her skirt. “Don’t worry, little one, I’ll help you.” I imagine we look no different than the painting in the hallway.
She trots to the castle’s entrance, taking great care not to rattle my little head. Her skirts obscure my vision, but I can hear the steel doors to Atrea City yawn open. Music and chatter follow suit, along with a few exclamations that the princess is out and about.
“Excuse me,” I hear Nyra say as she pushes past the crowd. I feel claustrophobic for a moment, but it passes once I hear Nyra breathe a sigh of relief. She lifts me from her skirt and sets me on the snowy ground.
“Go now,” she says, giving me a small push. “Go back to your family.” My legs do not spare a second in creating distance from her, though I wish to stay by her side. I bound toward the valley in springlike hops, trudging against the snow.
* * *
The cool water of the valley’s river feels wonderful against my throat. Between drinks, I look at my reflection. The same creature I had seen in my mirror stares back. Something about this entire event feels like a dream. Despite its odd nature, I do not wish to wake up from it. Life as one of nature’s creatures seems much more appealing than being stuck under Father’s thumb. Sorrow does not weigh on me, nor does the threat of Eladin cause me to shudder. Perhaps this curse was a blessing in disguise.
Hours turn into days, and days into weeks. My chambers are a distant memory, as are the castle, Father, Eladin, Nyra, and even my deceased mother. White Valley is my home now. I find that my burrow is more accommodating than the fine bed sheets that once lined my mattress. The trees are no longer foreign to me, I know every single one by heart, from the crook of their branches to the hue of their bark. Bread and meat once served as my meals—sardines, rabbits, and insects take their place. I thought I would not be able to stomach such foods, nor carry out killing my prey, but the anxiety I once had about death has left me. Death is just as important as life—two sides of the same coin. Some must die so that others may live. It is a hard truth, so we deny it. I don’t anymore. My mother must have known. That’s what I saw in her eyes that day. It is rewarding to finally uncover that truth.
I hear the crunching of snow from my left and spring backward.
“I see you have found the key to the cloak,” says the Witch of White Valley. Her knees bend underneath her dress as she sits on the snowy ground. The chill does not disturb her. She smiles, and her hair shimmers in the sunlight. “You may now resume living as a prince.”
She raises her hand over me, and a faint glow emanates from her palm. I can feel myself grow larger, my paws returning to hands, and my tail vanishing from sight. Anxiety surges through me as the cloak falls from my shoulders. The Witch of White Valley reaches to collect it from the ground, but I grab it and pull it quickly over myself again, wishing with all my might to turn back into what I was. She looks shocked, maybe even appalled.
“You promised to return that to me,” she says in an even tone. “Besides, do you not wish to go back to your life? To your family?”
“I have no family,” I say.
She shakes her head, bewildered. “You do have a home, and you have people waiting for you, do you not?”
“They are not my real family,” I say. The fur of the cloak is a welcome comfort against my fingers.
She pauses and looks into my eyes as if reading something inscribed in them. “What about Nyra?”
“Not even her.”
Her blue eyes widen in disbelief, and her glance lowers to her hands. “Please give me back my Cloak of Winter.”
I shake my head fervently. “I can’t.”
Her hands ball into fists, her knuckles leaving miniature caverns in the snow.
“Fine,” her eyes are cold. She waves her hand over me again, and I return to my true self. Her eyes become dark. “Then I will hunt you down like the animal you so desperately wish to be.” Her dress blurs before my eyes, and its threads blend into orange fur. It spreads across her skin and face, and I watch in terror as the witch’s complexion triangulates and lengthens, her limbs slimming down. Neither woman nor witch sits before me—only a ravenous fox.
My heart rate spikes as I twist my nimble body and sprint away, but she is quick on my tail. Her maw opens and snaps shut, nearly catching my hind legs. I bolt into the forest, hoping the trees can make it difficult for her to catch up to me. She snarls, her mouth frothing, still snapping away once my tail gets too close. I turn sharply and scale up a nearby tree, watching her spin out of control as she crashes into a log. Snapping herself quickly out of her daze, she growls and circles the tree, her shoulder blades rising and falling in perfect rhythm. A dangerous and familiar scent fills my nostrils.
A howl permeates the air, and the fox-witch’s sharp ears flick toward the sound. Horse’s hooves flatten the snow against the winter ground, and the howling of dogs draws closer. In the corner of my eye, I see Eladin on horseback with a bow strapped to his back, followed by Father, and Nyra who lags sorrowfully behind.
“They smell something!” Eladin guffaws. He nocks an arrow into his bow and, with reflexes faster than my own, shoots the fox-witch in her haunches. She whimpers, feebly struggling to pull herself deeper into the woods, but the dogs are onto her.
I dare not move from the tree. They chase her further into the woods, howling, and I hear her struggle against their teeth. Her death throes reverberate amongst the tall, black trees. The dogs emerge from the forest, leaving a trail of red snow in their wake. Nyra looks faint.
“Well done, Eladin,” praises Father. His jade eyes look over the fox’s carcass in delight. Eladin swells up with pride like a gluttonous flea. I need to move while they’re distracted. I slide down the bark with a soft thump, but the snow’s crinkles betray me. Nyra gasps as she catches sight of me, but quickly covers her mouth. The men turn in the direction of her gaze and spot me. Vulture-like grins creep onto their faces.
“See if you can hit that one, too, Eladin.”
Eladin nocks another arrow and pulls back his bowstring, his arm steady and his gaze unwavering. It is the same as it was in the garden. As he breathes out, I try to run, kicking out the snow beneath my paws but the arrow is loosed into the wind, and Nyra wails. I sense that she will be the one to carry my burden.
There is always a pause before lightning strikes. Whenever it comes, it seems to last an eternity before the sky fractures with a shocking white light. This moment is no different. The sun gleams off the arrow’s edge, and, with a shrill sound, it hurls toward me.