Ever
“Balor!” I yell, watching my wolfhound disappear into the forest. No doubt drunk on some disgustingly fetid scent, he doesn’t even bother to flick his shaggy gray tail in my direction.
For the past two days, I’ve been hunting draygonets in the Lowlands, my faithful hound at my horse’s side, obeying my every command. Until now.
When I catch the disloyal fur-brain, I just might squeeze the air from his disobedient lungs.
Sighing, I stroke my steed’s warm neck. “You wouldn’t dream of forsaking me for a dead rabbit, would you, Jinn?”
The horse nickers loudly.
I grin, my fingers tangling in his braided mane of silky sable. “You dare laugh at me?”
Silence.
“Fine. I’ll assume you have no interest in the contents of my saddle bags, then,” I say, urging him to walk a little faster. “Guess I’ll eat the carrots myself.”
That idea receives an indignant whinny as ebony ears press flat against his skull, and his back legs kick out, jolting me in the saddle.
“Relax. I’m merely teasing. You know my low opinion of orange vegetables. They’re far too… festive.”
He snorts.
In no rush to catch Balor, we ramble slowly toward Ithalah forest, the midday sun barely shining on my back as it fights its way through a veil of clouds. Because the air elements are linked to my moods, gray light casts a gloom over the land, drizzle falls, and an annoying storm brews overhead. Hence my damp hunting garb and the tangle of wet hair about my shoulders.
Damn the unchanging weather—wintry and dull—I like it not.
A sneer twists my lips as I glare first at the sky above and then forward at the copse of trees that recently swallowed my hound. Wishing I could head home for some long overdue sleep, I’m vexed I must waste time in fetching him back.
Heavy as lead, my shoulders sag.
I am tired, tired of everything—disobedient hounds, aching bones, the cursed blood corroding my veins as it slowly turns me into a creature I do not want to become. A ruler. A king.
Because of the poison polluting my mind, I crave violence—a gift of fear, a fight, a terrible struggle for survival, followed by the sweet relief of death. It matters not whose death transpires, only that it is gruesome.
In truth, even death bores me lately.
Hunting draygonets, the brainless bloodsuckers who’ve slaughtered countless forest-dwelling moss elves this past year, was once my main source of pleasure. Now it’s wearisome and tedious. Always my arrow strikes true and blood drips fast, but the satisfaction of the kill is fleeting.
What else can I complain about?
I’ve had my fill of sleeping rough, bland meals of weeds and mushrooms, and the monotony of my own dark musings. So, what now?
I’m the thirteenth Black Blood prince, heir to the Land of Five, and I’d rather be buried under the mountain than sit upon its throne.
As I pull Jinn to a halt, I think of home, the feasts and revelries of the Emerald Castle—all wicked, lavish, decadent—and so thoroughly, mind-meltingly boring.
While Jinn stamps the ground impatiently, I stare at the grass and contemplate my future. Each dreary hour will roll into an endless age in the kingdom I pray to Dana will never be mine.
The throne I plan to shun.
The court I wish to abandon.
The care I no longer have for… well… for anything.
But I wasn’t always this way, full of bitterness and hate. Once, the sun shone in my kingdom, and I ran wild and carefree with my brothers. Now the eldest, Rain, is dead, and I’m the current Black Blood heir, marked for the exact same fate. Unless, of course, I find my queen, stop the poison, wear the crown. And let the air mage win.
That will never, ever happen. My plan, instead, is to wring her slender, treacherous neck. Slowly.
I think of Mother, and of the girl she wants me to find. The king she wants me to become.
My head flicks up as frenzied barks resound from the gully, near the creek most likely, because Balor is a fool for water.
Damn the dog to the withered dryads; what foul beast has he captured now?
I may as well take a look because whatever he’s found will be a diversion from my current thoughts, unpleasant images of Mother’s face when she learns I’ve been hunting draygonets instead of my future bride.
I snap the reins in the air, and Jinn shifts into a trot.
Plunging into the woods, I track the sound of Balor’s vicious growls, my skin buzzing. He probably has his prey by the throat, which means when I arrive, he’ll be shivering with joy and irritatingly pleased with himself.
And I shall remain bored.
Bored of everything.
Mist gathers on my hooded cloak as we pause on the hilltop, surveying the land’s gentle decline down to the stream. Other than Balor’s soft snarls, a suspended tension fills the air. The birds wait. The bakru, fauns, and elves, too. All of them bide in silence—the trees and even the leaves.
Shhh. The Black Blood prince comes. Do not peep a sound, for it may be the last one you make. Shhh. Shhh.
Paying the whispers no mind, I dismount and stroke Jinn’s neck. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”
Balor hears my boots crunch over leaves and fallen branches, and his snarls turn into excited yelps. I emerge through scrubby brush at the water’s edge, jerking to a stop when I see the dark shape he’s looming over.
Draped on moss-covered rocks, a small hand dangling in the water, is a very odd creature indeed. Obviously, it’s some kind of unconscious water sprite. Perhaps a merrow. Or a dribble-hag. No, its arms are too short. More likely a troll, then, which warrants closer inspection.
“Balor, back.”
The dog whines as he scuttles up the hill, eyes fixed on the sleeping lump of troll.
“Well done,” I say, conceding the compliment he’s been waiting for. “Indeed, you are the kingdom’s finest hunter, if not the most undisciplined.”
As my palm rubs my sword pommel, dark magic infuses the air, curling around my calves like a hungry cat. I breathe deeply, tasting the flavor, unfamiliar and strong. No way that’s a fallen troll sleeping in the creek—their magic is next to useless.
With each step I take toward the sodden heap, pain radiates from the tattoo in the center of my chest, the symbol of air, burning and no doubt glowing brightly beneath my clothes.
I crouch in front of the troll and examine it.
Its face is lodged in a crevice between rocks, the small body and unusual costume partly buried in mud and leaves. I wonder how long it’s lain there? Not a great amount of time, I assume, because the water-dwellers haven’t started to dine on it.
The creature groans. Grimaces. Then lifts a hand to rub through its long matted hair, the color of watery blood. My boot tapping impatiently, I watch closely as it rolls over and reveals itself.
Dana be damned. What is this extraordinary thing?
A coarsely woven tunic of dark lavender clings to curves, confirming the creature is female. Huh. It looks like an uncommon variety of goblin. A sour flavor tingles my tongue.
How tiresome. But in case it’s breeding, it must be presented to the queen—my mother and her stupid rules—and the court will decide what to do with it—what to do with her. It is ugly, so they’ll probably kill it or enter it into bonded labor.
Dirty eyelids flicker and uncover dull-green irises as plain and bland as the rest of it. If the thing screams, I might just kill it myself.
Its mouth opens, head raising an inch off the rock.
My fists clench, knuckles cracking, and black fury clouds my mind. I sneer down at it—at her—thunder shaking the sky. “Hello, goblin girl. So, tell me, from which tree stump did you crawl out?”
