Serilda pressed her palms above her ears, urging herself to think.
There must be a story, she thought. Some hint in one of the old tales. There were countless fairy stories of well-meaning girls and boys falling into a well or diving into the sea, only to find themselves in enchanted lands, in Verloren, in the realms beyond. There had to be a clue as to how one could slip through the veil.
There was a way. She refused to accept otherwise.
She squeezed shut her eyes.
Why hadn’t she thought to ask Madam Sauer? She was a witch. She probably knew a dozen ways to?…
She gasped, her eyelids flying open.
Madam Sauer was a witch.
A witch.
How many times had she told the children this very thing? It had been a lie, then. A silly story, even a cruel-hearted one at times, but nothing serious. She had merely been poking fun of their grumpy teacher, whom they all shared a mutual dislike for.
But it hadn’t been a story.
It had been real.
She had spoken the truth.
And how many times had she told the once-ridiculous tale that she had been marked by the god of lies?
But—her father really had made a wish upon one of the old gods. She really was marked by Wyrdith. Shrub Grandmother had confirmed it. Serilda had been right all along.
She was the godchild of the god of lies, and yet, somehow … all her lies were coming true.
Could she do it on purpose?
Could she tell a story and make it true? Or was this part of the magic of her gift, part of the wish granted to her father all those years ago?
She might be marked as a liar, but there would be truths in her words that no one could see. Maybe she wasn’t a liar at all, but more like a historian. Maybe even an oracle.
Telling stories of the past that had been buried for too long.
Creating stories that might yet come to be.
Spinning something out of nothing.
Straw into gold.
She imagined the audience before her. The Erlking and his court. All his monsters and ghouls. His servants and attendants—those battered spirits—who, on this side of the veil, had to endure their deaths over and over again.
Gild was there, too, trapped somewhere in these walls. As lost as any of them.
And Gerdrut.
Watching her. Waiting.
Serilda inhaled deeply, and began.
There was once a young princess, stolen by the wild hunt, and a prince, her elder brother, who did all he could to rescue her. He rode through the forest as fast as he could, desperate to catch the hunt before she was taken forever.
But the prince failed. He could not save his sister.
He did, however, manage to vanquish Perchta, the great huntress. He shot an arrow through her heart, and watched as her soul was claimed by the god of death and dragged back to Verloren, from whence all the dark ones had once escaped.
But Perchta had been loved, adored. Almost worshipped. And the Erlking, who had never known true loss until that day, vowed that he would have vengeance on the human boy who had stolen his lover from the world of the living.
Weeks passed as the prince healed from his wounds, tended to by the forest folk. When he finally returned home to his castle, it was under the bright silver light of a full moon. He walked across the bridge and through the gates, surprised to find them unguarded. The watchtowers abandoned.
As the prince stepped into the courtyard, a stench engulfed him, one that nearly stopped his heart.
The unmistakable smell of blood.
The prince reached for his sword, but it was too late. Death had already come to the castle. No one had been spared. Not the guards, not the servants. Bodies were sprawled across the courtyard. Broken, maimed, torn to pieces.
The prince ran into the keep, shouting to anyone who might hear him. Desperately hoping there might be someone who had survived. His mother. His father. The nursemaid who had often comforted him, the sword master who had trained him, the tutors who had taught and scolded and praised him into adulthood, the stable boy who had sometimes joined in his childhood mischief.
But everywhere he went, he saw only the echo of violence. Brutality and death.
Everyone was gone.
Everyone.
The prince found himself in the throne room. He felt ripped to shreds at the extent of the massacre, but when his eyes fell on the dais, it was rage that overtook him.
The Erlking sat on the king’s throne, a crossbow on his lap and a smile on his lips, while the bodies of the king and queen had been strung up like tapestries on the wall behind him.
With a wail of fury, the prince raised his sword and began to charge the villain, but in that same moment, the Erlking fired an arrow tipped in pure gold.
The prince screamed. He dropped the sword and fell to his knees, cradling his arm. The arrow had not gone completely through but remained lodged in his wrist.
With a snarl, he looked up and staggered back to his feet. “You should have aimed to kill,” he told the Erlking.
But the villain merely smiled. “I do not want you dead. I want you to suffer. As I have suffered. As I will continue to suffer for the rest of time.”
The prince claimed the sword with his other hand. But when he again went to charge for the Erlking—something tugged on his arm, holding him in place. He looked down at the bloodied arrow shaft trapped in his limb.
The Erlking rose from the throne. Black magic sparked in the air between them.
“That arrow now tethers you to this castle,” he said. “Your spirit no longer belongs to the confines of your mortal body, but will be forever trapped within these walls. From this day into eternity, your soul belongs to me.” The Erlking lifted his hands and darkness cloaked the castle, spreading through the throne room and out to every corner of that forsaken place. “I lay claim to all of this. To your family’s history, your beloved name—and I curse it all. The world will forget you. Your name will be burned from the pages of history. Not even you will remember the love you might have known. Dear prince, you will be forever alone, tormented until the end of time—just as you’ve left me. And you will never understand why. Let this be your fate, until your name, forgotten by all, should be spoken once more.”
The prince slumped forward, crushed beneath the weight of the curse.
Already the words of the spell were stealing through his mind. Memories of his childhood, his family, all that he had ever known and loved, were pulling apart like threads of spun yarn.
His last thought was of the stolen princess. Bright and clever, the keeper of his heart.
While he could still remember her, he looked at the Erlking with tears gathering in his eyes and managed to choke out his last words before the curse claimed him.
“My sister,” he pleaded. “Have you trapped her soul in this world? Will I ever see again?”
But the Erlking merely laughed. “Foolish prince. What sister?”
And the prince could only stare, dumbfounded and hollow. He had no answer. He had no sister. No past. No memories at all.