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To the quiet girls with stories in their heads. To their dreams—and their nightmares.
The Spirit did warn me that nothing comes free, That bargains and barters all come with a fee.
Plausible reasons are but a shadow at the gallows. The highwayman meets the hangman, one way or another.
His laugh echoed in the cavernous dark. I know what I know. My secrets are deep. But long have I kept them, and long will they keep.
My voice faltered. “And if I should like to leave?” He held my gaze. “You’re not a prisoner.” There are many different kinds of cages, the Nightmare said.
A King’s reign is wrought with burden, the Nightmare whispered, his voice uncharacteristically heavy. Weighty decisions ripple through centuries. Still, decisions must be made.
“Blood must be spilled,” Ravyn said, his voice far away. “Could there ever be an easy choice?”
What did you do? I cried, too afraid to look back. The Nightmare’s voice was like hot iron. The berry of rowans is red, always red. The earth at its trunk is dark with blood shed. But a Prince is a man, and a man may be bled. He came for the girl… And got the monster instead.
Magic is the oldest paradox. The more power it gives you, the weaker you become. Be wary. Be clever. Be good.
I walked the long corridor back to my room, humming one of the Nightmare’s tunes to myself. The Cards. The mist. The blood, he called in the dark. You’re getting closer. Can you smell the salt?
Magic born of the infection is immeasurable. Unfathomable. It owns no loyalty—keeps no rules. For some, it carries great, unyielding power. For others, darkness and degeneration await.
An offering, bartered with blood. That’s how the Spirit bargains—always with blood. So the Shepherd King built her this chamber at the edge of the woods, this altar. And here, they bartered. How do you know so much about it?
“It doesn’t take much blood,” he said, his voice a growl. “Just a small amount. An offering.” A barter, whispered the Nightmare. Nothing comes free.
But it felt incomplete, my collection yet whole. And so, for the Nightmare, I bartered my soul.
Something ancient—born of salt. We were the same, he and I. Gifted with ancient, terrible magic. Woven in secret, hidden in half-truths.
I kept walking, wondering what it would feel like if the Nightmare took over my mind completely. Would it hurt, or would it be gentle, like slipping into the wood unnoticed—disappearing into the mist? Perhaps I’d leave my dress behind as a final farewell to the world and steal into the trees like a ghost, absorbed by darkness and moss.
someday, there will be a reckoning.” He pulled back, his gray eyes tight with strain. “The highwayman meets the hangman. Always.”
What’s yours is mine when the shadows draw near. You asked for my help—and now I am here. With your eyes I do see, with your ears I do hear. There’s no going back—this is payment, my dear.
There were no cries of triumph—no support for the High Prince and the Destriers. They did not claim this violence. But they were too afraid to stop it.
The sound of the Nightmare’s hiss—the tap of his claws—juddered in my ears, hollowing out my fear until all that was left was rage. When the shadows grow long, when our names turn to dust, what we loved, what we hated, will spoil to rust. All will be forgotten, save one truth, unshaken… What did we do when the children were taken?
