Chapter 3
In sleep, he visited a dark and dying wood.
It was a cold place, as everywhere in the north. But while the Thornwell beyond the Citadel was snow-kissed and Sacred-white, this forest was utterly barren. It was a place that felt like it was already dead, and it hid his monster within.
“Wake up,” Kinlear whispered.
His breath formed before him in a cloud as he found himself, barefoot and shivering, on the edge of the trees.
It was the same place he always began these dreams. His silk pajamas had been replaced by a dark and tattered cloak, a far cry from the Sacred whites his mother’s servants always dressed him in.
“Wake up,” Kinlear tried again. “Wake up-wake up-wake up.”
The mantra never worked.
But he tried it anyways, just as he had last night. And all the others before.
Behind him was only darkness. A world of depthless, inky black, where a boy of his age and stature would never dare go.
So, into the forest he went.
There were no leaves on this forest floor. Instead, the ground was made of churned up dirt, like a freshly dug grave. It was silent and cold on his bare toes as he wove through the trees, following the only sense of direction he knew.
North.
He felt it, each time he entered this wood.
If he just went north...if he just made it to the other side...
The monster would release him from the hunt.
He felt the aspen trees watching him as he walked. They stood over him, pale as clean-picked bones, and rattled as a cold wind sighed past their skeletal branches.
“Wake up,” Kinlear whispered again.
He never knew just when the monster would strike. But he was certain, the second he’d entered these woods...the hunt had already begun.
He wouldn’t make it easy, at least.
For here, in his dreams, he was fast and strong. Whatever illness he’d been born with could not follow him here, so he was able to run the way other children could. He was able to breathe without feeling like his lungs were full of glass.
He took a left, and leapt over a fallen tree, landing with ease. And certainly, without that nagging sense of quitting that always whispered a promise to his bones. His lungs did not quiver as the forest stretched on around him.
As he curved deeper into the land of dreams.
Sometimes, when he was here...he pretended he was like Arawn. Strong and brave and meant for more than the grave.
The forest remained largely the same, until he found the frozen river. It was there like a scar in the earth, a shining ribbon of silvery white. Each time he reached this river, it began to snow.
Fat white flakes began to tumble down around him. The frozen river spiderwebbed beneath his feet as a fresh layer of frost took shape.
“No,” Kinlear breathed.
It always grew coldest, when the monster was nearby.
He couldn’t see it. But he could feel its eyes upon him, hungry for blood.
He blinked, and the forest shifted. No longer was the ground barren. Now it was thick with a blanket of snow, so deep it reached his knees.
He trudged on, heading north.
But soon came the sound of labored breathing from behind him. And as the wind blew, it was thick with the reek and rot of death.
“Wake up,” Kinlear told himself, as he pushed through the snow.
The cold ate at his bones.
Soon, he feared, they would crack. He feared he would stop moving entirely.
Something behind him snapped.
“Princelingggg.”
The monster’s voice was a raw hiss of a whisper that sent a bolt of panic thrumming up and down his spine.
“Why do you run from me?”
“No,” Kinlear gasped, as the snow rose to his chest. “You’re not real.”
Ghostly laughter echoed off the trees.
“Poor little Princeling,” called the monster. “I can see your soul. And it aches to know me.”
He could feel its breath now, hot against his back. It was the only warmth he’d felt since he entered this space.
He wanted nothing of it.
“Wake up,” he told himself, as a sob clawed its way out of his throat.
He could walk no longer.
He screamed his fury, ground his teeth in rage as he shoved against the snow, but it was to no avail.
He was caught again.
And soon...
A shadow fell across his back.
“It’s no use running, Princeling,” the monster breathed.
Oh, gods.
“Save me,” Kinlear begged them. “Save me, please.”
He couldn’t think for the fear that now clouded his mind, for the cold that now turned his vision into a depthless pool of black.
But he could certainly feel it, when the monster made contact. As once-human fingertips...now tipped in blackened, sharpened claws, tiptoed across his back.
“Please,” Kinlear whimpered. “Don’t kill me again.”
The monster’s laughter rumbled through him. “Poor creature,” it hissed, as those claws curled around his shoulders. “How long will you fear your destiny?”
He yelped as it spun him around.
He saw only darkness.
He saw, as he always did...a faceless being in ruined robes, the glint of two white fangs curving into a slow, chilling smile.
“Die, Kinlear Laroux,” the monster crooned. “Die a beautiful death.”
Then it drove those claws deep into his chest.