9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
“Can’t be much longer now.”
Emmaline patted the shoulder of the ebony mare she had borrowed from the stables after finally escaping her duties.
She had tried to delay the monthly budget review for Lord Greymane, citing the ever-growing demands of preparing for the ball, but the old man had been insistent. No excuses. No delays.
By the time she had finally slipped free of the castle, the sun was already sinking low, bleeding warm gold into the sky as dusk crept in at the edges.
The horse whinnied at her encouragement, then slowed, her hooves crunching hesitantly over the thinning grass. The long shadows stretching from the trees ahead deepened, turning over the earth like gnarled fingers.
“Stupid horse,” she muttered, adjusting her grip on the reins as she took in her surroundings.
Behind her, the rolling fields, once bright with wildflowers, had given way to the creeping grasp of the forest. The wind, once thick with the scent of sun-warmed wheat, now carried the damp, loamy breath of the towering trees ahead, stretching endless in every direction.
A ripple of unease stirred deep in Emmaline’s chest. She must have come further than she thought.
She’d only meant to skirt the edge of the ancient treeline, just enough to find Caelith—surely, even he wouldn’t have ventured too deep alone.
But as she glanced around, she realized how thick the foliage had grown, the canopy above swallowing the last dregs of fading sunlight.
The usual chorus of chirping insects had quieted, leaving behind an eerie, drumming silence.
Her pulse quickened.
These woods weren’t just deep; they were dangerous. Even the most seasoned hunters avoided them at night. And the rumors, whispers passed in dimly lit taverns and around servant hearths, spoke of things far worse than wolves.
The C?n Annwn.
Ghostly hounds were rumored to roam these lands, their silver coats blending with the mist, their eyes burning like dying embers.
Some said they were death’s heralds, others that they were the souls of the cursed, doomed to hunt forever.
They took livestock, travelers, Ellyllon—anything foolish enough to wander too far past the safety of the meadows after the sun went down.
Emmaline swallowed, tightening her grip on the pommel. “We’re fine.”
The mare disagreed. Her ears flicked back, muscles bunching beneath Emmaline’s legs.
Then—snap. A branch cracked somewhere in the underbrush. Emmaline flinched, and the mare’s nostrils flared as she shook her head against the reins.
“Easy, girl.”
Another crack, closer this time, and Emmaline’s heartbeat pounded against her ribs. It was probably just an animal. A deer. A fox. Something explainable.
“Nothing's there,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if she was convincing the horse or herself.
Then—CRACK.
This time, it came from right behind them. Loud. Too loud.
The mare shrieked, rearing onto her hind legs.
Emmaline barely had time to grab for the reins before she was flung backward, weightless for half a breath before hitting the ground with bone-rattling force.
Pain exploded through her skull, and a sharp sting lanced down her arm, where it scraped against jagged bark.
Somewhere in the distance, hooves thundered away, fading into the darkness.
“Dammit!” She gasped, fighting through the blur of pain. Blood oozed from a gash on her forehead, warm and slick, trailing down her temple.
A howl rose from behind her—low, drawn out, wrong. It was followed by a softer sound, fragile and trembling. A child’s cry. But no child wandered these woods. The C?n Annwn were known to mimic the lost and helpless, their voices crafted to draw in those would-be saviors.
The trees around her felt closer now, the shadows between them pressing in. There was another rustling sound, this time from the left, and a glimpse of movement—only a flicker—but enough to send a jolt of terror straight through her.
It was a sliver of silver fur.
The stories slammed back into her mind, every detail sharper now, every warning ringing in her ears.
They can smell blood.
Her breath came too fast and loud, too loud. Panic surged, and she scrambled to her feet, pitching forward. “Get back here, you stupid horse!” she called—not that it would come back. Not that she even knew which direction the damn thing had run.
Another crack behind her.
She whirled, heart in her throat. The undergrowth shifted, something moving just beyond the reach of the moonlight, circling. Stalking.
The trees. She needed to get off the ground.
Her hands found rough bark, and nails scraped as she tried to haul herself up, sandals slipping against the moss-covered trunk. Desperation clawed at her throat. Struggling for a grip, she hoisted herself higher, breath ragged, her pulse a wild, uneven drum in her ears.
Feet off the ground, Emmaline clung to the branch like a barnacle, legs kicking uselessly beneath her. The wood groaned under her weight, trembling in protest.
Don’t break. Don’t break. Don’t—
Something moved below.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and the branch bent, a warning snap reverberating down through her arms, but she couldn’t force herself to climb higher. She couldn’t move. Her muscles were locked, her fingers aching from the death grip she had on the poor tree.
Caelith. She called for him in her mind, praying, pleading. She’d risked everything to come out to these cursed woods, chasing after him. He had to come save her. That’s how it worked in the old stories. Right?
A voice cut through the dark.
“Emmaline? Is that you?”
Her eyes flew open just as the branch gave up the fight.
It snapped, and she plummeted, flailing wildly as if she could somehow fend off the air itself before crashing hard into a solid someone atop a massive silver horse.
The impact knocked the rider clear out of the saddle, and his startled curse barely had time to leave his mouth before gravity claimed them both.
Emmaline landed in a heap, tangled limbs and pointed elbows colliding with the unforgiving ground. Nearby, a loud oof filled the air—definitely not hers.
She blinked, pulling the hair from her face, and then—
“Damnation, woman!”
Her head snapped up.
Deyric dangled upside down from the side of a horse, one foot lodged firmly in the stirrup, his arms flailing for balance. His emerald-green hair, now dusted with dirt, swayed over the ground as he twisted, trying to reach the trapped limb.
For a brief, glorious moment, he just hung there, swinging slightly, caught in an utterly undignified state of limbo. Then, with an impressive flex of his core, he hauled himself up, grunting as he reached for the stirrup’s latch. There was a quick flick, and—
Thud. He dropped unceremoniously to the ground beside her, groaning.
Emmaline scrambled back, half in horror, half in sheer disbelief. This was not Caelith.
“What are you doing here?” Emmaline braced a hand against the ground, pushing herself upright.
Her legs wobbled as she patted down her dress, trying to shake off the dirt and twigs clinging to the fabric. The movement sent a sharp pulse of pain lancing through her skull, and she instinctively reached for her head. “I thought you had the afternoon off.”
Her fingers came away wet. Sticky.
She blinked down at the crimson streaks smeared across her skin. “Oh, dear Goddess.”
The ground tilted as the trees blurred at the edges of her vision, their towering forms swaying like they had come unmoored from the earth. Breath thinning, the deep, sinking pressure dragged at her, as her mind narrowed to nothing but the ringing in her ears.
A voice—distant, urgent called her name.
The taste of iron hit her on her tongue, then the scent of leather, of sweat, of something familiar.
She tried to steady herself, to brace against the spin of the world, but the world had other plans. The last thing she felt was the rush of air against her cheek before everything went black.