Chapter 3 Beyond the Gates
Beyond the Gates
Raisa
Iwait until the sun slips beneath the horizon before I slip from the castle, desperation to breathe the sliver of forest air beyond the gate beating in my chest like a living thing.
I’ve felt the same clawing restlessness all day, as if I’m meant to be somewhere, anywhere other than pacing the palace halls.
For once, no one is watching the garden. Father’s council ran late again, their voices still bleeding down the stone halls. The guards are posted on the ramparts like always, but they shamble along, distracted by the shift of shadows across the stone walls.
The raven’s feather tickles against my wrist as I duck under the arbor and slip through the hedges, sticking to the shadows to stay hidden from sight. I almost lose my slipper in the mud, but I catch myself, my heart beating a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
The sundial waits for me, cold and familiar in the inky shadows of dusk. I almost sit out of habit, but I force myself forward. I’m not that girl anymore, the one who sits and dreams while the world spins on without her. Tonight, I’m something else. Something dangerous, maybe.
I feel it pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
The ravens are nowhere to be seen, but their absence feels intentional, like a benediction, or perhaps just a warning. I run my thumb along the edge of the feather and step onto the path that leads toward the orchard and the gate beyond.
I pause, waiting for someone to shout after me, but the garden is silent.
The air changes as I walk. The perfume of the garden gives way to earth and stone and rot, as if the living things here flex their claws after a day spent pretending to be tame. I feel their wildness in my lungs.
It excites and scares me in turns.
The gate looms ahead, half-swallowed by ivy, but tonight it feels different.
It is different.
Tonight, the latch is loose.
I stare at it for a moment, not trusting my eyes. But the truth is unmistakable. Someone has pried away the latch, leaving it hanging by a single nail. Something unfamiliar hums in the iron, like a faint pulse I feel more than hear, but even it feels fractured now, wounded and desperate.
I wrap both hands around the bars and pull.
The gate opens with a whimper, a sound so soft I think I’ve imagined it. I push until there’s just enough space for my body to slip through. On the other side, the forest waits, dark and ready.
The moment I cross the threshold, everything changes.
The air is colder, richer. I taste pine needles, wet moss, and distant smoke. My shoes sink into wet, rotting leaves. My skirt snags on brambles. The trees close in overhead, their branches so thick they blot out what’s left of the sunset.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I keep moving, putting one foot in front of the other, past the point where I can still see the castle’s windows. Past the point where I remember the names of the flowers growing along the path.
The forest isn’t like the garden. It isn’t meant to be pretty. It isn’t meant to be safe, either. It’s wild and unkempt, teeming with menace.
Somewhere in the distance, an animal screams.
I jump, stumbling, and the feather slips from my sleeve and into my palm. I squeeze it so hard the quill bites into my skin.
“Get a grip,” I hiss at myself. My voice is smaller out here, but it feels good to say something, anything, just to keep the dark at bay.
I walk faster.
The path narrows until it’s just a game trail, invisible except for the way the grass is beaten down by the passage of other things—deer, maybe, or wolves. Or worse.
The deeper I go, the more the forest presses in. It’s alive in a way the garden never was, and that life is not passive or friendly.
I feel eyes on me. At first, I think it’s paranoia. But the longer I walk, the surer I am. I’m being watched.
My steps slow, my heart leaping into my throat, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I’ve come too far.
I don’t even know where I’m going, but my feet move by instinct, leading me…somewhere.
Then, in a clearing that seems to appear all at once, I see them.
Seven men.
They stand together at the center of the space, arranged with such unconscious symmetry that it chills me. None of them is familiar, but every single one feels as if I’ve been dreaming about them for years.
The first thing I notice is how big they are.
Even the smallest among them towers over me.
They’re dressed like outlaws—some in shirts, some bare-chested, some with tattoos crawling up their throats and arms, some in patched pants or nothing at all.
Their hair is long or cropped, or shorn, black, blond, or silver, but always wild.
They turn to face me in unison.
For a split second, I want to run. But I can’t move. My whole body locks up, heat racing through me. My face is on fire, my hands tingling.
The man closest to me is different than the others. He’s handsome, almost beautiful, in a way that makes my stomach twist. Wire-rimmed glasses perch on his nose, his shirt buttoned up to the collar. He looks so human that I almost trust him. Almost.
He steps forward, his hands open at his sides as if to show he’s no threat to me. His eyes are hazel, shifting green and gold in the twilight.
“Hello, Princess,” he says, his voice soft, warm.
I know that voice. Or I think I do. It’s a timbre that’s haunted the garden for years, always just beyond hearing, always right when I needed it.
I blink, trying to clear my head, but it doesn’t help.
“You know me?”
“Of course, Princess Raisa.” He smiles, and my knees nearly buckle.
Another man, standing slightly behind the first, is his opposite in every way.
Long black hair, green eyes as sharp as shattered glass, his face angular and scarred.
He’s covered in ink, the tattoos a riot of color up both arms and across his neck.
He doesn’t smile. He just watches, his lips curled in a way that says he’s two breaths from violence.
The man next to him is even taller than the rest—maybe six and a half feet, with bulging muscles and reddish-brown hair pulled back in a thick ponytail.
His arms are the size of my thighs. I catch the glint of knives at his belt.
He’s beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful, full of the promise of ruin.
The others are variations of the same theme—wild, hungry, all eyes, teeth, and restless energy. None of them is much older than I am, maybe a handful of years, but they seem older, ancient. They don’t approach, but their gazes hold me just as firmly as any chain.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My throat is dust.
The man with the glasses tilts his head, studying me. “Are you all right?” He says it like he means it.
I find my voice, barely. “Who are you?”
For a moment, he just looks at me. Then, “Bran,” he says, touching a hand to his chest. He nods to the left, where the tattooed one stands. “That’s Grim.” The massive man with the knives gets a nod. “Talon.” One by one, he names the rest. Sable, Rune, Onyx, and Shade.
Shade is last. I hadn’t noticed him at first—he was in the shadows, completely still. Now that I see him, I can’t look away.
He’s the biggest of them all, with black hair to his shoulders and skin so pale it almost glows.
His eyes are bottomless, a color so dark I can’t tell if it’s black or blue or some new thing entirely.
A silvery-white scar bisects the corner of one of his eyes in a way that’s hauntingly familiar.
He stands apart, his arms crossed and his gaze pinned to my face like he’s trying to memorize every inch of it.
He doesn’t speak.
Bran takes another step toward me. He doesn’t try to touch me, but I feel the weight of his presence. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he says.
I should be afraid. I know I should. But the word means nothing right now.
“What do you want?” I manage, my voice barely more than a whisper.
The seven look at each other, then back at me. Shade’s mouth curves, the move something between a smile and a snarl, and my stomach goes tight.
Bran answers for all of them. “We’re here for you.”
I swallow hard, my lips numb.
This is not what I expected.
“Why?” I say. The word comes out ugly and small.
Grim is the one who answers. His rough voice has an edge that scrapes down my spine. “Because you need us. Because you’re ours.”
It’s a ridiculous thing to say, but I can’t look away. I can’t even laugh.
The space between us closes without me realizing it. I stumble back, landing against the nearest tree. My hands curl against the bark, desperate for anything solid.
Bran is three steps from me now. He moves with a hypnotic grace I’ve never seen.
“Don’t be scared,” he murmurs. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
I believe him. But something in his voice tells me that “hurt” might mean something very different here, that it might be a promise instead of a threat.
The rest of the men hang back, but I feel their attention like a physical thing, sharp and searing.
I can’t breathe. My heart is trying to escape through my ribs.
Bran stops an arm’s length away. He looks down at my hand. “Interesting feather.”
I open my palm. The quill has stained my skin, the black smudge stark against my paleness. I should drop it, but I simply clutch it tighter instead.
“A…friend gave it to me,” I say.
He nods, his eyes brightening. “Then you should keep it close.”
I nod, unable to do anything else.
Bran lifts his hand, so slowly I have time to flinch away if I want to. I don’t.
He brushes the back of his fingers along my cheek. The touch is so gentle it hurts.
“You’re as soft as you are beautiful,” he murmurs.
Something shatters in me at his words, the kindest anyone has ever given me. I can’t decide if I want to cry or laugh. I just want to stand here, pressed against the tree, letting this stranger touch me.
“Did my father send you?”