Prologue #2
A crimson bloom against the white, its unnatural petals unfurled, bright and hopeful.
The thorns encircling it gleamed like polished obsidian, sharp as blades.
Such roses did not grow here—did not grow anywhere in this frozen, dying world.
Yet here it was, born from her womb’s first blood, a sign both ancient and terrible.
Long ago, it was said that Amara, the Goddess of Creation, had blessed the world with roses, symbols of her gift of life.
But Amara’s voice fell silent when the kingdoms descended into war, their greedy armies clashing endlessly in pursuit of power.
Death consumed Life. The sacred groves burned, the temples crumbled, and her daughters were silenced.
On the longest night of the thousandth year, Amara withdrew from the mortal plane to settle amongst the stars, her grief too heavy to bear.
Her departure left the world cold and barren. Generation after generation, fertility faded like the sun in winter. The few born were celebrated yet cursed, hunted for the hope they carried.
Kasaros, the Trickster God of Chaos, grew bitter about the Goddess’s abandonment, for what fun was a game without an opponent? But he refused to stop encouraging war. Instead, he sought balance by bringing fertile females from other worlds for the warriors who pleased him most.
Still, there was a catch.
Each warrior must hunt, fight, and claim a bride as their prize during an annual Hunt.
The girl stared at the fragile newborn rose, her breath shallow and unsteady.
She wanted to deny it, to pretend the flower wasn’t there, that her blood hadn’t summoned it, but the crowd gathering around them was proof enough.
Whispers rippled through the air, hushed and reverent, tinged with awe and fear.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” the boy said. “We’ll just go home, pack our things and—”
Market sounds died first—the crunch of boots in snow, the murmur of haggling, a child’s distant cry. Then came the shadow, devouring light as it crawled across the rose, turning crimson and white to black until it swallowed them entirely. Slowly, they looked up.
The Huntsman was here.
Everything about the behemoth warned of power, pain, or misery.
His dark jacket was dusted with sharp, frosted shards.
Weapons bristled from hidden compartments—daggers strapped to his forearms, a curved blade at his hip, and a bow slung across his back.
A hood framed his face in shadow, but it was his mask that made the blood run cold.
A painted white grin splits black silk over his face like a scar.
Each breath made the fabric pulse like the Laughing God himself struggled to break free.
Cold, empty eyes moved over the rose, the blood, and finally, the girl.
The weight of his gaze pinned her in place, her breath freezing in her lungs.
The boy stepped in front of her, his arms spread wide. “She’s too young,” he declared, voice cracking. “You can’t take her. It’s not fair!”
The Huntsman tilted his head. A faint crease in the mask’s fabric twisted the painted smile into something darker.
“She’s not ready!” the boy shouted.
“Then she’ll be broken in quickly.” The Huntsman’s cold, cruel gaze flicked to the girl. He gripped her jaw between his gloved finger and thumb, appraising her like livestock. “Even if she looks like a pale stick in the mud.”
The boy stiffened, his fists curling. “She doesn’t belong in the Pen. She’s not of age!”
“She is now.” A quiet, cruel laugh rippled that mocking mask.
The Huntsman’s fingers closed around wool and flesh. One twist—that’s all it took to send the boy airborne, his defiance scattering like the snow beneath his landing. Each impact that followed carried the methodical precision of a butcher at his block.
The girl’s scream awoke something feral, wild, and unchained within the boy. He struggled to his feet and launched at the Huntsman, only to be sent back to earth with a fist.
Another blow came, and then another. Blood sprayed across the snow, staining it crimson. He coughed and wheezed, but still, the boy tried to rise. Still, he tried to fight.
“Leave him and take me,” the girl begged. “He’s nothing. No one. Even his parents left him.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue. She planted her feet between them, making herself the wall the Huntsman would have to break.
The Huntsman’s dead eyes fixed on her. “Step aside.”
She shook her head. This behemoth surely wanted something more than killing her friend. Her mind raced to find a solution, and when she thought of the rose, she knew the answer.
“Take me for yourself,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Then you don’t have to fight over me during the Hunt.
You can be my king. I’ll be good, I promise.
I’ll be the dutiful wife you want. I’ll give you hundreds of children.
Every man in the Iron Kingdoms will bow to you.
” She sucked in a breath, willed her tears to hide. “Just let him live.”
Confusion flickered in the Huntsman’s eyes. It was almost as if he’d never considered taking a fertile bride for himself, let alone the one fated to be the first queen this realm had seen in generations.
“Take me,” she whispered. “Just... stop hurting him. Please.”
“No!” The boy wheezed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “This isn’t... how this is supposed to go.”
The Huntsman bent low, his mask brushing the boy’s ear as he whispered something low and cold, each word a hidden weight driving deeper into the boy’s broken body. When he straightened, the boy came with him, stubbornly clutching his coat.
“Fight,” the boy tells her. “Fight like hell.”
“No! Stop it!” The girl’s foot connected with the Huntsman’s shin. His eyes swung her way and narrowed. And then he dealt the final blow.
It happened so fast.
The boy fell to his knees, stunned. He looked down at his stomach, at the blood oozing from the knife wound—drip, drip, drip. With a final indecipherable look aimed at the girl, the boy landed face-first, body twitching.
His blood carved a steaming path through the snow.
Toward the rose.
Screeching her pain, the girl attacked the Huntsman with tiny, useless fists.
“I said I would go with you!” she cried. “Why did you kill him?”
The Huntsman regarded her. “Foolish child. Girls are for breeding, not speaking.”
Then he reached for her, his massive hand closing around her arm. She didn’t fight as he slung her over his shoulder. She hung limp, the icy wind biting her skin and tangling her hair.
She thought of the game she’d always played with the boy. She had always been the shadow, darting between stalls, leaving only laughter in her wake. He had always been the stalker, hunting and catching only to let her slip away. They made the rules. They broke them. The game was theirs.
Movement in the snow nabbed the Huntsman’s attention. His pivot whipped the girl’s blue hair into her eyes, but hope bloomed in her heart when gravity took hold again. The boy, bloody and blue, crawled on trembling arms and legs and reached for the rose.
A sharp, amused sound barked out of the Huntsman. He crushed the flower—and fingers—under his boot until bones, petals, and stem crunched. When no sound came afterward, no cry of pain, no movement, his cruel laughter rose in a crescendo, bursting through the mask like a tribute to his God.
As they walked away, the girl could do nothing but watch through blurred eyes as snowflakes gathered on the boy’s body, building into a blanket and burying him as though he never existed.