Page 113 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
The word whispered through her mind, like the wind sifting through the barren branches of a winter forest.
Escape from the Mystic Obscura.
Escape from Kralv Oldrich’s clutches.
Everinne had to escape.
Everinne yanked open the door of Atlas’s bedchambers and smacked right into the hard chest of one of the palace guards.
He grunted loudly, then scowled down at her, his voice gruff as he said, “This way.”
The guard stalked down the hall at a clipped pace and Everinne followed, tossing haphazard glances over her shoulder.Though it was only the two of them, she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being watched. Or perhaps it was simply the walls of the palace, the menacing black obsidian that mirrored not only her reflection but also crawling shadows, skeletal hands, and wraiths that seemed caught between worlds.
Everinne stumbled to a halt, drawing up short behind the guard who’d stopped in front of a smooth wall with no obvious signs of a door. There were no handles or hinges, just a stretch of endless, glossy black. Like an impenetrable looming darkness, it obscured the pale light from the sconces hanging behind them, the faerie fire dwindling to nothing more than a sputtering spark. She stole a glance at the guard, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that he was standing before an empty wall. But then he lifted one arm and pressed his palm against the polished surface.
“Don’t blink,” he muttered, his voice barely a scraping whisper.
Her mouth fell open to question his warning, when her gaze was suddenly pulled back to the wall, where her concerned reflection stared back at her.
Except it was no longer her reflection at all.
Where her eyes should have been, there were empty, hollow sockets, and trails of blood oozing down her cheeks and chin. Her face was gaunt, as though the muscle had been carved away until there was nothing left but a thin layer of flesh and bone. The clothing she wore was shredded, sagging off her wasted body, and only a few scraggly pieces of hair protruded from her scabbed, bald head. The rest had fallen out completely. Demonic hands with curving, talon-like nails wrapped around her throat, the cries and wails of a thousand tortured souls exploded in her mind, and Everinne swallowed her scream.
The guard chuckled. “Fear not, princess of pain. It’s only glamour.”
She stared in horror, gasping, as the piercing black wall glimmered and morphed, shifting to reveal an arching passageway of cold, damp stone.
“Helps to deter any unwanted visitors,” he explained, nudging her further into the cramped cave-like tunnel.
Though there were no stairs, Everinne knew they were descending deeper underground. Cold air seeped from the tightly packed archways of stone, chilling her skin with each step against the solid, uneven ground. Bronze fixtures were anchored into the crumbling rock, where spitting midnight flames cast the corridor in an unusual, silvery glow. The mouth of the passage widened, spilling open into a dimly lit space, and the utterly foul stench that assaulted Everinne’s nose was her first clue they’d reached the dungeon.
She coughed once, then gagged, dragging her sweater over half of her face in an effort to block out the disgusting smell. It reeked of stale blood, urine, and the lingering stink of sweat and soiled clothing. Rusted lanterns hung low from the cavernous ceiling, the black flames casting half the dungeon in darkness, the other half in that same eerie light. There was a steady dripping sound, a slow and methodicalplop…plop…plop…that Everinne hoped was only a leak of maybe rainwater or some other known substance and not the noise of blood splattering against the ground.
Every so often there was a groan of despair or a muffled, choking sound, and she tried not to recoil at the atrocity of her surroundings.
She dared a few glances into the cells as she kept a close pace behind the guard, where crooked bars were shoved between slabs of gray rock, where all that stared back at her was the impregnable dark, so all-encompassing she swore the chill of its breath caressed her cheek as she passed.
Kralv Oldrich came into view then, cloaked in black and gold, a look of smug superiority etched into the severe lines of his face. He stood next to a cell, twirling the keys on one finger so they clinked together noisily, and for the briefest of moments, Everinne hesitated.
Did he plan to lock her in the cell with the prisoner? And what if said prisoner was actually dangerous? What if they weren’t feeble and innocent, but actually someone whose very existence was threatening? She’d made the assumption that the kralv would use her to do harm against those who did not deserve it, but she didn’t think about the possibility that she’d be pressured to torture a criminal. Perhaps they had killed in cold blood…exactly as she had done to Callum.
Perhaps they’d harmed a child.
Her steps faltered as she neared the cell. She sucked in a breath, cringing as she inhaled the revolting air, and prepared to face whatever sort of vile being the kralv held captive.
A faint skittering kind of noise grated against stone.
What if whoever she was supposed to use her magic against was none of those things?
What if it was—“A snow fox?”
Confusion plagued Everinne as she peered into the cell and frowned at the little creature. Its pristine white fur glinted like moonlight in the wavering darkness, though its small paws were muddied and brown. It darted back and forth across the cell, snarling and yipping, quite a bit wilder than she’d ever witnessed. Usually snow foxes were placid, if not clever and cautious. Though she supposed she’d be slightly ferocious too if she was locked in a cell with no way out.
The fox scurried to a far corner, curled itself up into a ball of fluffy fur, and its cerulean eyes locked onto Everinne.
“What’s a snow fox doing in Prava?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else. The fox tilted its head, its tiny black nose sniffing the air. “They haven’t been seen in years.”
“Exactly. How bright you are, Ever.” The kralv’s voice jarred her, and she glanced over to realize he was standing right beside her. He inserted the key into the lock but didn’t turn it, his gaze focused on the snow fox. Kralv Oldrich smiled then, but it was malicious, laced with a kind of odious evil. “A snow fox in Prava. Practically unheard of, and yet this one was caught slinking around the palace grounds near the healer’s quarters. Why do you suppose that is?”
