Page 9 of The Curse of Golden Blood
Miralyte
Theskywasthemost violent shade of red I had ever seen.
Blood clouds, I thought. A sky covered in blood.
"Dawn is coming." Ciradyl sighed.
"Perfect," I muttered. "Can't wait to be half-blind when I miss the shot and scare everything back into the woods."
"You won't miss."
"I missed yesterday."
"That was a rock."
"It looked like a rabbit."
Ciradyl smirked and passed me another arrow. "You've got good instincts. Terrible eyesight, but good instincts."
I rolled my eyes. "One day, when I'm famous and wealthy and own ten estates, I'llhire someone to shoot for me."
"Until then," Ciradyl handed me the bow and nodded toward the treeline, "we hunt our own game. Father expects us back with meat before midday."
Father had taught us both to hunt after Mother died bringing me into the world. Ciradyl had inherited his keen eye and steady hand. I inherited his stubborn streak and little else.
"You know I'm terrible at aiming."
"So practice. I certainly cannot do everything myself."
"Maybe I prefer being useless."
"Hush." She cuffed me upside the head, ruffling my hair. "Come, Summerchild, let's see what you can manage. Mind your stance."
She always called me that. Summerchild. Not because I was born in summer, but because winter had begun the day I came into the world, and Father joked I'd dragged the last warmth with me. To Ciradyl, it meant stubborn, soft, too bright for my own good. She knew I hated it. Which only made her use it more.
A branch cracked in the underbrush ahead. Ciradyl's head snapped toward the sound, her entire body going still like a predator lying in wait. Her hand was already at the knife on her belt, fingers wrapped around the hilt like she was born holding it.
"Father's waiting," she whispered, eyes never leaving the treeline. "We cannot return empty-handed again."
We started moving through the withered birch trees, stepping carefully to avoid the worst of the snow. As we approached the river, Ciradyl suddenly raised her hand. I froze.
A gust of wind parted the branches like curtains, revealing what lay ahead.
A stag moved through the snow—a great beast, pure white with an enormous rack. Its antlers gleamed red as fresh blood in the dawn light. It lowered its muzzle, sniffing the ground.
I drew an arrow, notching it, pulling the bowstring to my ear.
Ciradyl immediately made me lower the bow. When I looked closer at the creature, I realized its shape was wrong. Too tall. Too graceful. The antlers curved in impossible spirals.
"What is that?"
"An emberhart," Ciradyl breathed. "Don't shoot. It could belong to the fae."
The creature was beautiful, with pale fur that seemed to glow with its own light. I couldn't tear my gaze away.
"It's said to bring good fortune if you let it pass unharmed," Ciradyl explained, never breaking eye contact with the beast. "If you see one and spare it, you'll receive a boon."
The emberhart raised its head and took three measured steps toward me before lowering itself to the ground. Slowly, carefully, I extended my hand toward its face.
