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Chapter One

T he sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Ceryn Vale slipped out of the bed she shared with her younger sister, Maeva who was barely thirteen and ten years younger than her. She began to dress hurriedly to ward off the chill of the evening in her woolen trousers and linen shirt. Her teeth chattered in the cold bedroom and she slipped her feet into her boots before heading into the kitchen area to throw a few logs into the fireplace, reviving the sleeping embers.

“Ceryn?”

She turned to see her sister standing in the doorway, the threadbare old quilt wrapped around her shoulders. “Maeva. Get back to bed. It’s too early to be up. You’ll catch cold.”

“You’re up. You going hunting again?”

Ceryn shrugged. “I’m going to check the traps and see if there are any berries left.”

Winter was coming and they didn’t have enough stores to keep them fed through the long, cold months ahead. Game would be scarce and the garden hadn’t produced enough to store for the season, not after the heavy burden of taxes to Warlord Aldaric. Their garden was used mainly for herbs for their mother’s healing potions, as a way to support the family, once her husband had died in service to the warlord. But it was never enough. So Ceryn supplemented by hunting and foraging in the forest.

Ceryn reached for her hunting knife, sliding it into the leather sheath at her hip. The weight of it was familiar, comforting even. Seven years she’d been providing for them, since the day her father never returned from the warlord’s castle. Seven years of becoming something her father would barely recognize—a hunter, a trapper, a shadow moving through forbidden woods.

Maeva shuffled across the dirt floor, the quilt dragging behind her like a queen’s train. At thirteen, she still retained the childlike hope that had long ago been beaten out of Ceryn. She stood at the rickety table, her eyes wide with worry in the faint glow of the freshly stoked fire.

“Don’t go to the forbidden woods today,” Maeva whispered, her voice catching. “Please. I had a dream last night. I saw you running, and something... something was chasing you.”

Ceryn forced a smile as she wrapped strips of dried meat and half a stale loaf in a scrap of cloth, tucking it into her leather satchel. Dreams were for children and fools. Dreams didn’t fill empty bellies.

“The beast again?” Ceryn asked, trying to keep her voice light. “Your imagination grows wilder by the day.”

“It wasn’t just a dream.” Maeva clutched the quilt tighter around her shoulders. “People say he was a man once, before the curse. That he can smell fear. That he?—“

“Enough.” Ceryn’s voice was sharper than she intended. The stories of the beast had circulated in whispers for as long as she could remember. A creature half-man, half-monster, confined to the ruins of the ancient castle that stood deep in the forbidden woods, not that anyone ever ventured close to the castle to see it. Most believed it a tale to keep children from wandering too far. Ceryn knew better. She’d seen... things. Tracks too large for any normal animal. Claw marks on trees higher than a bear could reach. And anyone who tried to reach the castle never came back.

But she’d also learned its patterns, its territory. Known when to avoid certain parts of the forest.

“Winter is coming,” Ceryn said, softening her tone as she knelt before her sister. “And Aldaric’s men took nearly everything at the last tribute collection. We need meat, we need herbs, and whatever I can find.” She tucked a strand of hair behind Maeva’s ear. “I’ll be careful. I always am.”

“You promise?” Maeva’s eyes glistened in the firelight.

“I promise.” Ceryn pressed her forehead against her sister’s for a moment. “Besides, if the beast ever did find me, I’m far too clever for him. I know every hiding place in those woods.”

“Cleverness won’t save you if the winter storms come early.”

Ceryn stiffened at the sound of her mother’s voice. Saraid Vale stood in the shadows of the doorway leading to her small bedchamber, her once-beautiful face now permanently etched with lines of grief and bitterness. She looked older than her forty years, worn down by widowhood and poverty.

“The snares need checking,” Ceryn said, her voice even. “And we need more wood for the fire.”

Her mother’s mouth tightened, but she said nothing more. Instead, she turned away, disappearing back into the darkness of her room. The silent dismissal stung more than any harsh words could have. Just once, Ceryn wanted her mother to be the happy, smiling woman she remembered from before. But, like so many things, her mother died the day they buried her father.

Ceryn sighed and rose to her feet. She reached for her worn leather cloak, swinging it around her shoulders before retrieving her bow and quiver from their place by the door. The bow had been her father’s—the only thing of his she’d managed to keep when Aldaric’s men had taken everything else as “death taxes.”

“I’ll be back before midday,” she told Maeva, forcing another smile. “Have some porridge and help Mother with the herbs.”

Ceryn stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind her. The air was crisp, carrying the unmistakable bite of approaching winter. The forest loomed before her, dark and dense, a wall of massive trees shrouded in mist. Somewhere deep within those woods stood the ruins of the ancient castle, home to the beast of legend.

A sensible person would stick to the village outskirts, to the thin stretch of woods that bordered the farmland. A sensible person would beg for a permit to hunt in the warlord’s forest, despite the scarcity of game and the hit to her pride. But Aldaric’s men patrolled those areas, demanding permits and punishing poachers, requiring a steep cost that she couldn’t afford. The alternative was the deeper woods where the beast supposedly roamed where game was plentiful and herbs grew in abundance. No one ventured there—no one but Ceryn.

She pulled her hood up and began walking toward the tree line, ignoring the flutter of unease in her chest. Maeva’s dreams, her mother’s warnings, the villagers’ tales—none of it mattered. What mattered was survival.

The mist parted before her as she entered the forest, the familiar scent of damp earth and pine enveloping her. She moved silently, as her father had taught her in those brief years before he was taken. The farther she went, the more the trees closed in around her, ancient and watchful.

She had checked several snares. All empty so far. Stifling her disappointment, she ventured further into the forest, keeping an eye out for the herbs her mother needed for her remedies. She was nearly to another snare when she heard it—a sound that didn’t belong. Not the snap of a twig beneath an animal’s foot or the rustle of leaves in the wind, but something deliberate. Something large. Much larger than a human or even a bear.

Ceryn froze, her hand moving to the knife at her hip.

Behind her, something exhaled—a deep, rumbling breath that sent chills racing down her spine.

Perhaps Maeva’s dreams were more than just dreams after all.

Ceryn spun around, knife drawn, her heart hammering against her ribs.

There, between two ancient oaks, stood a shadow darker than the forest itself. Massive. Unmoving. Watching.

He stepped out of the shadows like a creature born of nightmare—huge and silent, his presence swallowing the space between them. Ceryn froze, every instinct screaming as her eyes locked on his. They glowed faintly in the gloom, golden and slitted like a predator’s, fixed on her with an unnatural stillness. His face was partially obscured by a wild tangle of golden hair, but what she could see was wrong—inhuman. His features were too sharp, his brow too heavy, and his mouth... too wide. When he bared his teeth, it wasn’t a snarl—it was a warning. Fangs glinted in the dim light, far too long, far too real.

His body loomed, tall and broad, cloaked in coarse fur the color of golden sunlight but he was a creature of nightmares, not the day. Muscle rippled beneath it as he moved, powerful and purposeful, like a beast who had once walked on four legs and never fully adapted to two. His hands were monstrous—oversized, clawed, twitching with restrained violence. A tattered cloak clung to his shoulders, shredded with time and weather, and the scent of him hit her then: wild earth, damp leaves, and the faint copper tang of blood.

Ceryn’s body screamed at her to run, but terror rooted her in place. Seven years she’d hunted these woods, caught glimpses of strange tracks, heard distant howls. But never this. Never him.

The beast’s chest expanded as it drew in a deep breath, seeming to taste her scent on the air. Then it threw back its head and roared—a sound that shook the very trees, that reached deep into Ceryn’s chest and squeezed her lungs until they burned..

The spell broke. She ran.

Branches whipped at her face as she tore through the forest, leaping over fallen logs and crashing through undergrowth with none of her usual stealth. The bow bounced painfully against her back, her satchel slapped against her hip, but she dared not slow. Behind her, she could hear it—the heavy thud of massive paws, the snap of branches beneath its weight, coming closer, closer.

Her foot caught on an exposed root, sending her sprawling. Pain shot through her knee as she scrambled back up, gasping for breath. Her cloak had caught on something—a branch, a thorn—and she clawed at the fastening at her throat, desperate to free herself.

The clasp gave way. The cloak tore from her shoulders just as she launched forward again, leaving the garment behind like shed skin.

Only when the trees began to thin, when the first glimpse of village rooftops appeared in the distance, did Ceryn dare to look back.

The beast stood at the forest’s edge, a massive dark figure partially obscured by mist and shadow. In one clawed hand—too human, too deliberate—it held her cloak, lifting the fabric to its snout, inhaling deeply as if memorizing her scent.

* * *

C eryn didn’t stop running until she reached the village outskirts, her lungs burning, sweat freezing on her skin despite the cold morning air. She bent double, hands on her knees, fighting to catch her breath. Empty-handed. Her snares unchecked. And her only winter cloak now in the possession of the creature she’d convinced herself was merely legend.

When her breathing steadied enough that she could think clearly, she straightened and turned toward home, her steps heavy. As she drew closer, the feeling of dread grew. Something was wrong.

Their cottage was on the outskirts of the village but people usually bustled about their daily business, yet no one was around. It was as if the village was deserted, or people were staying inside, their doors and windows barred from the inside. She spied her home and fear clutched at her. The small cottage stood silent, no smoke rising from the chimney though the fall chill demanded a fire. No sound of Maeva’s chatter or her mother’s cooking. The garden gate was unlatched, banging in the autumn breeze.

“Mother?” Ceryn called, approaching the door. “Maeva?”

Silence answered her.

She pushed open the door, the familiar creak of hinges unnaturally loud in the stillness. “Mother? Maeva? Are you?—”

The words died in her throat.

A man sprawled in one of their three mismatched chairs, his booted feet propped on their rickety table, mud caking them. His clothes were rich, dark leather and fine wool, a sword with a jeweled pommel at his hip. Behind him in the shadows of the kitchen stood another man, taller, broader, his face impassive beneath a short-cropped beard, one hand resting on the hilt of his own weapon.

Ceryn knew them both, though she’d only seen them from a distance at the tribute collections. Warlord Aldaric and his general, Rorik. A shadow fell over her from behind and she jumped. A soldier appeared behind her to close the door, trapping her in her own home.

“Ah, the elder daughter returns,” Aldaric said, his tone pleasant as if they were old acquaintances. He gestured around the small cottage. “How fascinating to see how the other half lives. Tell me, does the roof leak when it rains? I’ve always wondered about these... charming little hovels.”

Something sour curled in Ceryn’s stomach, a mixture of fear and rage. A strange, faint smell hung in the air beneath the familiar scents of home—something sickly sweet like rotting fruit or spoiled meat. Like death.

“Where are my mother and sister?” Her voice emerged steadier than she felt, her hand still wrapped around the hilt of her hunting knife, even as she knew it would be her death if she drew in his presence.

“Spirited, aren’t you?” Aldaric smiled, though the expression never reached his cold, dark eyes. “They’re quite safe, I assure you. And they’ll remain so, provided you make the right choice when presented with it.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “I remember your mother as a much prettier woman. Saraid, isn’t it? One of the village beauties in her day. But life is hard out here in the borderlands, isn’t it? Time and grief are cruel sculptors.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

It wasn’t a request. Ceryn sat, keeping her back straight, her hand on her knife, her eyes fixed on the warlord’s face.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice even despite her trepidation.

“Direct. I appreciate that.” Aldaric leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. “I understand you know the forbidden forest better than anyone. That you hunt there regularly, despite the... restrictions.”

Her pulse quickened and the fear that had only just bled from her after her encounter with the beast was renewed. Was this about poaching? Would he take her hands? Her eyes? The penalties for hunting without permission in the warlord’s forests were brutal but no one ever hunted in the forbidden forest.

“I have a task for you,” he continued. “One I strongly advise you to accept.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a choice,” she replied, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

Aldaric laughed, the sound startlingly genuine. “You really don’t. Clever girl.” His smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “You will go to the beast’s castle.”

Ice flooded Ceryn’s veins. The beast. The same creature she’d just fled from, that even now held her cloak in its clawed hands.

“He has something I need,” Aldaric continued. “And you will obtain it for me, or your mother and sister will pay the price.”

“What is it?” Ceryn’s mouth had gone dry. “What could the beast possibly have that you want?”

“The Beast is immortal and I need the source of his power,” Aldaric said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather even as he waved his hand as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Sadly, the same source also makes his mad, insane, and prone to fits of homicidal rage. That is… unfortunate. I need you to find out how to counter the side effect and make me immortal.”

“That’s impossible,” Ceryn protested. “The beast would tear me apart before I got within a hundred paces of the castle!”

Aldaric’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know what happens to those who defy me, girl? Ask your father.” He leaned closer. “Oh wait, you can’t. Can you?”

Ceryn’s hands trembled beneath the table.

“Three days,” he said, rising from the chair. “You have three days to enter the castle and find what I seek. My soldiers have already escorted your mother and sister to my keep, where they will enjoy my... hospitality until you return.” He smiled thinly. “Consider it motivation.”

“It’s folly. Three days isn’t enough time to discover what you need. Even if I survive the beast,” she protested.

He stared down at her. “Time is running out for both of us, but I can give you a week.” He tore open his shirt revealing a blackened wound with tendrils spiraling outward like poison invading his body and the smell of decay intensified. “We both have an interest in your success. Lives are at stake, Ceryn. There is an orchard on the castle grounds. A silver fruit grows there that may be what I seek, according to a seer. Bring me the fruit but only once you have confirmed it is the source of his power. And be sure to discover how to counter the side effects.”

“And if I fail?” Ceryn forced herself to ask.

“Then you will have the privilege of choosing which one dies first.” He adjusted his gloves, casual as if discussing a minor trade agreement. “Though I suspect little Maeva wouldn’t last long in my dungeons anyway.”

Ceryn’s vision swam red with rage and terror. “I’ll do it,” she whispered.

“Of course you will.” Aldaric strode to the door, Rorik falling into step behind him. “One of my men will remain in the village to escort you when you return—with the beast’s power in your possession.” He paused in the doorway. “Don’t disappoint me, Ceryn Vale. I’m not known for my forgiveness.”

The door closed behind them, leaving Ceryn alone in the silent cottage, the faint smell of death lingering in the air.