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CHAPTER THREE

LARK

The Thornwood beckons me.

I hold a basket in the crook of my arm and abandon my cottage in the mist. My boots crunch lingering frost that clings under the trees.

When I breathe in deeply, the rich, complex scent of earth and moss and leaves almost overwhelms me.

God, I missed that smell. I wander deeper into the trees, hoping that the forest will swallow me up.

An ancient curse clings to this forest, cast by a sorceress whose name has been forgotten by most—Aetherlin of Myrkland. I will never forget her name. She was an unbelievably powerful woman. Her magic lingers in every bloodred rose that blooms everlasting.

Stranger still, Aetherlin’s curse twisted the seasons themselves.

Outside of the Thornwood, the kingdom of Chymeria has warmed into spring.

Here, fragments of winter linger in the deepest, darkest parts of the forest. The curse is strongest here, the magic saturated.

Frost glitters on roses in full bloom. A few snowflakes drift from the sky before they melt on the moss underfoot.

I have often wondered if Aetherlin cast her curse during the winter, and I'm walking through an echo of her time.

Perhaps if I walk in her footsteps, I can gain some of her strength.

Right now, I feel anything but strong. I’m little better than a crystal vase that has been shattered and crudely glued back together. One wrong move and I will fall apart into pieces again.

Being outside still doesn't feel real to me. Memories of being trapped in the dungeon cling to my mind. I spent seven weeks locked away in the Forgotten Tower, that place my entire reality, never knowing if I would ever see the Thornwood again.

Tonight, I want to cook something to celebrate my newfound freedom. Besides, the pantry inside my cottage is all but empty. I don’t have much left beyond mustard and a rare bottle of black wine from the Underworld that I have been saving for a special occasion.

I would rather not get drunk on an empty stomach. Once again, the wilderness will sustain me. I can forage for my dinner—moonlight chanterelles, if fortune favors me today. They have a lovely bioluminescence and taste even lovelier when cooked.

I lean against an ancient oak tree, the rough bark beneath my hands a comfort. The gnarled roots of the oak rummage in fallen leaves. Kneeling, I brush aside the leaves and hunt for hidden mushrooms.

A tiny clump of fungi sprouts from the rotten wood. They aren’t moonlight chanterelles, but they have a beautiful purplish brown color. I don’t recognize the species, so I let them grow. Perhaps later I can determine if they would be useful in any potions or spells.

For now, I just want my dinner tonight to taste like home.

I abandon the unusual mushrooms, for the time being, and wander deeper into the Thornwood.

Red catches my eye, the crimson scattered across frost like drops of blood—winter strawberries.

They often fruit during the bleakest of times, when nothing else survives.

Down on my knees, I thank the forest and harvest the winter strawberries.

When the wind blows, my left horn aches from the cold.

Broken .

I shudder. How could I have forgotten what happened to me?

What’s wrong with me? When I entered the Forgotten Tower, I was still whole.

Now, I can’t deny that I have been irrevocably damaged by my imprisonment.

A demon’s horns can never grow back, not even with the help of magic.

The best I could do is hide what has been broken.

My claws bite into a strawberry until crimson juice stains my skin like blood. I watch it trickle over my fingers, then devour the berry whole. Its flavor brings tears to my eyes. I believed, during the darkest of times, that I would never taste sweet things again.

The rustling of feathers catches my attention. A brown bird lands nearby, cocks its head, and chirps at me. A skylark. My namesake. Instinctively, a shiver crosses over my body.

The bird chirps again, its breath a puff of white in the cold air.

And then it speaks. “ Come back to me, Lark .”

That voice. Zin’s voice. I remember it echoing in my prison, taunting me, tempting me. Gods, not that witch again. I lunge at the bird, intending to cage it between my hands, but it bursts into flight and darts between the trees. The enchantment upon the skylark unravels with a scent like rosemary.

I’m left trembling on the ground.

The smell of rosemary always followed her like a cloud of perfume. I should have known it was her magic.

How did she find me? She’s a dangerous sorceress, a dark-eyed witch whose talent rivals my own.

After I escaped from the Forgotten Tower, I made sure to burn all my clothes to ashes, though sometimes magic clings to the skin like spider webs.

She never stole any of my blood, so she shouldn't have enough of me to cast a tracking spell.

My hair. She could have plucked some of it while I slept.

It wouldn’t be enough to divulge my location to her, though it would be enough for her to send me a message.

The skylark can’t fly back to her and tell her where I’m hiding.

Without the enchantment, it has become a wild, innocent creature again.

There’s no point in hunting it down after the poor thing just regained control of its body.

Come back to me, Lark .

Why in hell’s name would she expect me to come back to her, after everything that happened?

For seven weeks, I was locked in the Forgotten Tower, and she never once tried to free me.

She brought me food, every day, even though it was never enough.

I became ravenous with hunger. A succubus can’t survive without consuming lust.

She knew this.

I hated her for visiting me, hated her for pitying me.

If she expected me to grovel, or beg for mercy, she was wrong.

My defiance ran deeper than the very marrow of my bones.

When the heat of our hatred blazed into passion, I kissed her like I wanted to hurt her.

But by devouring her lust, I could taste how much she wanted this. Wanted me .

Without her, I would have starved to death.

The wind blows through the Thornwood again, though this time, I’m too numb to feel the cold. I wander deeper in the forest and discover more of the winter strawberries. I harvest them until my basket is full and I have no reason to linger outside any longer.

It’s time to go home.

Back in my cottage, I stoke the fire in the hearth and bring out my cauldron.

I will cook down the strawberries into jam.

They will last much longer that way, rather than moldering and rotting.

When I stare into the flames, I remember the skylark flying to me in the Thornwood.

I haven’t left the Forgotten Tower far enough behind.

I never should have touched that evil woman who put a spell on me.

No, not a spell—a curse.