Page 72 of Gilded

He was not alone before these black stones. The massive drawbridge over the swampy moat remained, connecting the forest to the ruins, though the wood was rotting and worn on this side of the veil. And there, in the middle of the bridge, lay a crumpled form. The huntress Perchta. Left behind in the realm of mortals.

The prince’s arrow had pierced her heart and blood soaked the bridge beneath her. Her skin was pale blue, the very color of the moonlight. Her hair white as fresh snow, now speckled with wine-red blood. Her eyes gazed up toward the brightening sky in something like wonder.

The prince stepped closer, cautious, his body crying in pain from his many terrible wounds.

She was not dead.

Perhaps dark ones, creatures of the underworld themselves, could not die.

But there was such little life left in her. She was no fierce huntress now, but a broken, betrayed thing. Tears made treks down her once-radiant face, and as the prince stepped closer, her eyes shifted to meet his.

She sneered, revealing jagged teeth. “You cannot think that you have defeated me. You are but a child.”

The prince steeled his heart against any pity he might have felt for the huntress. “I know I am nothing before you. But I also know that you are nothing before the god of death.”

Perchta’s expression became confused, but when the prince looked up, she shifted to follow his gaze.

There—in the center of those hallowed stones—a gateway appeared amid a thicket of brambles. It might have been alive once, but now it was a dead thing. An arch of brittle twigs and tangled thorns, dead branches and faded leaves. Beyond the opening, a narrow staircase descended through a gash in the ground, down into the depths of Verloren, over which Velos, the god of death, alone holds dominion.

And there the god stood. In one hand they held a lantern, the light of which never died. In the other they held a long chain. The chain that binds all things, living and dead.

Perchta saw the god and cried out. She tried to stand, but she was too weak and the arrow through her chest would not allow her to move.

As Velos approached, the prince stepped back, bowing his head with deference, but the god paid him no heed. It was rare that the god was able to reclaim one of the dark ones. Once, they belonged to death. Demons, some called them. Birthed in the poisoned rivers of Verloren, creatures born of the cruel deeds and haunting regrets of the dead. They were never meant for the land of mortals, but in the beforetimes, some escaped through the gate, and the god of death had mourned their loss ever since.

Now, as Perchta screamed with rage and even fear, Velos threw the chain around her and, defying all her struggles, dragged her back through the gateway.

No sooner had they descended than the brambles grew together, so thick one could not see through them. An entire hedge of unforgiving thorns disguised the opening amid those towering stones.

The prince collapsed to his knees. Though he was heartened to see the huntress taken away to Verloren, his heart was still broken from the loss of his sister, and his body so weak he thought he might collapse right there on the rotting bridge.

He thought of his mother and father, who would soon awaken. All the castle would wonder what had become of the prince and princess who had disappeared so suddenly in the night.

He wished with all his heart that he could go to them. That he could have been fast enough, strong enough, to rescue his sister and bring her back home to safety.

Just before he allowed his weary eyes to shut, he heard a heavy thumping, felt the vibrations on the bridge. With a groan, he forced himself to look up.

An old woman had emerged from the forest and was hobbling across the bridge.

No. Not just old. She was ancient, as ageless as the tallest oak, as wrinkled as old linens, as gray as the winter sky. Her back was hunched and she walked with a thick wooden cane that was as gnarled as her limbs.

Her vulpine eyes, though, were brilliant and wise.

She came to stand before the prince, inspecting him. He tried to stand, but he had no strength left.

“Who are you?” said the woman, in a tattered voice.

The prince gave his name, with as much pride as he could muster, despite his weariness.

“It was your arrow that pierced the heart of the great huntress.”

“Yes. I hoped to kill her.”

“Dark ones do not die. But we are grateful that she has finally been returned to Verloren.” The woman glanced behind her, and—

Chapter 23

Serilda yelped, jumping away from the unexpected, feather-soft touch along her wrist.