Page 1 of The Frog Prince (The GriMM Tales #6)

One

Eight winters ago...

Alwin

O nce upon a time, in a kingdom not his own, a young prince sat in his carriage, deep in thought as the road still untraveled stretched before him.

He rolled a small golden ball around in his palm with his fingers, twisting it without thought as his other arm rested against the carriage window.

A toy, lavish as it was. It had grown worn with use, its shine slightly dulled and the engraving on it all but faded away.

Alwin couldn’t remember what it had said in the first place, he only knew that having it within his grasp brought him comfort.

Its golden luster drew on a memory of a different hand wrapped around it.

A child holding it up proudly, showing it to Alwin, inviting him to play in a gentle, kind voice as the sun glistened on a head of golden hair.

That warmth was needed in a place such as this.

The forest of Falchovari wasn’t known for its kindness.

Surrounded on all sides by thick, looming trees, the sight of the sky above was a rare, dappled glimmer.

There were tales of worse things than wolves that set upon the unsuspecting travelers who ventured forth, especially for those who strayed from the main paths along bumpy side roads close to the Dark Forest.

“Your Royal Highness!” his coachman called over the heavy sound of hooves and rolling wood. “Farwin is signaling in the distance. He’s scouted something to the west!”

Alwin’s heart lifted and he leaned out of the window to spot Jurgen, the captain of his guard. The older man spurred his horse to trot closer, the huge black steed snorting and tossing its head. The horses had been unsettled ever since they’d left the main road.

“We should be careful approaching. It could be anything, Your Highness,” Jurgen grumbled.

“I’m sick of the sight of trees, old friend.

We’ve been traveling in circles for days now without any sign of a village or a local to ask for directions.

We can’t even find the way back,” Alwin said.

It was like the trees themselves had formed a wall behind them, twisting and moving, even though he was sure that was just his imagination.

“At the very least this will give us a landmark.”

“I know you’re worried about your brother, but my job is to ensure your safety.

” Jurgen ran a gloved hand over his outgrown grey beard in agitation, before shaking his head and looking around them with a keen, suspicious eye.

“I should have never let us leave the main road. We should have waited for it to be cleared or turned back to the castle.”

“The decision was not yours. Don’t burden yourself with troubles that aren’t your own.” Alwin smiled to lighten the mood. “You aren’t as young as you used to be to carry them.”

Jurgen snorted. “A fine jest coming from the boy who used to drop his sword at the slightest breeze.”

Alwin rolled his eyes. “Will you never let that go?”

“Hallin is a windy kingdom, Your Highness. I’m simply doing my duty to make sure its heir knows how to defend himself. Especially when you insist on switching jobs with the coachman and guards.”

Any humor was quickly swept away as a distant call of…something…echoed through the trees. Jurgen sat up straighter and the horses whinnied, everyone doing their best to soothe them.

Alwin set his jaw. “We’ll see what Farwin found. Anything is better than this, and we all deserve a rest.”

Jurgen could do nothing to argue with the order, so he nodded, urging his horse to the head of the party.

Alwin sat back in his seat, uncomfortable but helpless to do anything about it, much less let it show and scare his men—some of whom were growing as skittish as the mounts they rode upon, tossing their heads with wide eyes at the snap of every branch, a second from bolting.

The letter from his brother was burning a hole against his heart; the troubled bid calling him home as fast as his horses could carry him.

Alwin had needed to read no more than that simple request before he had said his goodbyes to Queen Schon, cutting his official visit short. It had weighted his decision to venture off the paths and not wait, Lorenz’s words running on a loop through his head.

Trouble at home. Please come, Brother. I need your help.

These days spent lost had tripled his anxiety, leaving him staring at the canopy above him every night after they’d bedded down, wishing he could fly.

Equal to his role as prince and heir was his role as a big brother. He’d taken one look at Lorenz in the cradle of his mother’s arms and their weight in his heart had shifted and balanced immediately.

Wait for me a little longer, Lorenz , he silently begged.

They rolled on until the waterlogged ground and trees made it impossible to maneuver the carriage.

He caught sight of his worn reflection in the water as they passed. His dark hair was curling over his forehead in sweaty tangles, and only his eyes remained bright, the glowing green a gift from his mother.

“Your Highness! Your Highness!” came the distant, excited call from Farwin at the top of a steep incline, his bright orange hair a beacon in the darkness, the green and gold of Hallin standing out among the trees.

Alwin left the carriage behind without a care, splashing through water and mud in his knee-high riding boots as he quickened the pace now they had a destination.

Muck spotted his tan breeches, already hopelessly stained from many nights camping, his green tailcoat and high-collared white shirt suffering the same fate.

They came to a stop in a small clearing, the sound of trickling water a welcome change. Frogs and toads of varying sizes were dotted around while bugs darted in and out of view.

That wasn’t what made him pause in wonderment, however.

Towering around him, crumbling ruins hugged a small glen that seemed to have formed in their wake, eroding more of the foundations. There were scattered pieces of stone, broken stairs climbing from pools of water to nowhere, and walls holding up nothing.

Running through it all was the branch of a river.

“Could it be the river Albī?” his coachman asked.

“Home?” the five others whispered, echoes of the same hope.

“I know of no other it could be,” Alwin murmured, his boots sinking into the wet earth. He paid it no mind as he walked closer, observing every inch of the ancient building. “I wonder what it could have been.”

He cast his mind back to his history lessons but could find no definitive answer.

“There’s even a well, Your Highness,” Farwin said proudly, as eager as a puppy for approval.

“A well?” Alwin turned and spotted it on the edge of the clearing.

It was squat, but perfectly round in shape, with no well arm or bucket in sight.

Moss grew along its base but, it appeared pristine in every other way, not weathered by time or eroded by water like the rest of the stonework.

Like something or someone had kept it protected.

As if beckoned, he approached and ran a hand over the smooth stone surface.

Farwin nodded in excitement, red ringlets shifting over his forehead.

“I happened upon this first. I saw it in the distance like a beacon. I could have sworn it was calling for me like those sirens sailors talk about. My eyes couldn’t leave it once they lit upon it.

As I drew closer, I heard the sound of water and noticed the river and ruins. ”

Alwin followed his pointing finger before his eyes drifted back to the well just as Farwin had described, as if drawn by a higher power. “You found no one nearby?”

“Not a soul or sign of life for at least a league, like the rest of this forest. Just this ruin and the river. Surely it is a good omen? A boon gifted to his Highness.” Farwin’s green eyes shone with an optimism that hadn’t been shaken, even over these troublesome days.

Alwin was not so sure, but he was not about to deny that the appearance of it was fortuitous. And next to a glen as well. He could hardly believe such fortune existed.

“It’s a good place to rest the horses and bed down for the night. We can leave on the morning’s light now we have a direction,” Jurgen said, already ordering people around and instructing them to go back and remove the supplies from the coach.

Alwin could not look away from the well.

He was transfixed.

But behind his eyes, his mind was working over a riddle.

“Your Highness?” Farwin said.

“Something is wrong here.” Alwin managed to tear his eyes away finally, and he closed them for fear they would be caught again.

“Wrong?” Jurgen’s footsteps were heavy as he hurried over, splashing through the water.

“It feels like that well wants my very soul. Do you not feel it?”

He risked opening his eyes and met Farwin’s innocent gaze, which was swiftly turning fearful, then looked at Jurgen, who tensed, putting a hand to his sword hilt.

“How is it still in such good condition?” Alwin demanded. “It looks to have been newly constructed compared to the rest.”

“P-perhaps it was, my prince,” Farwin said.

“So far into the woods? Without a village or house nearby and a glen of fresh water ready to be taken? Its presence here feels unnatural.”

“Your Highness’s intellect is as sharp as they say.”

The mellifluous voice slid through the ruins, bouncing around like it originated from six or seven different points.

Alwin spun around as his whole party paused in fear, some of his guards drawing their swords.

There, emerging from the ruins like the sacralized ruler of a kingdom long dead, was Queen Schon. Her hands were held in front of her heavy burgundy skirts, her golden hair laid perfectly atop her head in intricate braids. She hardly made a whisper on the ground.

Alwin had to blink to make sure she was no figment, seeing a flicker of a shadow at the corner of his eye.

“Your Majesty?”