After every battle, Prince Zuriel sought solace in places where no one knew his name—where no finger pointed, no voice whispered, There goes the Hound of Zebulon. And when the war that had raged for eighteen endless months at last came to its end, spring returned to the land. Farmers were tilling again; cornflowers and marigold fought to bloom upon broken soil.
It was in that season of renewal that he began to weave those memories—memories that would one day torment him as much as they comforted him.
Mounted upon Nifasi—a magnificent mare in her eighth year, bearing the same proud elegance as her rider—Zuriel reached Wisteria Manor a night earlier than expected.
Lord Goodwin, the knight he had left to govern these lands, was startled by his sudden appearance. Yet the possibility of an unannounced visit had never been dismissed; thus a modest cottage had been kept at the edge of the woods, tucked away like a humble shelter for a farmhand.
He declined both supper and a warm bath, asking only that Nifasi be well tended to, that he be pointed in the direction of the lake in the Wisteria woods, and that the path be left clear and undisturbed.
Though the path was dark, it took him little effort to find the lake; a seasoned warrior such as he moved through the night with the senses of a nocturnal creature. Once there, he stripped without hesitation and stepped in.
The water was cold—perfectly matching the cool night wind that stirred through the trees. The deeper he waded, the quicker the tension in his muscles began to uncoil. The smell of smoke and blood that had clung to him for months finally began to fade.
Lazily, he swam, and when his limbs grew heavy, he simply lay there afloat upon the water as he stared up into the night sky. His long red hair spread about him like spilled blood, his gray eyes reflecting the glow of the nearly full moon.
A sigh slipped from between his lips as he let his lashes fall over his eyes, allowing his body to drift slowly with the water, emptying his mind of all but the sounds of the night.
One needed only to listen closely to hear it—
the music of the woods.
The water flowing gently by, the wind rippling through the green leaves and dried ones alike , night-birds crying, frogs croaking, crickets chirping and…
bells?
Zuriel's head twitched where it rested upon the water. He was deep within the woods—whence, then, came the sounds of bells? Had he drifted that far? Far enough to have left the bounds of the forest?
The thought stirred him, causing his once-languid eyelids to open.
He was still within the woods. Yet he heard it again and this time it was followed by a clap. His feet touched the sand beneath the lake, the water gently swirling around him as he turned his head toward the direction of the sounds.
They came in a curious rhythm.
First the bells jingled… Tink—Tink—Tink. Sharp, precise. Then the clap—pak! pak!
It was almost as though the bells and claps were harmonizing with the elements of the wood to create a melody.
Slowly his legs moved and his eyes searched until…
They found it—the source.
Long, slender legs… and around the ankles, tiny bells that tinked.
Slender arms, their beaded wrists raised, palms meeting in a clap, pak! pak!
And as though a dark veil had been drawn aside, the moon suddenly radiated, casting its brilliant light upon the clearing where she stood.
With one side of her black skirt's hem tucked into her waistband, and her pale pink blouse baring much of her waist, her voluminous onyx hair fell like a beautiful veiling, accentuating the delicate lines of her small face, with every twirling strand catching the moon's light.
With her hair flowing in the wind, and her garments moving with her form, she reminded him of a butterfly—one lost in a distant memory.
As fast as her feet tapped, her waist twisted and turned even faster, and her breasts heaved in time with the rhythm that guided her body.
Again she twirled with elegance fit for the eyes of an emperor.
She was no witch—he could sense no form of sorcery upon her. Neither was she a fairy for he found no trace of magic within her. Which left but one conclusion…
With his arms folded upon his chest and his gaze fixed upon the undesired spectacle before him, Zuriel thought grimly, "She must be mad."
There was no other plausible reason for anyone who was no moon witch to be in the middle of the forest at dead of night, dancing.
How, precisely, was Lord Goodwin governing the manor, to allow a madwoman to roam the forest at night? She was not merely a danger to herself, but to others as well.
Lost in his own thoughts, Zuriel did not at first realize that the woman's dance had come to a halt.
Until—
"Do not stare so keenly, darling,"
Her voice laced with amusement—deeper than most, almost masculine, yet not so much as to strip it of its femininity—drew him back, and he realized, ah, she had seen him as well.
Now she stood, tall, some ten feet before him, her hands set upon her hips; her wild hair fallen over one shoulder; her skin like golden-honey, glistened with sweat. A knowing smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she spoke again.
"Heed my counsel."
A madwoman—with her chin lifted high like the purest of nobles—would offer counsel to Zuriel Hezron, the Hound of Zebulon himself?!
A most ridiculous situation. Yet he remained… and listened.
"Do not fall for Damaris."
She snapped her fingers thrice with theatrical flair. He flinched. "She is most injurious to your health."
At those words, Zuriel merely nodded and breathed, "Aye… most assuredly mad."