The full moon hung in the Aethelgard sky like a mocking silver eye, cold and unblinking. Its light pierced through the burgundy silk curtains of my room, flooding the marble floor with a nauseatingly pale hue. I stood on the balcony, letting the night wind sweep against my nightgown, which was crafted from the finest satin on the continent.
Beautiful. Everything in this palace was designed to look beautiful. From the gold engravings on the balcony railings to the scent of jasmine-infused beeswax candles burning in every corridor. Yet, for us, beauty was nothing more than a shroud.
"Please, not tonight," I whispered to the empty wind. "Let tonight be silent."
As if mocking my prayer, the sound arrived.
Awooooooo!
The howl was long, hoarse, and thick with agony. The sound tore through the silence of the night, echoing off the stone walls of the palace. I could feel the vibration crawling up through the soles of my feet. In the city below, I imagined my people pulling their blankets tighter, covering their children's ears, and whispering about the monster that haunted the King's palace.
They were not wrong. It was just that they didn't know the monster wore a crown during the day.
I turned away, ignoring the floor-to-ceiling mirror that reflected my pallid face, and ran from the room. My bare feet struck the cold floor of the corridor. I had no need for a lamp. I knew every curve of this palace by heart, every shadow that could hide a secret.
I passed two guards at the end of the West Wing hall. They stood as rigid as statues, their armor gleaming under the torchlight. They did not turn as I passed. They were the Deaf Guard, a special force chosen specifically for their lack of hearing. They could not hear the howl. They could not hear the screams that so often followed it.
I reached a large painting of the First King of Aethelgard hunting a stag. My hand searched the gold frame, pressing a hidden panel behind the carved ivy leaves.
Click.
The wall shifted, revealing a spiral stone staircase that descended into the darkness. The stench hit me immediately. It was not the scent of lavender or roses that usually filled the palace, but a scent far more primal. Rusted iron. Damp earth. And blood. Blood that was still warm.
I descended the stairs quickly, my satin gown sweeping through dust that was rarely touched. At the bottom of the stairs, a hunched old man waited for me. Jack. A loyal guardian whose tongue had been cut out twenty years ago to keep this secret.
Jack looked at me with clouded eyes, then gave a stiff nod toward the heavy iron door behind him. His hands trembled as he handed me a wet towel and a basin of warm water that had already turned a soft pink.
"Open it," I commanded softly.
Jack pulled a heavy lever. Chains rattled. The iron door opened with a painful screech.
The sight inside always made my stomach turn, no matter how many hundreds of times I had seen it. The room was vast, its walls lined with granite stone capable of withstanding a siege. In the center of the room lay the figure that broke my heart.
My father. King Eamon the Great.
He was no longer entirely in wolf form, but he had not yet returned to being fully human. His massive body was naked, huddled on the cold stone floor. His bones were still cracking, shifting back into human shape. Coarse fur slowly receded into skin that was blistered and red.
"Father?" I called, my voice trembling. I approached and knelt beside him, unheeding of the blood seeping into my expensive gown.
His breath came in gasps, heavy and wet.
"Alora..." His voice was parau, like the grinding of two rough stones. His yellow, reptilian eyes slowly faded into a soft dark brown, yet they remained laden with pain. "You... came."
"I always come," I answered, wringing out the wet towel. "What happened tonight? Jack said you were more violent than usual."
I began to wipe the blood from his back. The blood was not his. It was the blood of a stag. Perhaps a wild bull. At least it was not human. I let out a sigh of relief, but that relief lasted only a second.
As I wiped his left shoulder, I saw it. A deep, jagged tear. The surrounding flesh had turned black, as if charred. It did not smell like a normal wound. There was a sweet, rotting aroma, like meat tainted by poison.
My hand stopped in mid-air. "This isn't a wound from a hunted animal. What is this?"
King Eamon hissed in pain as I touched the edge of the wound. He tried to sit up, his aging muscles straining.
"A trap..." he hissed. "On the northern border. Someone set a... silver trap."
"Silver?" My eyes widened. "Commoners don't have access to pure silver, Father. It is an expensive metal. And they are not foolish enough to hunt in the forbidden forest."
"Not commoners." Father gripped my wrist. His grip was powerful, his nails, still slightly sharp, digging into my skin and leaving red marks. "Hunters. There are professional hunters entering our territory."
I swallowed hard, feeling a chill crawl down my spine. "Who? We have peace treaties with the neighboring kingdoms. No one would dare violate the borders of Aethelgard."
The King laughed, a sound like a wet cough. He released my hand and let his head fall back against the stone floor.
"Peace is an illusion, my daughter. They smell our blood." His eyes stared at the dungeon ceiling, looking far beyond. "This wound... it isn't healing as fast as usual. The poison... it is different."
I immediately examined the wound again. Father was right. Our natural regeneration should have closed this wound in minutes. But it remained gaping, even weeping a thin, black pus.
"I will call the Grand Physician," I said in a panic, starting to stand.
"NO!" he barked. His voice echoed, reflecting an authority that made me freeze. "No one must know I am injured. If the Council knows their King is weak... they will devour you alive before the sun rises."
"Then what am I supposed to do?! I cannot watch you rot!" I screamed, frustration mixed with fear starting to crack my mask of composure.
Father looked deep into my eyes. "Just clean it. Stitch it if you have to. You must be strong, Alora. You must cover this up."
I bit my lower lip, holding back the tears that pushed to escape. With trembling hands, I dipped the towel back into the basin, cleaning away the black pus. The stench made my eyes water.
"They are coming, Alora," he whispered again, weaker this time, as if his consciousness were beginning to drift. "Not just rogue hunters... but Him."
"Who?" I asked sharply, pressing the wound to stop the bleeding.
"The Prince of Vaelen..."
My movements stopped entirely. Prince Alaric. The Monster Hunter. The man who was depicted as a hero in bedtime stories, yet in our nightmares, was an angel of death.
"He isn't supposed to arrive until next week," I countered. "The diplomatic letters said his party was still at the southern border."
Father shook his head weakly. "He is already here... I caught his scent in the forest earlier. The smell of death wrapped in the aroma of pine and cold iron. He came sooner... He knows, Alora. He is searching for his prey."
My heart pounded, slamming against my ribs. If Alaric was already in the region, and Father had been wounded by a silver trap...
"Finish this before dawn," Father commanded, his eyes beginning to close from extreme exhaustion. "Tomorrow morning... you must be the perfect Crown Princess. Do not let anyone see the fear in your eyes. Especially him."
I stared at the gaping wound on the king's shoulder, then at my own hands, stained with black and red blood. Up there, on the dance floors and in the grand dining halls, I was the adored princess. Down here, in the damp underground, I was merely a child trying to patch up a monster to make it look like a human.
"I will protect you, Father," I whispered, more to myself. "Whoever that hunter is... he will not get what he is looking for."
But as I took the needle and silk thread from the first aid kit Jack had brought, a dark thought slipped in.
What if the hunter isn't looking for a monster to kill... but a monster to marry?
Outside, the dawn began to break, bringing with it a threat far sharper than any silver blade.