The Castle

‘A pleasure to meet you Wynter,’ Dorien looked over his shoulder as he walked through the village. She took her time to examine the man again. He made her uneasy, not in the same way that a predator would, but because of the intensity of his interest and the way it felt that she’d met him before.

It was hard to ignore the deference that the villages paid them as they walked past. Everyone nodded or dropped a curtsey to Sir Dorien which he replied with a glance or polite incline of his head. It seemed to confirm her suspicion of the man, that he wasn’t the Prince but someone within the overlords inner circle.

‘Likewise,’ she replied and kept her hand on both bow and sword. Once again wishing that her clothes were less tangled and torn from her misadventures the night before.

‘You must excuse our locals, they’re good folk but filled with stories about our Prince,’ he looked at her, trying to judge how much she’d read into their warnings about a curse. ‘You know how it is in small places, there’s too much time for gossip and rumour.’

‘I understand,’ she assured the man. Her heart constricted, stomach turning in flips once more. Was it really so obvious that she wasn’t a commoner? If that was true, then she couldn’t stay in Breyn. She would have to leave her homeland behind. ‘I have heard stories about Whire and its enchanted Castle,’ she admitted with a shake of her head, still unable to remember them clearly, ‘fairy stories.’

He was looking at her, his expression hard as they reached the incline up towards a heavy set iron grill that was lifted over the gate. She paused as he stepped underneath it, staring up at the castle beyond. There was no flag flying on any of the tall square towers.

‘You’re quite sure your Prince is at home?’ She hesitated and studied Dorien as he waited with his hands on hips, impatient.

‘Oh quite sure,’ he grinned and she wondered why it felt that there was something wicked in his smile. Was he teasing her? She felt like a child who was about to have her pigtails pulled. It wasn’t a feeling that she liked. She didn’t trust the man. ‘He usually travels away for a few days each month, but his journey was interrupted.’

Thank the Gods, Wynter thought. Maybe there was some kind of hope in the world. Only the Lord of the region could grant protection against Malachi. She could only hope that his forces were enough to deter the Warrior from attempting to claim her. More than anything, she didn’t want any blood to be shed on her behalf. She wasn’t worth it.

‘You’re not afraid of fairy tales are you?’ He stood on the other side of the portcullis and she hadn’t moved. Wynter looked along the wall that circled the castle. It was made of stone that was grey in the shadows. She glanced back once more at the sunny village and the bustling people that moved to and fro, busy with their daily lives. Simple lives. Lives that she envied for their freedom.

The path led under the defences and in an arrow-straight path of flagstones to wide stone steps and a large double wooden door in the main keep of the building. It was a hard building, almost lifeless from the outside. As though, despite the heat of summer in the curved arm of the mountains and the valley that followed the path of the river, warmth couldn’t break through the gate.

A cage of wolves, she was reminded of her strange thoughts again. Her eyes tracked across the detailing on the stones.It was a symmetrical Castle, the main Keep in the centre of four towers. Each of them was crowned with a stone carving. Wolves in different forms. Her breath caught and she considered the button she’d found in the lodge.

No doubt Finn really was in the employ of the Prince, if his buttons bore the insignia of his Master. She hoped, truly, that she wouldn’t run into him any time soon. Not after he’d left her in the middle of the night. Not after they had learnt the taste and texture of each other.

‘Well?’ Dorien prompted and Wynter strode forward, resisting the urge to duck under the portcullis that hung far above her head.

‘I’m not afraid of fairy tales,’ she told the man with more confidence than she felt. A flicker of fear ignited in her heart once more when he grinned that mirthless smile once.

‘Perhaps you should be,’ he muttered and strode over the flagstones to doors that were pulled open at his approach. She couldn’t see the footman, as she climbed the steps and frowned. Realising that he had spoken again.

‘I’m sorry?’ Wynter, curled her fingers around the hilt of her sword again. Through the large wooden doors she spun as they slammed shut behind her. The sound echoing through a hallway that seemed sparse. Barren.

She circled back, taking in Dorien again as her heart thumped uncomfortably. The door had closed behind her and there was still no sign of footmen, or any servants. If the outside of the Castle had felt cool, the inside was deliberately uninviting.

‘I said that you’re not from a small village, are you Wynter?’ He propped and she stared at him.

‘No…I’m from Gryff,’ she lied again and wondered if he knew the lie. If he heard it in the slight tremor in her voice. The hallway was utterly bare. Devoid of any of the usual furnishings she’d expect a noble house. Especially the house of a Prince.

‘Fascinating…’

It was dark, and cool. Something that could have been a relief from a hot summer's day. Yet she suspected it was always cold. It was a long corridor paved with black and red tiles in a cross hatching. Not a single rug covered the surface. The windows were narrow and high up, casting dusty light across the scorched beams that held the ceiling aloft.

There were no tapestries or drapes hanging from the walls. Not a painting, a chair or table for any decoration or comfort. Her heart was beating rapidly and she found herself moving quickly to catch up with Dorien as he moved on. It was a wide hallway and it opened out into what felt like a large octagonal space with a high chandelier hanging in the centre. High above their heads, it was unlit.

Wynter peered up at it, breath catching in a staccato at the back of her throat. The Castle felt wrong, far too cold and unlived in for the home of a Prince. No wonder it encouraged rumours to fester. No wonder the Weaver and her husband had warned her away. They’d felt like good people, and Dorien felt as though he inherited the same strange wrongness as the Keep.

Should she trust her instincts? How could she, when they’d led her to Malachi? Afterall, if it wasn’t for Malachi, she wouldn’t be here at all. She wouldn’t need the help of whatever strange Prince lived in such a macabre home.

Dorien opened up a door for her, gesturing for her to enter ahead. She wanted to refuse. Wanted to turn and run back out the front door. Yet that wouldn’t get her anywhere. Instead she gripped her weapons tighter and fought to keep her expression neutral as she entered the drawing room he had directed her into.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he smiled the same cold smile and slipped away. Closing the door with a click.

Don’t panic, Wynter commanded herself. Focusing on the details to ground herself. Here at least a rug had been thrown down over the tiles. It was dark green and covered in a pattern of sun bleached pink roses.

There were three long windows looking out at the wall and the village below. The light struggled through the dust that coated them. If the Prince had staff, then they didn’t take very good care of his home. She turned around, uncomfortable. At least she could break a window, if she needed to escape? Probably.

The tall door swung open and Dorien appeared once more, ‘his Majesty will see you,’ beckoned her forward. Wynter flexed her fingers and strode forward. Determined to get the matter over and done with.

Down the corridor once more to another double door which Dorien threw open with a flourish. The groaning of ancient wood reverberating through the stone pillared throne room. The floor and pillars that supported the roof were ancient, damaged and cracked. But her gaze fixed on the raised dias and the lonely wooden chair in the centre.

The Prince sat with his elbow on the arm, chin propped in his hand. Confident. Bored. He looked her over and her heart stopped. The stranger. Fin.