Writing Stuff

It was well past noon when he awoke, the shadows beginning to lengthen as the sun slowly descended in the sky. Draven wanted to keep sleeping, to lay in oblivion for just a few more hours, But he knew that wouldn't happen.

So he dragged himself out of bed and drifted out into the kitchen, eager for a cup of coffee, and froze.

The door to the living room was still open.

Draven stared at the dark space between the cracked-open door and the doorframe, trying to remember if he had seen Octavian close it. No, he had gone to bed before Octavian had, though he remembered strongly encouraging the elf to rest.

Did he leave?

Insomniac or not, even Draven knew not to go without a small amount of rest, particularly after a hunt.

Frowning, Draven pushed open the door the rest of the way, and paused.

Every night since Octavian had come to live with him, the elf had chosen to sleep in the form of a large silver wolf, his other self as a skinwalker, curled up on the rug in the center of the room.

But today, Octavian lay on his back, right arm thrown across his face over his eyes, the other flung out as if he were a discarded doll. A blanket was crumpled next to him in a manner that suggested it once covered him, but had been kicked off in restless slumber.

He didn't react to Draven standing in the doorway.

That in itself was blatant indication that he wasn't well. Octavian slept lightly, always waking before Draven or when he heard Draven moving about.

Moving quietly, Draven stepped into the room and lit the lamp on the table beside one of the sofas, holding it up to get a better look. The living room had no windows, and the light from the kitchen wasn't enough to see by.

Octavian's breathing was shallow, his already pale skin flushed from fever. As Draven studied him, the fingers of his left hand twitched and curled into a fist, as if grasping for something unseen.

"De Silv," Draven said softly.

The elf didn't respond.

"De Silv, can you hear me?"

Still, no reaction.

Hissing through his teeth, Draven gently placed the back of his hand against Octavian's forehead. "Damn!" He cursed, withdrawing. "You're like an oven!"

Octavian barely stirred at his touch.

Draven rocked back on his heels, thinking rapidly. Doctor, he needs a doctor.

But I shouldn't leave him, what if something happens?

He sighed. If something happens, I'd rather have a doctor here.

Jumping to his feet, Draven quickly crossed the apartment to his own room and tugged on his boots. He'd gone to sleep in the clothes he'd worn the night before, they were rumpled, torn and bloodstained, but they would have to do. Stopping in the tiny bathroom, he snagged a rag from the cabinet and soaked it in cool water from the basin.

Octavian hadn't moved in the few minutes he was gone.

Draven bit back another curse as he crouched again and gently moved Octavian's arm from his face. The elf's eyes were open, but half-lidded and glazed over. He mumbled something unintelligible at the unexpected shift, his eyes darting in place.

"I'm going to get a doctor," Draven said softly, laying the damp rag across his brow. "Don't do anything stupid."

He didn't know if Octavian could understand him. But the cool cloth seemed to help, at least a little bit, his eyes closing, though his breathing remained shallow.

It would have to do for now.

Most in the palace would be asleep. The rest would either be guards on patrol outside, or night workers elsewhere.

The knight slowly got to his feet.

Now or never.

His footsteps were silent on the stone floor---leather boots, not his trusty steel, another thing the sorcerer stole away from him---as he crossed the cell to the door.

Putting his hand on the lock, the knight exhaled slowly, focusing his thoughts. He'd spent hours considering this plan, how his curse seemed to operate. How it had unraveled the knots on the ropes until they fell away from his wrists. How it had left patterns where his hands touched.

How it was favored towards the motives of a thief.

"I am not a thief," he whispered.

But he pushed sharply against the door, forcing his anger into the lock.

Frost spread across the wooden surface, swirling into runes and symbols before his eyes.

The prince had once told him that every snowflake was unique. When the droplets of water froze into ice, each formation was different, no two crystals the same.

The curse was not like that. The symbols served a purpose, and some hidden formula guided them into across pre-determined paths. Was it the knight's will that caused them to form in such a script? Or was it the sorcerer's?

The lock clicked.

His breath hitched, heart beginning to race again.

It worked!

...it worked.

The knight shook his head to clear his mind and eased the door open, listening carefully. The corridor greeted him with silence.

So he left.

His step was confident, his destination determined long ago, though he did not recall when he made the decision, exactly. Perhaps it was when he awoke yesterday morning and recognized the room. Perhaps it was after the prince left.

It was certainly made after the sorcerer spoke to him.

At the thought of the sorcerer, his step slowed. Were they watching him at this very moment, hidden in the shadows? Were they residing in his head, peering through his eyes?

If the sorcerer had an opinion on these thoughts, on this decision, they made no comment.

Perhaps they were simply a hallucination, after all.

All the more reason to continue.

The knight quickened his pace. The corridors of the lower palace were familiar, yet foreign. The same worn stones, the same metal sconces, the same wooden beams.

It was the knight who had changed.

All too soon---and not soon enough---the knight reached his destination.

Not the throne room. Not the vaults, or the library. Not his own bunk in the garrison, however much a warm bed appealed to him. It wasn't even a door leading out into the night, where he could disappear forever.

No, the knight slipped into the armory.

The far-off starlight glinted through the tempered glass windows, reflecting off racks and rows of battle-axes and swords, crossbows and knives, morning stars and metal-tipped arrows.

The knight selected a simple dagger from its mount on the wall. He didn't require anything fancy. Like him, it just needed to do its job.

Beneath one of the windows seemed as good a spot as any.

The knight settled against the wall, the stars making a square of light on the ground before him.

He admired the way the light glinted on the hammered steel of the knife in his hand before pressing it against his chest, right about his heart, the point angled between two of his ribs for a swift delivery.

"I am not a thief," he murmured again. "And I am not your puppet!"

Before he could talk himself out of the decision, the knight thrust the knife into his heart.

It sliced through his shirt.

Pierced his skin.

And---

A flash of white.

A burst of freezing cold light erupted from his chest, blinding him.

Something---or someone---tore the knife from his grasp, and it clattered across the stones.

The knight blinked the stars out of his vision, instinctively pressing a hand to his heart.

His skin was intact.

"Well, that was unexpected," the sorcerer said in his ear.

The knight stared down at the hole in his shirt in mute horror.

"Not the attempted suicide part, mind you," the sorcerer clarified. "But rather, the flashiness of your magic defending you."

"It's not my magic!" The knight snapped. Scrambling to his feet, he seized a sword from the nearest rack and moved to fall upon it. Surely gravity would---

A flash of white light.

The sword bent in half.

"Fascinating," the sorcerer mused.

The knight ignored him, this time snatching up an arrow from its quiver and pressing it against hiss throat, above where the markings ended and left bare, vulnerable skin.

The arrowhead snapped off from the force of his hand against the impossibly unyielding flesh.

Unleashing a string of curses, the knight hurled the useless shaft across the room and collapsed back against the window, held upright by the windowsill.

"Oh? Giving up?"

"Please," the knight whispered, voice shaking. "Please let me go. You have to let me go."

The sorcerer hummed softly, but did not reply.

"I will rot in that cell until I die of thirst, if I must."

"If you think that would work, be my guest," the sorcerer said. "But if there was any mortal way out of that curse, believe me, I would have found it."

The knight frowned, the sorcerer's words from during the ritual returning to him.

I was not nearly so coherent when I experienced the same.

You know well the binding power of oaths.

"'Mortal'?" He repeated.

"I have reason to believe your king possesses a relic, hidden away in the royal vaults, that may be the key to reversing the spell."

The knight exhaled slowly, thinking. "How do you know this?"

The sorcerer's voice grew melancholic. "I have tracked the relic across hundreds of years, thousands of miles, for centuries. The histories, both written and oral, say it is so."

"It could have been stolen long ago," the knight said softly. "Or destroyed."

"Perhaps. But we will not know until you look."

The knight folded his arms. Every instinct screamed at him to fight. To try another weapon. To find another way out. Anything but trusting the vile human---if they could even be called that---who had stolen away his mortality.

Finally, he spoke, words forced through gritted teeth.

Even with her eyes closed, her mind wouldn't calm, a constant whirlwind of information keeping her wide awake. The histories she'd read that day mixed with the theories she'd drawn and the conversation she had with her brother, all a jumble with the undercurrent of forbidden knowledge that she had learned early on never to speak of.

Never to acknowledge its presence.

Until that day in the storm.

Now it was louder than ever, the smallest of items begging for her attention.

The heirlooms were the worst. Many of them had been involved in one gruesome death or another, either worn by the victim or deeply cherished to leave a indelible mark. As a child, the princess had refused to wear many of the jewelry given to her, even before she had the words to properly express why she was so repulsed by them.

Even after she could speak of what they said to her, no one believed her.

No one except her mother.

The queen remembered the stories passed down within her family line and recognized the gift within her daughter. She always said to the little princess to never tell a soul, for fear of execution for sorcery.

But after reading all the histories, the princess knew this wasn't sorcery. Sorcery was magic obtained unnaturally, purchased by blood, body or soul.

Her gift... her gift was something else.

But as before, the princess could not explain it.

Hissing through her teeth, the princess opened her eyes and threw back the covers of her bed, climbing out and leaving her bedroom in a heartbeat. No point in trying to sleep if she wasn't tired.

And something... something else was bothering her.

Finding a small lantern, she lit the wick from the dying embers in the fire in the chamber beyond her room, donned a shawl and slippers, and wandered into the palace hallways.

The princess didn't know where she was going. She just went.

This happened, sometimes. Never so late at night. And the restlessness had never been so strong.

But she had her suspicions.

When her aimless walking took her to the dungeon cells, her thoughts were confirmed. She didn't need to guess for the last part.

The cell door was open.

The knight was gone.

The princess couldn't muster the energy to be surprised. It had only been a matter of time before he might try something rash. Within a day of regaining consciousness, though... that was impressive.

Exhaling slowly, the princess knelt and retrieved the rope that bound the knight's wrists together. She rubbed the fibers between her fingers, staring blankly at the wall, her eyes darting back and forth in place.

It was more like a series of images, thoughts, and emotions than actual words. The ropes had nowhere near the same connection to the knight as his sword, but they had been with him long enough to leave an imprint.

Terror.

An image of frost spreading across the stones, forming familiar symbols.

Despair.

A mocking voice in her ear.

Resolve.

The armory.

The princess stood and left the cell, moving quickly. She did not panic. She was not panicking. But her breath came in shallow gasps, fear curling in her gut that she might be too late.

The armory door was open.

Weapons had been scattered about the floor: a knife near the wall, a sword, bent at an impossible angle, and an arrow, broken clean in two.

But no knight.

The princess pursed her lips. A mystery, but when magic was involved, the improbable suddenly became commonplace.

She chose the knife. That, out of all the weapons, seemed the most likely to leave an imprint.

And she was right.

She hated being right sometimes.

The knife clattered to the floor, and the princess fled from the armory.

She needed to get to her brother.

Under any other circumstances, she might have been reprimanded for such feverish curiosity. After all, magic was forbidden, had been for centuries. She may have been suspected of being a sorcerer herself and punished as such.

But after what had happened to the knight, no one bat an eye.

The prince dropped in the chair across from her, pushing aside a stack of books on the table located in a quiet corner of the royal library.

She didn't acknowledge him at first, so engrossed was she in copying down a passage into a notebook.

Only when she finished writing the title and page number of the book she was referencing did the princess look up. "How's he faring?"

The prince drummed his fingers on the tabletop, agitated. "He's awake. Fully awake."

Her eyes widened. "He is?"

He nodded.

The princess exhaled in relief, but when she noticed his distress, her eyes narrowed. "Why are you upset? What's wrong?"

The prince hesitated. She had been working so hard, trying to figure out the curse the sorcerer had placed on the knight. He didn't want to add to her worries.

"Did he say something to you?" The princess demanded, leaning forward. Her voice was low, but no less vehement. "I can see you thinking about lying."

"I wasn't going to lie!" The prince snapped.

His sister raised her eyebrows.

He sighed. "Do you want to know the first thing he said to me, when I walked into that cell?"

"What?"

"Don't look at me. He said this while pressing himself against the wall like he was afraid I might attack him." The prince swallowed. "Or... that he might attack me. I explained why he was in the cell. His response?

"I told you to kill me. I said I would not. He told me I was being reckless." He sighed. "We argued. And I left."

A beat of silence.

The princess shoved aside a pile of dusty tomes and grabbed his hand. Her fingers were stained with ink. "We're going to figure this out," she whispered. "I'm going to find out what that curse does and how to get rid of it, even if I must track down the sorcerer and force it out of them myself."

The prince just nodded. "Have you..." the words stuck in his throat. "Have you found anything useful?"

The princess glanced around furtively, but this part of the library was deserted. Even so, she continued speaking at a whisper. "Some. It's vague, but I figured out a few of the symbols."

"Show me?"

She nodded, letting go of his hand and flipping through her notebook. "I think the curse started at his wrists, the symbols match the common script used to begin spells...."

---

After the prince left, the knight was left alone in his cell.

Until he wasn't.

The knight sat on the floor, his back against the wall, when something changed. Like a presence had entered the room without his notice and now waited, silent.

He raised his head.

The cell appeared empty.

But he was not alone.

"So he has regained cognizance," a voice said in his ear.

The knight flinched away, but no one was there.

He knew their voice, though. "Leave me alone," he whispered.

"I understand your desire for solitude," the sorcerer said, "but I have a task for you."

"Go to hell."

"Halfway there, sir knight, halfway there," the sorcerer replied, amused. "I wish for you to retrieve something for me."

The knight gritted his teeth. "Oh, is that all? Why do you need me, then? I'm sure you could accomplish all sorts of thievery if you wished."

"Please understand, sir knight, if I did not need you, I would not have imbued you with what you need for this task."

"Be silent," the knight hissed. "I don't care what it is you want. It could be a pebble from the road or the king's own crown, but I will not bring it to you."

White light appeared at the edges of the knight's vision. He glanced down, his mouth going dry.

The markings were glowing.

He sprang to his feet, running to the other side of the cell as if to flee.

But the light continued, bringing with it that sensation of freezing cold fire.

It wasn't as painful as before.

But still, it burned.

Still, it was magic.

His legs buckled, and the knight fell to his knees, the room spinning and pitching like he was in the hold of a boat, not a cell in the palace dungeon.

"What is this?" He forced through gritted teeth.

"A reminder."

"Stop hiding in my head!" The knight shouted. "Come and face me in a real fight!"

The sorcerer tsked in his ear. "Stay down here. Hide in this cell for as long as you wish. But you can't hide from the truth."

That nothing would be the same again.

That the knight was no longer human.

"Get out, get out!"

Not human, but something else.

Something cursed.

The knight slammed his closed fists into the ground.

In a blink, the dizziness left him, evaporating like mist in the early morning sun. The oppressive chill vanished too, though he was still far too cold.

But the knight was not relieved. He stared at the ground where his hands had struck.

The hands no longer bound together by rope.

And the filigree layer of pure white ice spread across the stones around them, forming symbols like that marked upon his skin.

The knight's breath came in shallow gasps.

"No..." he whispered. "Nonono this can't be...."

For once, the sorcerer made no reply.

Perhaps they were never there at all.

The knight slowly crawled away from the unnatural formation upon the ground, pressing himself against the wall as far as he could physically get from what he had done.

A gentle clip-clop of hooves accompanied each moment.

He was on a horse, upright but slumped forward slightly in the saddle.

It was cold.

His fingers twitched.

Coarse ropes bound his wrists together to something hard in front of him.

The saddle horn, he thought, dazed. Can't see....

Something obscured his vision, something over his head.

Something dark, and rough.

I'm being transported like a common prisoner.

Why?

Where was he? What had he done?

Why was he so damned cold?

White light flashed at the corners of his vision.

The knight blinked, and---

...

The knight woke, still and silent.

His eyes blinked open.

The room was dim, lit by a few candles.

The knight lay on his back, on top of something soft. Something warm had been draped over him, but it did little to block out the cold.

Dark figures stood about the room.

One of them knelt at his side, but his eyes wouldn't focus. He couldn't see their face in the gloom.

They spoke to him in soft tones, in words he could not understand.

His mind moved at a snail's pace, trying to decipher the language.

But the worst was their voice.

It was so damned familiar.

He listened, hoping recognition would come with time. Hoping sight would come with time.

A shiver ran down his spine.

White light flashed at the corners of his vision.

...

The knight woke, swaying softly.

A gentle clip-clop of hooves accompanied each moment.

He was on a horse.

He vaguely remembered being on a horse, his hands bound, vision obscured by sackcloth.

But he couldn't remember why.

Why he was here.

What he had done.

Why it was so damned cold.

How---

A flash of white light.

...

The knight was frustrated.

Frustrated with his brief bursts of lucidity.

Frustrated with the holes in his memory.

Frustrated with the figure speaking to him, even now, when he had no idea what they were saying.

The voice was soothing, though. Even if he couldn't see their face clearly, nor recall their name.

If they were the one transporting him in such a way, perhaps he could trust they had a good reason.

A flash of white light.

...

The knight had no idea how much time had passed.

But when he opened his eyes, something was different.

For the first time, he was alone.

He was not tied to the saddle of a horse, nor lying in a bed in a dimly lit, unfamiliar room.

Because the knight recognized this room.

He was on his back on the cool stone floor of a cell in the palace dungeon. Light streamed in from the thin window at the top of one of the walls---it was morning.

The knight exhaled, his mind whirling faster than he remembered it moving in a long time.

Not since the sorcerer---

The sorcerer.

Stiffening, the knight slowly pushed himself upright, his back against the cell wall, and raised his arms---still bound at the wrists---until his sleeves fell back, revealing his skin.

The skin covered in markings.

Silvery white, the markings could almost be mistaken for tattoos, if not for the symbols and script that were unmistakably magical in origin.

The symbols began on the backs of the knight's hands, mostly covered by the ropes, and traced their way up his forearms until they disappeared beneath his shirt. Boots covered the tops of his feet, but the knight knew that the markings stopped right there.

Just as he knew the markings stopped around his neck, not touching the skin of his face nor his scalp.

He wasn't entirely sure how he knew that. He certainly remembered the freezing cold reaching those parts.

He just knew.

And that terrified him even more than the mere presence of the markings.

Without warning, the cell door opened, and the knight flinched, eyes darting to the lone figure who stepped inside.

The prince.

His eyes lit up when he saw the knight. "You're awake!"

The knight shrank back at his gaze, the friendly smile. "Don't look at me," he whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.

The prince faltered, taken aback by his words. After a moment's hesitation, his face hardened in determination, and he crossed the cell to sit beside the knight.

The knight watched him in silence, all too aware of the silver-white symbols on his arms.

"We made it home," the prince said quietly, gesturing to the cell. "I... I argued against the dungeon, but the garrison captain insisted, and my father agreed after hearing what happened."

What happened.

A dozen responses ran through the knight's head, considered and discarded. Formality was ill-fitting. An apology seemed wrong. Anything he could say would not describe the thoughts and emotions churning inside him like an ocean during a storm.

"I told you," he finally said, "to kill me."

The prince scowled. "Clearly I refused."

"I can see that." The knight bowed his head. "It was a reckless decision."

"I am not going to execute you. You have done nothing wrong."

The knight gritted his teeth. "You do not understand," he hissed. "You cannot understand what is happening to me. I do not understand what is happening to me! But I can feel it."

He met the prince's gaze. "I have not done nothing wrong."

Yet.

"But," he continued, "that does not mean I am not dangerous."

The prince shook his head vehemently. "I know you! You would never hurt anyone---"

"But what if I don't have a choice? What if the sorcerer's spell can strip me of my free will at any time? We can't let them have that chance."

The prince shifted away from him, aghast. "You can't believe that!"

"I do."

The prince stared at him for a long moment. Finally, he got to his feet and left the cell, the door slamming shut behind him.

The knight slumped. The last thing he wanted was a fight.

But the prince, as always, was naive.

He didn't know the sort of things magic could do.

Neither, in truth, did the knight. Not really.

But the knight knew enough that he didn't want to find out what the sorcerer had in store for him.

Comprised of palace guard and standing garrison members, each and every member was prepared to lecture the young royals for leaving the wrecked coach with nothing but the garbled message of the injured coachman, but the sight of the knight, unconscious upon a stone slab stained from years of blood rituals, was enough to postpone the speeches for a later time.

"What happened?" A knight who rode at the head of the company on the road, a captain in the palace garrison and now the de facto leader, asked, sheathing his sword. "Your coachman said there was a sorcerer?"

From the look on his face, he clearly hadn't believed the injured man until now, after seeing the ruins of what used to be a shrine, the evidence of a magical spell written upon his fellow knight's skin.

The princess glanced down at the knight's sword in her hand. "We confronted the sorcerer, and ordered him to stop the spell." She gestured vaguely with her other hand in the direction of the knight. "Instead, he disappeared. The knight was still conscious at the time, but...."

Her eyes flicked to her brother, who bent over the knight, trying to rouse him. The prince's embroidered jacket was draped over the knight's chest, dripping water over the stone slab. "He was begging for death," she finally said. "I don't know what the sorcerer did to him, but it was hurting him."

"Is this true, your highness?" The captain asked the prince.

The prince shot him a look of such vehement, stubborn rage that the captain flinched back. "We are not executing him! He has done nothing wrong!"

"No one is saying that," the princess snapped, rolling her eyes.

"It is possible," one of the other knights mused, "that he may have some idea of what the sorcerer did to him, and decided death was the better fate."

"It doesn't matter what the sorcerer did!" The prince cried. He sprang to his feet, placing himself firmly between the knight and the rest of the company. "I won't let you kill him!"

The captain sighed. "Your highness, it matters very much what the sorcerer did. He is asleep now, but we cannot know what will happen when he wakes."

"So we should kill him? Because of something he might do?!"

"Brother," the princess interjected, "no one is advocating for his death. In fact, the last thing anyone wants is his death. They are considering all known possibilities with our safety in mind. Exactly as the knight would do."

The prince opened his mouth as if to argue, but the truth of her words struck him, and his legs gave out from beneath him. He caught himself on the edge of the stone slab, lowering himself to the ground as the princess moved to his side. His entire body shook, though whether from fear, cold, or anger, she couldn't tell.

"Whatever it is you decide," he finally said, "I trust you all. But if you choose to kill him, you will have to go through me."

The princess made an exasperated noise, but the captain nodded, waving at the rest of the company to gather around him to discuss.

While they spoke in low voices, the prince beckoned his sister closer, eyes on the knights, lingering outside the shrine despite the rain still pouring, dripping from the leaves of the trees around them in streams.

"You said nothing about what the sorcerer said to you," he whispered.

"Yes, because this seems like a wonderful time to admit that I may have access to long-dormant magic in our bloodline." The princess lifted the sword, the tip pointed at the ground. "Even if I say I do not want to run about in robes cursing hapless folk, do you think they'll take the news well?"

"But---"

"Do me a favor and think for once. For the heir to our kingdom, you do a poor job at controlling your tongue."

The prince glared at her, but stayed silent.

When the company finished their discussion and presented a solution, neither of the royals mentioned the sorcerer's words, nor how they had known where to find the prince. The knights did not ask, assuming the sorcerer had left a trail for them to follow.

It simply began.

And it was agony.

The sensation began at his wrists and ankles, as if the sorcerer had taken iron fire pokers and stabbed them into the knight's flesh. It was a branding, but not of metal heated-white hot.

No, it was cold.

So cold it was like fire.

So cold it made the stone slab beneath him feel warm.

The knight strained against the bindings, a low groan escaping clenched teeth, trying to get away.

"Remarkable pain tolerance." The sorcerer's voice startled him, briefly distracting from the freezing cold.

The knight cursed at them.

The sorcerer did not laugh. When they spoke, all amusement from before was nowhere to be heard. "I was not nearly so coherent when I experienced the same."

The knight's fingers curled around the ropes in the center of his palms, keeping his hands facing towards the chamber ceiling he could not see. "Why?" He hissed. "Why do this, if you dislike suffering? If you know how it feels?"

The cold crept up his forearms and shins, winding around his flesh in such a way that the knight knew it was tracing symbols upon his skin.

Not just his skin.

His muscles.

His bones.

His blood.

His very being.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," the sorcerer said from somewhere over his head. "I have as much choice in this as I did back then. As you do now. You know well the binding power of oaths, you are sworn to your kingdom and crown."

The curse reached the knight's elbows and knees, digging into the joints and sinew. It was multiplying, moving faster and faster the longer it gnawed at him, sapping away any sense of warmth and comfort he had ever experienced.

His breathing came in long, panting gasps. "Make it stop... make it stop, please! Please!"

"I cannot. I am sorry."

The knight sensed more than heard the sorcerer move away from him. The freezing cold twisted around his shoulders, closing around his chest with animalistic hunger.

What would happen when it reached his heart?

What would happen when it reached his head?

What would---

"Hey!"

The knight's head snapped to his right as a voice broke through the cloud over his mind. A voice so familiar it brought a new surge of terror.

"Get away from him!" The prince shouted.

"Hm," the sorcerer murmured, loud enough the knight barely heard him. "Quicker than expected. And only two---" They cut themself off with a strangled gasping sound. "You!" They shouted, "I sensed you!"

Only two... oh hell. The knight opened his mouth to yell, to curse, to tell the prince and princess to run away, but his teeth chattered so much he couldn't form the words.

"Step away from the knight," came the princess's command.

"I heard rumors of long-dormant magic running in the royal line..." the sorcerer mused, as if she had not spoken. "Three hundred years of patience, and here you come along---"

"Enough." The princess's tone was frigid, laden with simmering fury. "Cease your spell now."

A beat of silence.

A sound like rushing wind.

Suddenly someone was at the knight's side, slicing through ropes. "Can you hear me?" The prince asked, frantic, pulling the blindfold away.

The edges of the knight's vision were tinged with white as his eyes scanned the crumbling stone structure around him before focusing on the prince. His entire body shook now, each movement driving invisible needles deeper and deeper into his flesh.

"You---you---you---" he stammered through clattering teeth.

The prince pulled off his embroidered coat, soaked through, and draped it over the knight.

It wouldn't help.

The curse traced its way along the back of the knight's head now. He could only imagine what the prince and princess saw.

"Kill me," he finally forced out. "Be---fore---c---curse---"

The prince glanced back at his sister, twin expressions of horror on their faces. She held the knight's sword. The prince held his own knife.

"P---p---lease..." The knight begged.

The freezing cold closed over his eyes.

Splash!

The prince flinched inside the overturned coach, pressing a hand against his mouth. His sister stared at him with wide eyes that matched his own shock as they listened to the conversation outside.

"A sorcerer?"

"Mm... yes. You are either incredibly brave, or incredibly loyal. I was here for royal blood, but you will serve me just as well."

"What are you---?"

Another splash.

The royals waited with bated breath, the rain falling on their upturned faces through the window of the coach door that was now the ceiling. But the only noise was the constant drumming of water.

The prince set his jaw and reached for the small knife hidden in a sheath on his thigh. Drawing it, he stabbed it into the canvas roof---now one of the sides of the fallen coach---and slowly, painstakingly, cut through the fabric.

The princess watched him, nervously clutching at her skirts. "Do you think he's...?"

She didn't finish the whispered question. The prince shook his head quickly.

No. The knight couldn't be dead.

He couldn't!

The prince finished tearing a slit wide enough to climb through and wasted no time scrambling from the coach. Thunder rumbled from far away as he splashed through the mud around the coach to find---

No one.

No knight, no mysterious sorcerer.

Only the knight's sword, left abandoned in a puddle.

The prince stared at it, heart thudding in his ears as loud as the thunder that had spooked the horses.

A touch, feather-light, on his arm startled him, and he found the princess, her dark eyes darting about the road, the churned-up earth, the sword on the ground. Her gaze landed on the coachman, who lay on his back close to the road. She quickly crossed the distance between them, kneeling at his side, ignoring how the mud stained her shoes and skirt.

The prince trailed after her, face heating. He hadn't even noticed the coachman.

"What happened?" The princess asked, forcing her hands into her lap to keep them from reaching for the broken leg. "Did you see where the knight went?"

The coachman opened his eyes and exhaled in relief. "Princess..." he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "You're safe."

"But the knight is not," she prompted. "Can you tell me what happened?"

The coachman winced, though whether it was from pain or embarrassment, the prince couldn't tell. "Ah... truth be told, ma'am... the moment that... that sorcerer... appeared from thin air... I closed my eyes... an' pretended t'be dead."

The princess pursed her lips, clearly disappointed, but she nodded and stood, directing her attention to the fallen sword.

"Was that... was that wrong of me to do...?"

The prince glanced down at the coachman. The man's jaw was clenched in pain, though he tried his best to hide it.

"I do not think so," the prince answered, returning his knife to its hidden sheath. "I do not see what else you could have done. What do you remember about the sorcerer?"

"Mmm... they wore a red cloak... face was hidden...."

"Anything else?"

"No... sorry...."

"It's more than we knew a few minutes ago," the prince noted. He glanced at the princess, only to find her facing away from him, the knight's sword held loosely in her right hand, staring across the valley.

"Princess?"

She jumped as he came up beside her.

"What are we looking at?" He asked, drawing out the first word.

The princess slowly raised the hand grasping the sword. Water dripped from the blade as she pointed it to a grove of trees at the crest of the next hill. "The sorcerer took him there."

The prince squinted at the trees, then the ground, the earth bearing no tracks, then his sister. "How do you know that?"

"I just..." Her eyes darted to the sword. "I just do."

The prince swallowed, looking back to the grove. "If it is a sorcerer that took him, who knows what will happen?"

"Ritual, sacrifice, dark magic... the histories are vague," the princess murmured. She lowered the sword towards the ground. "He will die. Or worse."

The rain continued to fall around them. Lightning flashed somewhere beyond the next hill. Thunder rolled overhead a moment later.

"I'm going after him," the prince finally said.

"I'm going with you."

"Absolutely not!"

The princess fixed him with an unblinking stare. "I wasn't asking."

"I'm not putting you in danger---"

"The sorcerer was after us. They only took him because he intrigued them or something!"

"Exactly why I don't---"

"I'm the only reason you know he's there!"

"And, again, how do you know that?"

"Because the sword told me!" The princess stiffened, gritting her teeth.

The prince stared first at her, then the weapon. "His... sword... told you...."

"Yes," she snapped, "it did."

The prince pursed his lips. But if she was lying, she was doing a marvelous job at hiding it. He sighed. "Fine. But if I tell you to run, you run. Promise?"

She grinned. "Promise."

The prince glanced to the coachman, whose eyes were closed against the rain. "When the rest of the company catches up," he called, "tell them we went to the grove on the next hill."

The coachman managed a weak wave as they began the trek through the muddy plain.

As they walked, now soaked to the skin, hair plastered to their foreheads, the prince tried to plan. To put together what little he knew of this sorcerer and use it against them.

But his thoughts kept turning to his sister. To the sword in her hand.

"The sword told me."

Sorcery. Pure and simple.

Illegal. Pure and simple.

But that was his sister.

Cold and so, so tired.

"Ah, so you wake."

That voice....

The knight opened his eyes, only to find his vision obscured by a blindfold. He tried to reach up to remove it, only to find his left hand restrained.

His right hand, too.

Panic jolted him fully alert, and he realized his entire body was bound tightly to a cold, hard, flat surface. His armor and padding had been removed, leaving only his cotton tunic and trousers as a thin barrier between himself and the freezing slab.

"I'd rather had left you sleeping, sir knight, but the ritual doesn't work as efficiently. I'm sure you understand the necessity."

The knight recognized the voice now. The sorcerer in the red cloak. "Is the blindfold really necessary?"

The sorcerer laughed softly, a sound that sent a shiver down the knight's spine. "Some would say not. Others of my order prefer to see the fear in their sacrifice's eyes. They pleasure in it."

The knight gritted his teeth. "And you?"

"And I... see little point. The sacrifice is simply a means to an end. I have no desire to draw out their suffering."

The knight tugged at the restraints. "So you mean to kill me."

"Nothing so... final," the sorcerer said, and the knight thought he heard amusement in their voice. "Now hush, or I will have to silence you."

The knight obeyed, not because of any real desire to obey them, but because he needed to think. He needed to plan.

Even if the sorcerer claimed to not want to kill him, the knight wanted nothing to do with their 'ritual'. Such dark acts had been outlawed centuries ago, their practitioners either executed, exiled, or in hiding.

The knight had been naive to think they had all been stamped out.

The knight peered up at the sky, pursing his lips. It had been a clear day when the coach and its entourage had departed the capital city of their allied kingdom. They expected the journey to their next stop---a border town before crossing back into their own kingdom---to last from late morning to right before sunset.

But the overcast clouds bothered him. Rain would certainly slow them down.

The knight glanced over his shoulder and waved for one of the other knights----currently at the rear of the company---to join him beside the carriage. He nudged his horse to quicken pace and came up beside him. The knight's own warhorse nickered at the newcomer.

"Sir?" The other knight asked, "Is something the matter?" The knight, being the prince's personal guard, outranked him on this mission.

"I don't like the look of those clouds."

The other knight studied the sky with narrowed eyes. "Me neither."

"Notify the rest of the company to prepare for a downpour. We continue unless I say otherwise."

"Yes, sir." The other knight urged his horse to a faster walk to catch up with the guards riding ahead.

The knight watched him go, jaw tightening as his mind calculated the possible scenarios.

"Worried about a little rain?"

He jumped as the prince pulled aside the curtain covering the coach window. In the seat next to him, his sister, the princess, leaned forward to peer at the sky from the opening. A couple of years the prince's junior, she was on this diplomatic visit to meet her betrothed, the ally king's youngest brother. Neither had seemed particularly enraptured with the other in the knight's opinion, but such was a political marriage arrangement by nature.

"My liege," the knight muttered, reaching out to soothe his horse, which had sidestepped nervously at his unexpected movement. "My lady. I am simply concerned for our journey. Should it rain, we may be delayed."

The prince hummed softly. "Always thinking the worst."

"If I may, my liege, it is my job to plan for the worst."

As the knight spoke, the first droplets of water began to fall, cold against the knight's exposed skin. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed his hood, flipping it over his head and shifting the cloak to better cover his legs. "I would close that curtain until the storm passes, my liege."

"But how shall I tease you?" Came the laughing reply even as the prince did as he was told, shrouding the coach from the knight's sight.

The rain fell quickly now, loud on the waterproof canvas of the knight's cloak and the roof of the royal coach. Ahead, one of the knights at the head of the company raised his hand, slowing the pace as the mixed cobble and earth of the road became treacherous with mud.

Beneath him, the knight's horse nickered softly as the water splashed around its hooves. The knight patted its neck encouragingly. Even the ones in cloaks would be soaked to the skin when the day was through.

Lightning flashed.

At the same moment, thunder exploded all around them, like a volley of cannons from all sides.

The knight stiffened.

His horse startled, tossing its head and sidestepping in shock.

As he soothed his mount, the coach's horses whinnied in terror and bolted.

"Look out!" The knight shouted, already urging his horse into a canter.

The knights at the head of the company turned and cursed, their own nervous mounts tossing their heads and stepping out of the way as the coach careened past them.

The knight cantered past them, bent low over his horse, intent on the runaway coach. Burdened as they were, the coach horses, though panicked, were no match for speed, and the knight soon closed the distance, approaching on the left side of the vehicle.

"Stop the coach!" He shouted to the coachman, who was cursing obscenities that would make a sailor blush, clutching the bench for dear life.

"I dropped the reins!" The coachman yelled back, looking about wildly.

Sure enough, the reins had fallen between the horses, flapping uselessly around the pole hitching them to the coach.

The knight gritted his teeth. He could try to get close, but the spooked horses might veer away, driving the coach off the road and into the mud where it would surely capsize. He could overtake the coach and slow, forcing them to follow suit.

The coach rattled and jolted. The wheels wouldn't hold out much longer at this pace.

He opted for a quick but risky action. "Disconnect the pole!"

"What?!"

"Do it!"

The coachman's eyes were wide, but he obeyed, reaching down and fumbling for the latch beneath his seat. The pole, a long wooden shaft that connected the coach to the horses' tack, was held in place by a metal key through a hole in one end. Two long straps called the traces were attached to the other side of the tack, securing the coach.

As his fingers found the simple metal rod and yanked it out, the knight drew his sword and cut through the trace attached to the horse closest to him. Seeing this action, the coachman seized the knife on his belt and cut through the other one.

No longer weighed down by the coach, the horses shot forward, still very much attached to each other, and continued down the path with no sign of stopping. As the coach began to slow, the knight could only hope they would run out of energy or terror soon, and the company would be able to find them before they got hurt.

The knight glanced over his shoulder, sheathing his sword. He had put a lot of distance between himself and the rest of the company. In the gloom of the rain, he couldn't even see the other knights. They had better stick together. The last thing he needed was for the group to get any more separated---

Crack!

The knight flinched, turning back to the coach at the same moment the front axle snapped, the entire coach pitching forward and veering to the right, the unstable wheels drastically altering its direction.

Before the knight could do more than pull his horse up to a stop, the coach rolled off the road, slid in a patch of mud, and flipped over, sending the coachman flying.

The knight was already dismounting before it stopped moving.

But he might be too late.

"My liege!" He shouted, running for the capsized coach. "My lady!"

No answer but for the groaning of the coachman, who lay on his back between the coach and the road, one of his legs bent at an unnatural angle.

The knight stopped beside him, examining the injury. "Are you all right, coachman?"

He tried to raise his head and hissed through his teeth. "Just fine and dandy, sir knight. Y'know, aside from my damned leg."

The knight tried to smile, but it was weak even to him. "You'll be driving coaches again soon enough."

A weak chuckle escaped the coachman as the knight picked his way across the deep gouges left in the soft, muddy earth by the fallen coach. Water was already pooling at his feet, soaking through his boots.

"My liege! My lady! Are you all right? Please answer!"

Before any answer came, a figure suddenly appeared between the knight and the coach. The knight froze, blinking. He was sure they had not been there a second before!

They wore a hooded cloak not unlike his own, face hidden beneath the shadows of the crimson cloth. Not the prince, nor the princess, for they would have come out from behind or beneath the coach. This one had simply... faded into existence.

"Who are you?" The knight demanded, hand resting on his sword. It was hidden beneath his own cloak, but his posture and tone would be intimidating enough. "Where did you come from?"

The figure cocked its head, but did not reply.

"People are hurt," the knight said, moving to go around them.

They stepped to the side, lightning flashing from somewhere behind them.

The knight glared at them as thunder rumbled a second later, not nearly as loud as the first. "Out of my way! I will not hesitate to go through you to get to them!"

The figure shifted, the robe parting just enough for the knight to glimpse their arms folding.

"I'm warning you---"

"You are a knight, are you not?" The voice was muffled.

The knight tensed. "What's it to you?"

"You wish to protect those in your charge." The figure gestured to the coach.

The knight's grip tightened on his sword.

"I know you reach for your weapon," the figure said, with a tone of amusement. "It won't protect them from me."

"You threaten my liege and lady?" The knight snapped, drawing his sword. "I will not allow you to---"

He raised the sword in a guard. At the same moment, the figure inclined their head in a slight bow.

And in a blink, the knight's sword became impossibly heavy. Jaw clenched, he slowly lowered it and let it gently fall to the ground with a splash.

He looked at the hooded figure with wariness. "A sorcerer?"

"Mm... yes." The hooded figure turned their head slightly towards the coach, then back to the knight. "You are either incredibly brave, or incredibly loyal. I was here for royal blood, but you will serve me just as well."

"What are you---?"

And the knight's legs crumpled beneath him. It was as if his muscles abruptly stopped holding his weight, and he fell to his knees, arms dropping uselessly to his sides, as heavy as his sword had been.

The sorcerer stepped closer, and for the first time, the knight realized that, despite the rain pouring in an endless assault from the heavens, they were completely dry.