Page 18 of Fate & Monsters
I wandered down the stone path, past thorn-wrapped trellises and statues too worn to recognize. My footsteps crunched softly on gravel. Pale blossoms curled toward me as I passed, as though curious. I paid them little mind, still muttering silent arguments in my head.
That damned beast had no right. No right to touch me even as a prince. No right to command me even if he was master of the land.
And somehow, impossibly, he had stirred something within me. His fury ignited a tingling thrill along my nerves. One I only became aware ofin the calm aftermath.
That unsettled me more than his temper.
The wind shifted.
My ear twitched, and my heart skipped a beat.
A breath caught in my throat. I turned slowly and the world tipped beneath my feet.
A crimson fog rose from the roots of the hedges, curling effortlessly around stone benches, rolling over the roots of fruit trees, and bleeding over the stone paths. Not sweeping in with the wind, but seeping from the earth itself, like pus oozing from an open wound.
I stepped back.
The fog pulsed.
“What is this?” My voice was shallow, brittle.
No answer came. I remained planted in the gullet of a gathering hush. I turned back toward the castle, but the mist had spread behind me, threading through the hedges like veins through a body. The garden had become a maze, unfamiliar in the dark, and every path looked the same beneath the choking red.
A whisper echoed through the gloom.
Panic flared. My heart thudded painfully in my chest.
“Sylph…” A drawn-out hiss that slithered down my spine.
Ice chilled my blood and rooted me to the spot. Helpless as the mist thickened. Shadows danced in the heart of the fog, shapes darting too quick to see clearly. My legs trembled and a lump formed inmy throat. And then, from the center of it, a figure emerged.
Not solid. Not real. A phantom, conjured from blood and magic. A man-shaped void lined with crimson fire, its form unraveling and reforming with every heartbeat. Its face was a mask of warped features, ever shifting, and black smoke puffed from its nose. Its eyes glistened like festering open wounds.
“Found you,” it whispered.
I tried to run. But this mortal body lacked the power I once had. Feeble, slow, weak. Trapped in the dark.
My feet turned on instinct, scrambling for purchase on the path, but the fog followed—fast, intelligent, alive. The mist roared as it chased me, an echo of death and vicious laughter filtered through screams. It nipped at my heels with ghostly claws, searing every place it touched the earth.
Branches scratched my skin. I barreled through hedges, through arches I didn’t recognize, tripping over roots that hadn’t been there a moment before. My breath tore from my lungs. I couldn’t think—I could only flee.
“Sylph,” the crimson phantom sang again, closer now. “You belong to me.”
“No,” I cried out, stumbling.
The ground slicked beneath my feet. The mistgathered ahead.
I turned sharply and slammed into something solid. Something warm and sturdy. Hard hands wrapped around me, supporting me. Even as I screamed and thrashed.
“Easy. Easy, now,” a voice growled into my ear. Not frightening, but grounding.
Reassuring.
Mavros?
His body was all hard muscle and heat, his presence a wall against the cold terror behind me. I struggled—half-blind, half-mad with fear—but his arms held fast, not crushing but firm, anchoring me.
“What happened?” he asked.
