Page 107 of White Horse Black Nights

Where are we going?I ask the mouse. I can’t see it in the darkness.

Come, come, almost there!

My bare feet finally touch a dirt floor. I’m glad to leave the stairs behind, but I have no idea where I am. The darkness is as complete as a blindfold. Dragging my hand along the wall like Immortal Samaur in the Prison of Night and Day, I follow the mouse’s urging.

Eventually, a light shines ahead. It’s flickering—a torch, not a lantern. Both fear and excitement grip my throat as I approach with tentative footsteps.

OUT. OUT. OUT.

We turn the corner, and the light grows bright enough to see that I’m in an underground tunnel. The rock walls are ancient, with crumbling mortar between the chinking where the original straw binding has disintegrated over the years. There’s one other recent set of footprints on the dirt floor—a man’s heavy boots.

Basten said the only things down here were a dungeon and potato storage. But I don’t hear any prisoners’ screams, and there sure as hell aren’t any vegetables.

Maybe Basten doesn’t know about this place.

The mouse pauses to make sure I’m still following him. Then he plunges around the corner.

Something crashes, and I freeze. There’s a strange stomping noise, followed by a hiss that sounds almost like something huge breathing. For a moment, my courage wavers. There’s something alive down here. Something big. Something angry—that wants me gone.

I swallow around my fear and force my feet forward. More stomps come, then something that almost sounds like a horse’s angry snort.

As soon as I round the corner, curiosity wins over my fear. I’m in an old, subterranean stable. There are dozens of abandoned stone stalls, most of which are caved in. Though almost everything is in ruins, a barrel of fresh oats rests in the corner. The smell of iron is stronger here.

More stomps come. Something kicks hard at a stall door.

Another snort.

With wide eyes, I move further into the ancient stable to discover that one stall has been newly repaired. Its door is reinforced with iron panels, though they’re dented. The door’s hinges are chained to the wall for extra support.

Holy gods.

The upper half of the stall door is barred, and behind it is a horse—only it isn’t a horse.

The illustrations in the Book of the Immortals don’t do this creature justice. It must stand twenty hands high, towering over even the tallest of Rian’s prize stallions in his racing stables. Its build is powerful, like a draft horse, with a long arching neck and broad, balanced proportions that grant it both strength and speed. Its mane and tail are black enough to swallow the light, and black hair also feathers over its hooves. Its body is covered in glistening black scales. At its nose and around its eyes, the scales are as delicate as my smallest fingernail, but they give way to armor-like scales on its shoulders and flanks that are the size of my splayed hand.

A monoceros.

A fae beast that’s supposed to be asleep, like the gods.

A horn as long and thick as my forearm juts proudly from its forehead. According to legend, it’s made of solarium, a material a thousand times more prized than gold. When the horn catches the light, an infinity of colors shines in its depths like a prism. As beautiful as the creature is, it’s deadly. A monoceros is only safe to be around indoors or under moonlight. If a monoceros’s horn reflects sunlight, the solarium concentrates the rays and projects it into a powerful fey fire burst that incinerates everything in its path. Only a highly trained rider bonded to the creature can direct the fire burst.

The monoceros slams a hoof against its door, rattling the metal enough to send me scrambling backward with a hand to my chest. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. The creature’s beauty is great and terrible, only matched by its rage. Its eyes roll wildly. White foam clots at the corners of its mouth.

It slams its horn into the door, denting the iron again.

GET. OUT.

My hand goes to the base of my throat as the realization hits me that this was never any ghost trying to scare me away from Sorsha Hall. The voice wasn’t even speaking tome. This poor monster has been a prisoner down here for who knows how long. Wanting to get out so desperately that it’s driven itself mad.

Gaping, I take in the manure piles in its stall that have stacked up for days. Its water bucket is overturned. Its hair is matted and filthy. No one has groomed this horse in months—I don’t think anyone has been brave enough to try.

It wasn’t threatening me; it wasbegging for help.

My breath falters as the burden of this monster’s pain sinks onto my shoulders. My heart squeezes in sympathy for it, followed by a sweep of anger through my veins. I know what it feels like to be trapped. To want more than anything to get free.

OUT, the monoceros drones in its familiar, hypnotic refrain as it stamps its massive hoof against the stall door. Its hoof is chipped from months of repeatedly kicking the iron.

Easy, easy, I say, holding out a gentle hand as I carefully approach the stall.You’re hurting yourself.

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