A cold wind swept through the foyer. Hooded against the railings of the storm, framed by the pool of candlelight that flooded onto the doorstep, stood a hunched figure in a rain-soaked grey cloak. From what could be seen of the figure’s face, wrinkled and shadowed though it was, the stranger was a woman far, far older than most of their usual visitors.

Before Eckhart could ask her business, she raised a clawed hand to proffer a small, once-perforated stone balanced on her palm.

“A token, Your Grace.” Her voice was a clash of discordant sounds grating against Sir Eckhart’s ears, but the words were clear enough. “In exchange for something warm to eat.”

In the doorway, Fier’s mouth tilted into a frown of obvious distrust.  His breath fogged in the frigid air. He remained still and silent, his hair and clothes whipped by the tumult of the storm. Eckhart, suppressing an instinct to help, bit her tongue to keep from swaying the prince’s course.

“I think,” Fier began at last, voice low and ice-cold, “that I don’t want anything you have to offer.”

But as Fier began to close the door, the old woman, with speed not her due, lurched forward and closed her claw-like hand over the prince’s gloved one. At once, Fier’s shoulder hitched again, his whole body rigid. With instinctive immediacy, Eckhart stepped into his path, and even as the prince twisted free and raised his hand, Eckhart seized Fier’s wrist—

The woman’s hand closed over the stone—

A blinding flash of lighting tore through the clouds, on its heels a crack of thunder that slammed into Eckhart’s ears like a physical blow, and as she blinked back bruised afterimages, the woman’s form billowed outward in a miasma of dark smoke—

Fier cried out in pain or alarm or both, his arm vanishing from Eckhart’s grasp—

The candles in the sconces sputtered out—

And Eckhart could hear nothing but the rain.

Petra

Once upon a time, they said, as if they had not yet been born when the happenings transpired.

Once upon a time, they said, as if to turn the already-inexplicable truth into something even more mysterious.

Once upon a time, they said, there lived the Queen and the King and their seven children.

The first pair, girl and boy, were brave and tall in valor. The middle pair, girl and boy, were diplomatic and tall in eloquence. The last pair, girl and boy, were just and tall in wisdom. The Queen and the King knew that, when it came time to abdicate, any of their six eldest children would suit the throne.

But the seventh child, though the youngest and most beautiful, was known throughout the sovereignty as a monster. He spoke in rudeness. He disdained company. He refused to heed his tutors. The older he grew, the more monstrous he became, until to keep his company was to threaten a thunderstorm.