He walked on a few paces, pretending reluctance, before stopping. It was too late. He wanted to feed. Needed to. He would play and win and make them sad. Then he would drink it in. The plan had already formed, any flaws hidden by an irresistible need. His back was to them now and he could not help but lick his lips in anticipation.

‘Could I play the demon?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ they replied, a little eagerness returning to their eyes.

He made a show of thinking it over. ‘I suppose I could stay for one game, but it would have to be quick.’

The apprentices rushed to their starting positions, spreading out across the courtyard, while Satyendra walked to the far wall.

‘Ready?’ they asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied, then, as they started to run towards him, added: ‘No. Which demon am I going to be?’

The apprentices stopped, confused. One of them said, ‘What?’

‘I need to know which demon I am.’

Though the game did not normally require the demon to be named, all of the apprentice hunters had grown up being taught about the inhabitants of the Wild. Suggestions came thick and fast:

‘Be one of the Red Brothers.’

‘Be a Watcher!’

‘Be a Kindly Father!’

‘Be the Stranger!’

‘Be Murderkind!’

Satyendra shook his head. ‘No, I’m going to be the Scuttling Corpseman.’

‘But, the Corpseman is dead,’ replied Nose. ‘Lord Vasin killed it.’

‘No he didn’t, he cut off its arm, and anyway, this is a game so I can be who I want. Be careful though,’ he warned, ‘the Corpseman kills any hunter it catches alone.’

While they were digesting that, he started running down the left side of the courtyard, and with a whoop, they came after him.

Most of the apprentices were full grown, with adult frames that hadn’t yet filled out, and faces that still contained an echo of childhood. At seventeen, Satyendra was not the fastest nor the strongest of them. He was small like his mother, but he had her steel, and one other advantage. For Satyendra was different. Not just because of his status but because of something deep inside him, something fundamental. He didn’t understand why or how, but he knew, in a way that he never articulated, that something inside of him was twisted.

As far as he could tell, the majority of people in the castle did not lie. It did not even occur to them. For Satyendra, deception was a part of everyday life. Every pleasantry was a lie. Every smile. Every kind word. It was a daily necessity to keep his secret. A lifetime of practice had made him the best deceiver in the castle.