Shafts of moonlight pierced the dense tangle of twisting branches. Shriveled corpses of autumn leaves dangled precariously, spiraling to the forest floor. Overhead, thunder crackled and white-hot veins of lightening seared the pitch of night, as glints of white ricocheted off chain mail rustling with faint metallic clinks. Beneath the knobbed fingers of oak, ash, and elm sat a solitary figure clad in sheets of beaten iron. A ululating penetrated the still of the forest. Sides heaving, his mount shifted, prancing nervously. Its teeth were coated in foam, its sides flecked with froth. Beads of sweat trickled from the brows of both rider and steed onto webs of lichen. In the shadows, swift glimpses of contorted figures with glittering beetle-eyes flitted from trunk to trunk, branch to branch. As moans and howls pierced the still of the wood, dusky owls shifted, nervously peering through tangles of briars and branches. Underfoot shriveled branches crackled, spines snapping. The horse whinnied nervously. The tattered remains of trespassers swung in the breeze, impaled on brambles and thorns. Faded strips of scarlet, a solitary scrap of white. A putrid scent rose as hooves crushed velvet-petalled flowers peering from beneath the decay. Shrill screams reverberated, seeming to come from all sides at once. Horse and rider halted abruptly. Ahead lay an arch, an old bent oak, etched with strange symbols. Wreathed with boughs of lichen limply swaying in the icy breeze, the arch loomed over the path. The ground underneath turned to soot. Ragged sighs escaped the stallion, drifting through the haze. Bit and bridle jingled, a soft rhythmic tinkling. Clambering to the ground, he paused, surveying the road ahead. It turned sharply, hedged by a steep embankment of ashen clay on one side and a pool of inky black on the other. Ravens bobbed and leered, chanting raucous cries, glancing at their companions. Leading the trembling, panting horse, he shuffled down the path. With tentative steps, the stallion shifted nervously. “A bit further,” the knight panted, “Just a bit more. Come on. The princess and her captor await. ‘Round the bend. Come now.” Eyes rolling and hooves stamping, the horse planted its hind legs and twisted its head. “Can’t blame you. I suppose witches frighten even the bravest,” he murmured, stroking the beast and lacing the lead around a nearby trunk. Ahead, the embankment melted into a shallow ditch, and the path turned into a quagmire of ashen mud. In the center of the clearing loomed a spindling tower, a patchwork of cobbled stones and rough-hewn timber. Moldering shingles leered through their gap-toothed decay. A soft golden glow permeated the haze of encroaching fog. From a solitary paned window, he glimpsed a figure—a billowing cloud of white, a flash of raven hair. Tilting his head back he swallowed, the night air cool and crisp against his teeth. “Ah, if only His Majesty hadn’t been so foolish as to promise his first-born to a witch.” Memories of his last days at court surfaced, bobbing. The king sitting with glazed eyes, The Tower | Emma Richey
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