The Silver King’s Gift
359 Words
Far from the forest, across frozen rivers and bone-strewn roads, a castle rose from the cliffs like the fang of a god. This was Caer Thorne, the throne of the North. The kingdom of the one they called the Silver King.
Inside its cold halls, a feast lay untouched. No music played. No laughter echoed. Only a long, black table and a man seated at its head—draped in silver robes, crown like frozen iron curling across his brow.
His name was King Malric.
He was not born. He was forged.
Beside him stood a pale girl in chains, her eyes empty, her lips stitched closed with thread of moonlight. His seer. His curse.
> “Speak,” he said softly, eyes never leaving the flames of his hearth.
The girl’s body jerked as her mouth opened—not by her own will. Her voice came like wind through a crypt.
> “The Bloodmarked walks among the breathing. The wolves gather. The forest awakens. She will not kneel.”
Malric smiled.
> “But she will break.”
He rose and walked toward the fire, lifting a box from within its coals. It hissed as he opened it—inside, a pendant glowed red as embers, its shape a claw twisted around a bloodstone.
> “Take it to her,” he told his rider, a cloaked figure who bowed low. “Tell her… it was her mother’s.”
The rider hesitated. “And if she refuses it?”
The king’s smile widened, cruel and cold.
> “Then burn another village.”
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Meanwhile…
Asha sat by a stream, Fen watching silently nearby. The runes from the altar still echoed in her blood. Her hands trembled, not from fear—but from change. She could feel it in her bones.
> “What happened to my mother?” she asked.
Fen’s expression darkened.
> “She was a queen. And a threat. The Silver King made her disappear.”
Asha looked up at the moon, full and blood-tinged.
> “Then he’ll come for me next.”
Fen stepped closer.
> “Let him.”
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- Writer
