A Heart Beyond Realms

The forest had become a maze of snow and ice. I had been tracking the thicket’s patterns for an hour, and my vantage point atop a tree branch had become useless. Gusts of wind blew dense clouds of snow to erase my tracks—along with any signs of potential prey. Hunger had driven me farther from home than I usually dared, but winter was a brutal season. The animals had retreated, going deeper into the forest than I could follow, leaving me to pick off the stragglers one by one, praying they’d last us until spring. There were none today. I wiped my numb fingers across my eyes, brushing off the fake lashes of snow that clung to my lashes. No stripped-barked trees to mark deer passing—none had moved through here. They’d stay put until the bark ran out, then travel north, past wolf territory, and maybe into the faerie lands of Prythian—where no mortal would dare to go. Not unless they had a death wish. A shiver slid down my spine at the thought, and I pushed it away, focusing on my surroundings, on the task at hand. It was all I could do—all I had done for years: focus on surviving the week, the day, the hour ahead. And now, with the snowfall, I’d be lucky to see anything—especially from my position high in the tree, barely able to see fifteen feet ahead. Suppressing a groan as my stiff limbs protested, I unstrung my bow and climbed down. The icy snow crunched beneath my worn boots, and I clenched my teeth. Low visibility, unnecessary noise—I was well on my way to another fruitless hunt. Only a few hours of daylight remained. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d have to find my way home in the dark. The town’s hunters’ warnings still rang fresh in my mind: giant wolves were prowling—and in numbers. Not to mention whispers of strange figures seen in the woods—tall, terrifying, and deadly. Anything but faeries, the hunters had begged the long-forgotten gods. And I had secretly prayed beside them. In the eight years I had lived in our village—two days’ journey from the immortal border of Prythian—we had been spared an attack. But traveling peddlers sometimes brought tales of far-off border towns left in splinters, bones, and ashes. Those stories, once dismissed by the village elders as mere rumors, had become common whispers on every market day. I had risked much by coming this deep into the forest, but we had finished our last loaf of bread yesterday, and the rest of our dried meat the day before. Still, I’d rather spend another night with an empty belly than find myself filling the belly of a wolf. Or a faerie. Not that there was much of me to feast on. I’d grown scrawny by this time of year and could count a good number of my ribs. Moving as silently as I could between the trees, I pressed a hand to my hollow, aching stomach. I knew the look that would be on my two older sisters’ faces when I returned once more to our empty cottage—empty-handed again. After several minutes of careful searching, I crouched behind a snow-covered thicket. Through the thorns, I had a half-decent view of a clearing and the small stream that flowed through it. A few breaks in the ice suggested it was still used regularly. Hopefully, something would come. Hopefully. I sighed through my nose, dug the tip of my bow into the ground, and rested my forehead against the rough curve of the wood. We wouldn’t last another week without food. And many families had already begun begging the richer townsfolk for scraps—the same ones who had seen firsthand how little their charity extended. I settled into a more comfortable position and calmed my breathing, straining to hear the forest over the wind. Snow drifted and curled, piling in sparkling white heaps against the brown and gray of the world. And despite myself, despite my numb limbs, I silenced that cruel, relentless voice in my head—to simply admire the snow-covered woods veiled in silence. Once, it had been second nature to savor the contrast of new grass against dark, tilled soil—or an amethyst brooch nestled in folds of emerald silk. Once, I had dreamed and breathed and thought in color and light and shape. Sometimes, I still let myself imagine a day when my sisters were married and it was just me and Father, with enough food to go around, enough money to buy a bit of paint, and enough time to lay those colors and shapes on paper—or canvas—or even our cottage walls. Not likely anytime soon—maybe never. So I was left with moments like this, admiring the pale winter light on snow. I couldn’t remember the last time I had done that—bothered to notice anything beautiful. Stolen hours in a crumbling barn with Isaac Hale didn’t count; those times were born of hunger and emptiness and sometimes cruelty, but never beauty. The howling wind calmed into a gentle sigh. The snow now fell in lazy, fat clusters, settling into every nook and crevice of the trees. Hypnotic—the deadly, gentle beauty of snow. Soon I’d have to return to the muddy, frozen roads of the village, to the cramped warmth of our cottage. A small, shattered part of me recoiled at the thought. Bushes rustled in the clearing. Drawing my bow was instinct. I looked through the thorns, and my breath caught. Less than thirty paces away stood a small doe, not yet too starved by winter—but desperate enough to gnaw bark from a tree in the clearing. A deer like that could feed my family for a week or more. My mouth watered. Silent as the wind through dead leaves, I took aim. She kept tearing off strips of bark, chewing slowly, completely unaware her death waited mere yards away. I could dry half the meat, and we could eat the rest immediately—stews, pies… Her pelt could be sold, or maybe turned into clothes for one of us. I needed new boots, but Elain needed a new cloak, and Nesta always wanted whatever someone else had. My fingers trembled. So much food—so much salvation. I drew a steady breath, double-checking my aim. But then I saw them—a pair of golden eyes gleaming in the brush beside mine. The forest was silent. The wind had died. Even the snow had paused. We mortals no longer worshipped gods, but if I had known their long-lost names, I would have prayed to them then. Hidden in the thicket, crouching closer, its gaze fixed on the unaware doe—it was enormous, the size of a pony. And though I had been warned of their presence, my mouth went completely dry. But worse than its size was its unnatural stealth. Even as it crept a little closer through the brush, it remained unseen by the doe. No animal that massive could be so silent. But if it wasn’t a normal animal— If it was of Prythian, if it was a faerie— Then being eaten was the least of my concerns. If it was a faerie, I should already be running. Still, maybe—maybe it would be a favor to the world, to my village, to myself, to kill it while I was still hidden. A clean shot through the eye wouldn’t be a burden.