“Do not make a deal with the fey.”

The first and most important rule of the feyers and the highest sin a fairy hunter can commit.

“No matter how clever you think you may be,” his teacher had warned, eyes grave and haunted, “the fey are always one step ahead.”

A scream echoes above him, so distant and twisted he’s not even sure it had really been there at all. His head instead filled with the ghostly teachings of his tutors, older feyers who are probably fighting for their lives in the war waging far above him.

“Nature’s wrath given form.” Tree roots break through the ceiling, tangling with the ancient stonework of the castle. Osmond rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding a branch piercing straight through him. He scrambles up and escapes out of the now-broken cell door.

“They are tricksters, masters of wordplay, and purveyors of misery.” A laugh like bells reverberates in his skull, a fairy taking only joy in its kill. “They will ruin you simply because they can.”

Despite the sound’s clarity, he knows the battle rages far away; the halls he races past are empty and cold. The dungeons lie in the deepest part of the castle, reinforced with iron, every surface etched with protective runes. If the fey have made it to the dungeon, then the fight is already over.

Still, he continues to run. The lessons that have been repeated all his life echo in a broken loop inside his skull, the creed of the proud and unbreakable feyers: “Never underestimate a fey,” —another scream, distant and mangled; he tries not to think if the voice is familiar—“even if you think you have the upper hand.”

He scrambles for the outer door, the final barrier between him and the real fight outside. Relief floods him as he finds the gate unlocked. His dear older brother hadn’t bothered to make sure the lock caught, and for once, Osmond was thankful for his arrogance.

“Be efficient.” The door is towering, over eight feet tall, built of solid iron reinforced with wards and runes etched with salt. Filled with so much magic, the metal hums under his hands, causing his skin to itch.

“Be quick,” Osmond races through, abandoning the safety of the iron cell he had been forced into.

“Never hesitate,” his steps falter as he rounds the corner into half a squad of men.

He knows these feyers. A few of them had been his teachers as a boy, others sparing instructors on the rare days his doctors had let him leave his room, and the rest of the new recruits he had watched the Joining change. They are friends, but more than that, they are soldiers, and he knows why they are here: to make sure Osmond Dale stays put, nice and safe, hidden away in the dungeons.

“Osmond, go back.”

“The dungeons are the safest place for you.”

“You are not a feyer, son,” and that is Dr. Seymour, a feyer whose fairy hunting days were abruptly stopped after he lost his right leg to a troll. But like most decommissioned feyers, he keeps up with the fight, his blade never truly growing rusty. “This fight isn’t yours.”

Osmond might not be a feyer, but he is still a Dale. This is still his home, and he isn’t going to sit back and let it be destroyed.

“For a single moment’s hesitation is all the opening a fey will need.”

They might be six fully grown feyers with decades of experience, but Osmond was raised in these halls and is as familiar with the ancient stonework as a bird knows its gilded cage.

“You’re wrong,” and Osmond backtracks a few steps, keeping his eyes locked on the guards. “This is my fight.”

He dashes off down the left tunnel, running as fast as his legs can carry him. None of them follow—why would they? This path only led to a barely used storage room, empty of windows or exits. A dead end. Unless one looked up. This storage room is no longer in use now, but this tower of a room was how his ancestors originally got the heavy pieces of iron framework for the dungeons so deep, and the old pulley system is still intact.

“Never back down from a fight.” He pulls the ropes tight, even as they burn against his skin.

“Desire not for the life you have forsaken.” He releases the counterweight.

“Walk the path of the feyer with pride.” Slowly, he ascends toward his family’s last stand.

It takes only a few minutes to reach the top, but those are minutes too many. There is no one to stop him as he leaps from the swinging ropes, landing hard against the stones. Dust and ash stain his golden hair, and his own crimson lifeblood paints the stonework as he stumbles to his feet.

The sounds of war echo around him, so loud he cannot hear his own hurried footsteps nor the thundering of his fragile heart. This part of the castle seems untouched, but the sounds are too close. The Wild Hunt has already breached the inner wall.

They are in the castle. He has to be faster. “Know your limits.”

He is alone, a defenseless page who never finished basic combat training, without even a weapon.

“And push past them.”

With each passing step, the shadows of war become more apparent. The halls are stained with the gray blood of fallen feyers, flowers, and thorned vines unnaturally crawling up walls and twining around flesh. The sounds of battle revibrate all around him.

“Do not mourn for your fallen brothers and sisters, for they continue our fight in death, soldiers at Odin’s side, forever holding back the fey incursion.”

He nearly trips over the hunched form of a man in iron armor, leg mangled and torn. Snowdrops grow out of his wounds—a fey death. He pauses only long enough to grab the man’s sword, whispering for his soul to find rest in Valhalla. Osmond will carry on his fight from here.

“Find peace in knowing one day we will join them, honored in those sacred halls.”

A sword is not Osmond’s preferred weapon of choice; it is too unwieldy and hard to control. He never had the stamina to use blades and is too impulsive to ever learn archery. Truly a failure of a combatant, the weapon more a danger to himself than a threat to any fey, but he isn’t planning on using it. He just has to hold it long enough for the fey to believe him.

There is fire and ash on his tongue, but over the carnage and destruction hangs a heavier scent, the sickeningly sweet scent of rotting flowers. The air glimmers with fairy dust, the stonework almost alive under his feet as plants keep growing unnaturally fast, the crisp wind at his back far too cold for the first week of September. The boundaries between realms are blurring; the Wild Hunt is nearing its end.

“Eliminate all liabilities.”

He takes too sharp of a turn and crashes into someone else, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

“I’m sorry…” It is one of the chef’s apprentices, Jonathan. He’s only twenty-one, just a year younger than Osmond, trembling on the floor in a heap. There is a gash in his stomach, crimson blood staining his apron; small purple violas twine out between his fingers—a fey wound.

“Wait,” and the cook manages to lock unsteady eyes with him. “Osmond, what are…?” he flinches, curling up tighter. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“A human who has been touched by fey magics can never be saved.”

Osmond fumbles, reaching forward to help steady the man. “It’s okay,” he lies, trying to hide the shake in his voice, “To die by a blade is an honor. So, I—,” he can’t say the words, but they both know what he is implying.

“Death is a mercy.”

Jonathan shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he laughs, wincing as the violas in his stomach twist deeper, roots digging into flesh. “Your first blood as a feyer shouldn’t be a friend.”

“But—”

The ground shakes, more screams. The air shifts and glimmers, everything going white for a second before the magic settles.

“Go,” and he pushes Osmond away, forcing a smile. “Give them twice what they gave me.”

“Repay every debt of blood tenfold. Return the misery they have given humanity.”

“You fought a glorious battle this day,” Jonathan nearly chokes on a laugh at the prayer. “Rest easy in Valhalla.”

The cook’s smile is sad; this is not a glorious battle, just the death of another countless victim to the fey’s wrath. Osmond gives his friend one last, lingering look, tracing eyes along his face so that, even after this, he will remember him—and then he is off once more.

“Fight. And never stop.”

Running, always running. Always chasing a goal he was never meant to reach.

“The world will scorn you, belittle you, mock you for your deeds.”

He is the failure of his family, was raised tasting the sting of his own blood, forced to watch as his siblings grew ever stronger. Always stuck in place, never able to move forward.

“To the fairies, we are human; to the families we vow to defend, we are monsters. We are neither—we are feyers.”

The lessons keep echoing, tangling with every taunt and jeer. Out of all his siblings, out of every disillusioned country child, every new recruit, Osmond was the one who was forced to study the hardest, the one always singled out for extra lessons, rules and warnings nearly beaten into his skull. He couldn’t understand then what made him so special, so worthless that they thought he needed the extra attention.

Maybe they saw what a disappointment he was going to be, maybe it had just been nothing more than favoritism, or maybe they could see something traitorous in him even then, and they knew he would be standing here one day. That he would be the one who would single-handedly stain the feyers’ great name, to break every rule that their honor was built upon, to betray them all.

“We are brothers and sisters of iron—never forsake your family.”

Iron clashes against blades of ice. The fey do not fight with metal; their weapons are raw elements given physical shape, sickles of ice and hammers of stone.

The fairies and the feyer are locked in a deadly battle, dancing across the destroyed courtyard, uncaring of the fallen friends they must tread over. Green fey blood mixes with the gray blood of feyers, vines and flowers twisted around corpses, warded iron glowing molten hot, burning like small bonfires.

There is only one fey who is not engaged in the fight. He is seated atop a towering elk made of ice, dressed in white hunting leathers made of stitched-together snowflakes, a long cape of frosted fur rests on his shoulders.

His long pooling hair is dawn blue, elaborately braided with shards of ice and white bones, styled to show off his pointed ears. A black wolf's mask rests upon his face, obscuring everything but his burning golden eyes. Atop his hair is a crown of woven holly, the berries precious gemstones, and the leaves dusted with frost—a fey royal. An Unseelie prince.

“The mission—the hunt—is above all.”

From across the courtyard that has become a battlefield, they lock eyes. The fey royal smiles, showing off sharpened canines. There is a taunt to his eyes, a challenge.

“Do not underestimate a fey.”

Osmond takes a step into the courtyard, keeping his eyes on the Unseelie prince, the only creature with the power to end this Wild Hunt.

“All Fair Folk seek to trick you.”

Another step and another, until he is right below the towering elk and its regal rider.

“The only good fairies are dead fairies.”

The royal's eyes flicker to the sword in his hands, but instead of looking concerned, he almost seems to grow more amused, his taunting smile twisting higher into a smirk.

“Never make a deal with the fey.”

It is their most sacred rule, and breaking it is the highest sin. For the moment a deal is struck, you have already betrayed your own humanity.

But what use is humanity if you are already dead?

“I’ve come to make a deal!”