Behind him, the fighting comes to a sudden halt. Both sides stunned into silence by his declaration. It is almost as if the world holds its breath; there is only the crackling sound of fire, the gentle chiming of the Unseelie prince’s jewelry blowing in the freezing wind, and the thunderous drumming of his own heartbeat.

He lets the sword slip from his shaking hands. The iron-coated blade clangs loudly on the stonework. It is a surrender, and by the slight widening of the fey royal’s eyes, he understands the non-verbal message. Osmond has not come to fight—he truly only means to make a deal.

“Ozzy, what are you doing?!”

He flinches at the voice of Edward, his younger brother. The Joining was never able to completely dull his rambunctious nature, still leaving his voice able to be tinted with emotion, and right now, it's stained with confusion and panic—but mostly fear.

The yell is meant to dissuade him, he’s sure, but instead, it only hardens Osmond’s resolve. This was why he was tossing everything away for his home and family.

Generations of feyers have lived and died on this ground. Should he be struck down, he will just be remembered as another countless loss of their never-ending war. Should the fey heed him, then they have a chance—an impossible chance, but a chance all the same.

The fey royal’s golden eyes bore into him, an almost physical weight pinning him in place.

“This is the proud Iron-Bloods's last stand?” the fey prince asks, disappointment seeping into his tone. “You send me a boy barely able to hold his sword?”

“I’m not a boy,” Osmond snaps, glaring up at the Unseelie, “and I’ve come to make a deal.”

There’s a round of laughter from the other fey, “A deal?!”

“The little Iron-Blood seeks a deal!”

“You think we would want a deal with one of your kind?!”

But Osmond doesn’t back down, staring resolutely up at the prince. The Unseelie’s eyes are cold, evaluating. It almost feels as if he’s looking through Osmond, picking apart all his pieces and deciding how much he is worth.

“Osmond Jasper—” and that is his father, saying his full name, in front of the fey.

“Silence,” the prince cuts in, and immediately, the jeering fey fall quiet. Even Osmond’s father, proud General Gareth Dale, holds his tongue at the commanding tone. “What do you seek of the Unseelie prince, man who is not a boy?”

Osmond prickles at the condescending tone but tempers his tongue; getting angry here will only ruin his chances of pulling this off.

“I want a deal.”

“As you have mentioned.” The Unseelie prince tilts his head, his sapphire earrings catching in the morning light. “Well, speak,” the fey orders. “What could you possibly offer to quell the rage of my Wild Hunt?”

“A better target.”

That seems to actually get their attention, dozens of mismatched, unearthly eyes shifting to him. “You come for the blood of the Dale order of feyers, yes?”

The fairy nods as if the death of Osmond’s people were but a task on a chore list. “For the Iron-Blood named Molle Dale, to be exact.”

His little sister, only fifteen, is not even an official feyer yet. Today was supposed to be a feast in celebration of her first hunt. A joyous day, the start of her career as a feyer. ‘By Asgard, why is the Wild Hunt after Molle?!’

There is a sharp intake of breath somewhere behind him, then a quietly muttered, “Me?”

The fey’s attention shifts, lifting his eyes to see who has spoken. Osmond pushes himself forward, aggravating the ice elk and causing the fey royal's eyes to shift back to him. He has no time to hesitate—he must act now.

“I know where Tristram Blackwall dwells.”

The prince does nothing to hide the startled look on his face, his mocking smirk twisting into a vicious smile, eyes sharp and definitely interested. “You know where that traitorous leech hides?”

Of course he does. In truth, Tristram Blackwall is something like Osmond’s great-granduncle, but Tristram insisted on being called Grandpa, even though he looked not a day over forty. When the man wasn’t out killing fey, he was here at their castle, running Osmond through his paces and arguing with his doctors.

Tristram brought tall tales of his bloody glories, stories Osmond knew better than to doubt. Sometimes he even brought his hunts with him; they never left the castle grounds alive. He has been the most notorious feyer for over a century. Born of a fey deal that made him half fey himself, blessed with fairy abilities but able to lie like any human, he existed in a gray space between their realms.

Tristram Blackwall has been responsible for hundreds of fairy deaths, famous for never leaving a hunt unfinished. Because of his fey blood, most fairies couldn’t truly do him any harm, and he was unable to be marked as a target of a Wild Hunt. But it was his first act as a feyer that had the Fair Folk truly hating him.

Most humans despised him for it, too, for Tristram Blackwall had been the one to throw open the gates to Alfheim, leading the charge on the Seelie capital in an act of war now famously known as the Siege of Black Flames. Relations between their people had always been tense, but that day marked the start of an all-out war between the humans and the Seelie.

“I can bring you to him.”

“Osmond, you filthy bastard—” his older brother Alfred yells, the sharp sound of steel clashing echoing behind them. “You don’t deserve to be my brother!”

The fey prince does not pay attention to his yelling, and neither does Osmond. The Unseelie is clearly considering his deal. There is no bigger thorn in the fey’s side than Tristram, no bigger prize.

“You know what we will do once we find him?”

Osmond does, but he is trying very hard not to think about it. He knows this is his only shot. If he thought it would help, Osmond would sell himself, but fey hated feyers, even as a servant, a fairy would never want his life. And if they wanted to kill him, it would be easier than breathing for most fey. As painful as it is to admit, Osmond isn’t a threat.

He is doing this for his family, for his people. One life for so many is the right choice, even if the weight of it almost burned.

“I do.”

“You, pathetic excuse—”

The Unseelie prince raises a hand in an elegant motion, one no human could ever hope to replicate. There’s a sharp cry behind him and worried shouts.

Osmond spins around, taking a halting step toward the panic.

Alfred holds his throat, gray blood freely flowing from a fresh wound. Molle is by his side trying to help stem the flood of blood while their father looms behind them, sword drawn and pointed at a nearby fey woman holding a writhing dagger of earth that slowly drips gray onto the cobblestones. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even spare his bleeding brother a glance. Her eyes are instead locked on Osmond, or rather, the fey royal behind him.

“Don’t touch—!”

The yell dies as he turns back around, a lance of ice held dangerously close to his own throat. The fey prince lifts it slightly, forcing Osmond to raise his head lest it tear his throat apart.

“We did not kill him, little Dale, only silenced his tongue,” and he lifts the lance again, but Osmond holds his ground, letting the spear tip dig into his chin, staining the pure white ice with the crimson of his own blood. The fey prince smiles, strangely pleased at his resistance. “Now, what do you ask in exchange for your help?”

“My people,” he demands, speaking loudly but carefully as the lance pricks his chin, digging into his flesh with every word, but he does not let the stinging pain silence him. “The people of the Duchy of Dale—including Molle Dale,” he specifies, because he will not have the fey wiggling out of this deal. “You let them go. Your Hunt ends here.”

The Unseelie prince’s eyes are cold, “You seek to trade the lives we would take here today?”

“Yes.”

“So, to be clear, the deal is as follows: you will guide my Wild Hunt to Tristram the Traitor, where we will take his head.”

Osmond forces down the shudder that the mental image causes him.

“In exchange, we will not harm any of the Iron-Bloods in this land?”

“The servants, too,” he quickly cuts in, having had the art of wordplay drilled into him since he was old enough to speak, taught to mind his words and understand all the subtle meanings they could contain. It was the one lesson Osmond actually excelled at. Fey fought most with their words, every sentence carefully constructed to get what they wanted; there could be no loopholes. “The feyers and all those under their employ.”

There’s a long pause, where the Unseelie just stares at him, golden eyes shifting in ways Osmond can’t read. “The feyers and all those under their employ,” the fey slowly agrees, almost sounding mildly impressed at the adjustment. The beast he is riding stomps its hooves, causing the ground to quake and rumble.

“Easy there, Ruben,” the fey prince soothes, gently patting the side of the frozen elk, before lifting his eyes to Osmond once more. There is something different in the fairy’s gaze now, something Osmond isn’t sure he likes.

“You are quite clever for a weed among a bed of poison.” It's spoken like a compliment, but it only bristles Osmond further. Even a fey could tell he was somehow different—a weed—useless and unwanted.

“I will restate the terms then. I will not harm any Iron-Blood—” he pauses for a breath, “feyer,” he corrects in a mocking tone, “any feyer or servant on the land of the Duchy of Dale for this Wild Hunt. In exchange, you will tell me where to find Tristram Blackwall, traitor to both the Unseelie and Seelie Courts—and we will kill him.” Osmond wishes he could say that he hesitates with his nod of agreement, but he is eager to have this deal done, to rest in the magical assurance nothing will happen to his home.

The Unseelie prince chuckles, sounding like tinkling hail, “I need a verbal reply, little Dandelion.”

He bristles at the nickname, mocking in its taunt, spoken far more comfortably than Osmond wants; at least he has made a good impression. The fey royal offers him a hand, a very human way of sealing a deal, and Osmond feels oddly flattered at the clear respect it is meant to show him.

All he needs to do now is just say yes, and this terrible future will be erased. They can all go back to their normal lives–

“Osmond.”

He stops, hand hovering in the air before the Unseelie prince, his body instinctually obeying the commanding tone of his father, “You make that deal, and you are no son of mine.”

“Do not make a deal with the fey.”

The most important rule of the feyers.

“A human who has been touched by fey magics cannot be saved.”

The highest sin one can commit.

“For them, death is a mercy.”

For taking a deal means you have abandoned your humanity.

Osmond takes the offered hand. The fey’s skin is cold against his, but not uncomfortable, long, elegant fingers that end in sharpened claws of dark midnight blue. He stares up into the black wolf mask, and the golden eyes shimmer with a glow like the sun.

“Yes,” and Osmond can feel the weight of the word, like an almost physical thing. “I accept this deal.”

The Unseelie prince smiles, showing off his fangs, “Then I, Fáelán, Prince of the Unseelie, firstborn of King Alberich, do accept this deal.”