We halted at the inner gate, and two disappointingly serious gatekeepers took their time pushing it open. Either the gate was too heavy and its hinges too rusty, or they intentionally moved at an emotionally-crushing slow pace. I sensed this was the usual way things operated here, and the dramatics were not just for my entertainment.

  The rest of the knights scattered, leaving me alone with my celestial companion. He looked positively like an angel of death as he cleaved into the settled fog in front of me, now that he left his steed behind and led me through an open yard. If I wasn’t so sure he would cut me off, I would’ve asked for his name. Yearly sacrifices were not allowed to speak too much, surely. Fleetingly, I noticed there was a massive stone arch and descending steps after it to my left, leading to what looked like silhouettes of garden plants and trees.

  It was significantly darker and colder between the castle’s walls. I expected a certain amount of eccentricity from the castle’s interior, but it still stupefied me to witness the sty. The wide and high-vaulted spaces must have exuded pride and wealth long ago. Not anymore. Now, dirt and debris littered the checkered floors. Networks of cobwebs had formed at every corner and crook. And—the oddest of it—all the hanging paintings I encountered faced the wall as if someone had meticulously turned each one of them around.

  At last, we entered the throne room, and alas, we had to climb some more dusty stairs. Some of it lifted off and stuck in my throat. Aware that it was compromising my irresistible charm in front of the ravishing death-god who accompanied me, I sneezed several times in rapid succession.

  There was a sorry excuse of a regal red carpet, unkempt and with patches missing, preceding another set of steps, and a dais with a throne. The last two stone steps had crumbled down, but the rubble was not cleaned up; just swept aside by the stretched-out folds of the Prince’s cape, which cascaded down the steps like rivulets of a black waterfall.

  The throne, of black wrought iron, seemed uncomfortable and in tatters, with chipped-off ornaments at the back. And the Prince himself, pale and still like a graven image, was leaning against the armrest with his hand supporting his head and… appeared asleep—or at least resting with his eyes closed. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all underneath the fabulous layers of clothes he wore.

  “This is the woman who stirred the village of Arst,” my captor announced solemnly. I made a wry face. Stirred sounded like I had forged weapons and fomented seditious ideas among the people. Even his tone suggested I was guilty of treason, not making people laugh.

  The Prince blinked his eyes open and gave me a continuous disdainful look from the go. Likely, he was not fond of having his rest disturbed. Or hearing the word stirred. “What about the offering?”

  “She also asked to be the sacrifice this year.”

  The disdain eased into mild surprise.

  “Thank you, Darsan,” he nodded at his knight, and the knight lowered on one knee, nodding back sharply.

  His voice was hard and cold and sullen, just like everything in this dilapidated castle. The knight stood up and stepped away from me, where he waited for further orders. It felt ritualistic. They had done this before. Eleven times, I recalled, for each year after the blight. I was their twelfth, this year.

  Then, nothing happened. We stood in a silence that was growing awkward by the second, and I had to squint back at Darsan to check if they weren’t playing a trick on me. Dear Darsan stood with his eyes closed and hands clasped behind his back. Alright. No one was getting enough sleep around here, I got it. They didn’t need to be so weird about it.

  “So you’re the one they call the Dark Prince?” I nearly shouted, growing impatient at the unnecessarily long pauses and the disrespect. I couldn’t believe everyone was about to fall asleep on me. The Prince wasn’t exactly in the first flush of his manhood, perhaps his ears weren’t functioning too well, so I couldn’t take any chances. Eina would’ve loved to know that his ears were indeed large, as I had foretold.

  His incredulous blink suggested I needed his permission to speak. And likely, they expected I’d only answer questions, not ask them. Pretentious and ridiculous. If I had to wait for them to give me permission to speak, given all the long pauses they made between sentences, I would have to wait for years.

  “Yes.”

  I exhaled sharply. Why did it take an entire minute for him to respond with a single word? I considered saving him my opinion on his stupid moniker, but then I remembered I was in this mess because of him.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Edgy,” I said, sardonically. When I glanced back at Darsan once more, his eyes were open, but he was entirely humorless and blank-faced. “I could cut myself on all this edginess—”

  “Quiet,” the Prince snapped at me, and I made a defensive gesture with my hands. This was bad. If there was one certain thing in my life, it was that I couldn’t keep quiet for long. “You’re not even beautiful enough to tempt me, why have you come to my court voluntarily?”

  Court was a strong word for this grimy lair. “Well, you’re not much of a looker, either,” I scoffed.

  His face paled even more with the shock of my brazen reply. I was positive no one has ever been so straightforward with him about his looks before. Maybe it was about time.

  “What?” I said, eyeing him up and down. “If you’re going to murder me and drink my blood or something, surely I get to be as brutal as you are and equal in honesty for the short remainder of my life.”

  He was quite older than I had anticipated and I didn’t regret making a defiant advance and a semi-disgusted expression about it. Admittedly, he was not beautiful enough to be excused from tyranny. Now I knew why he was angry and sadistic all the time. With a plain, forgettable appearance like his, I would’ve been too.

  His face had no remarkable qualities; just the shadows, skin clefts, and bitterness of a man who knew he’d already lost the little appeal that he’s had in youth. But my eyes lingered on him, struck by the sudden thought that this desolate visage was a complete accumulation of the landscape outside. I did not know why I had expected a young prince of good looks. This aged face, with the rough, hard edges, the silver-streaked hair, the grim voice, and the drape of heavy dark layers, was the very spirit of this kingdom. I could see the gnarled trees, and the barren soil, and feel the fading sunset light of an autumn evening all woven into his features.

  For a while, he stared back at me, cold as the iron on which he sat. Then his eyes dimmed with thoughts distant to me. Eventually, he asked, “Who are you?”

  Ah, there it was. My moment. I spread my hands open. “My name is Sarai.” I performed a low theatrical courtesy, as was my custom. “I am a traveling jestress, Your Majesty. My father was a merchant of such buoyant disposition that he was known far and wide as the Smiling Jew.”

  “A jestress?” he repeated, completely at a loss.

  “Yes, a professional buffoon.”

  “Oh, a clown,” he sank back into the throne, now scrutinizing me anew.

  “That would be it,” I winked.

  “Don’t wink at me,” he shook his head.

  “I won’t,” I promised. “That was the first and last time.”

  The Prince looked at his knight with vague dismay, and they stared at each other like neither of them knew what to do with me. “Well, Sarai,” he said, shifting his gaze upon me again, and I flinched at a sudden crashing sound. Something heavy fell on the floor and broke, the sound resounding from a neighboring hall or a room close by, I couldn’t quite tell. Thick silence spread after it, and I was glad no other noise followed.

  “You will dine with me for three nights,” the Prince continued nonchalantly, in the same colorless voice Darsan used earlier. That must be the routine then.

  “And then what? You’ll eat me for dessert?”

  But there was no answer for me. The Prince waved at his knight to take me away and said nothing more on the matter.

  To nobody’s surprise, they led and threw me into an unlit square room, with the door locking up behind me most unceremoniously. That shocked me; I blinked at the door in disbelief and even went to try to handle once, twice. Then I banged at it.

  “Thank you, Darsan!” I successfully imitated the Prince’s tone, but with an additional edge of vexation, and heard the footsteps from outside pause. Locking me up? Really? I expected it, yet it still made me blaze with rage. Darsan walked away, seemingly unbothered.

  Once the thought of me being stuck in here sank in, I found the room had no outlets except for a round porthole window at an unnaturally high position close to the ceiling. Dust had settled around me so thickly that I could see puffs of it dance in the air as I walked to the window. Despite that it was barred, moss had grown on the inside of the window’s frame, and on the other side tall and withered grass blocked the view.

  Long ago, I lived in a similar room. A cellar. A narrow storage room, with a window close to the ground. Those were usually servants’ quarters, next to the kitchens. This room appeared completely abandoned: its fireplace was empty of ash and had debris from the crumbled mantelpiece instead. Two humble low cabinets with broken shelves and a decorative table heaped on one side, and under the window was a single ruffled, velvety armchair that time had blackened.

  All shelves were empty and so were the cabinets. Initially, I brooded in the armchair, legs hanging over the side. Then, as my stomach growled, I sprang to my feet and continued brooding, this time pacing back and forth with a fierce scowl. Was this what befell all the eleven chosen victims in the last years? Scouring the room with my gaze, I wondered whether they had spent their first night here in this room, too.

  Nothing indicated there had been previous occupiers of the room. If those people were somewhere in the castle still, I should probably find out. But after the crashing sound I heard from the throne room, my fortitude wavered somewhat. Perhaps it was unwise to attempt exploring on my own, especially when I had not yet gleaned what sort of danger I was facing. Clearly, the Prince was using magic: his knight confirmed it. But what magic? I suspected the bastard fed off his victims somehow; it would explain why he had reigned for all eleven years he’d taken sacrifices undisturbed. There was a connection, and I needed to resolve its mystery before I found my death.

  Death was here—the thought was more like quiet sadness over me rather than fear—in the shadow of every nook and every swirl of motes before my eyes. This place was hollow and joyless, and forlorn. Life had withdrawn from it long ago and had only left a suffocating silence behind.