SMASH.

The gold chalice crumbled in his strong grip, spilling red wine over the desk. The small jewels, varying in sizes that adorned the rim, cut into his palm. Taerynn stared at the blood oozing.

“M-My Lord!” Rowan exclaimed in shock. “I’ll call for the physici—”

“No need.” He made a fist to cover the minor wound, allowing the crimson drops to spill between his fingers and fall to the floor.

“Then, please allow me to clean this up.”

As his head servant dabbed away the alcohol, Taerynn stood to stare out the window behind his chair. It was another dismal morning in the dead of winter. The snowstorm was particularly bad today. No one in the town below wanted to go out, not even to brawl and kill which was the norm.

Last night…

There was no denying it.

Right after finding Snow White in such a sorry state, he sensed her presence in the dungeon. That scornful aura was there, he just knew it. 

The Queen of Ascelin—Snow White’s stepmother.

And that pissed him off.

Taerynn believed for years that he was done with her—that she was done with him. There was nothing else she could’ve possibly wanted from here besides his Magic Mirror. It had become broken because of her part in the dark elves’ attempt to conquer the cosmic Yggdrasil tree, where the nine realms—including his, humans, and all other creatures—reside.

That woman helped the dark elves of the Svartalfheim realm invade Hel, the afterlife domain. Their greed to take over everything… it was bold, on par with human nature. 

Perhaps a little too bold, since the dark elves did not win the Great Elvish War in the end.

Since then, the king of corrupted fae souls harbored resentment toward the Queen. She made it impossible to do the job forced upon him by the Seelie and Unseelie Courts leaders—or fae folk species, who are either lighter-inclined or darker-inclined. 

Of course, Taerynn would love to get his revenge.

But he was tired. His soul core was never the same after that disaster, and he was getting weaker by the year. Basic commands were exhausting. Restoring the Mirror also took much of his time.

There was nothing else here that was valuable.

Yet… the Queen was searching for something.

She hasn’t made a move since failing to steal my Mirror to combine with hers. Why now?

“I am finished cleaning, My Lord,” Rowan said. “Though the chalice is ruined.”

“That’s fine. You may go. I need to think.”

“Yes. I will return later with lunch. I heard they are preparing duck, brought here from Midgard.”

Snow White appeared in Taerynn’s thoughts, the image of him unconscious next to the deceased prisoner. 

Lunch. That human hasn’t eaten. He can’t die until I retrieve my shard. The mana might die with him if my suspicions are correct.

“Bring two portions,” he ordered.

After Rowan departed, Taerynn watched the snowfall for a good while. How aggravating that snow now reminded him of the boy.

Something valuable…

Does that woman want her stepson back? Does she know he has been found? The timing is too coincidental.

It was confusing since the Queen appeared to have gone to great lengths to hide his status as a prince, a title that was able to succeed the Ascelin throne. A princess could not do that, always married off to another royal family when they reached of age.

Taerynn smirked, his sinister grin reaching ear to ear. 

Is that why, dear Queen? Your once-mighty husband dies and you keep the “princess” away from the public eye? You don’t want anyone to know.

It seemed everyone might get what they wanted if the cards were played right.

But I know.

***
(Winter’s point of view)

Winter thought he was having nightmares again.

He remembered waking up, squirming to fight off the people touching him and screaming, “No!” 

“This thing isn’t cooperating, My Lord!”

“Get out. I’ll do it myself.” 

There was a tug on his clothes. When Winter lashed out, a hand touched his face, feeling warmth spread into his head. He fell into a deep sleep again. The dreams had ended for good after that. 

And then the whispers began.

“Here.”

Winter stirred.

“Here.”

“Ugh,” he groaned. The quiet voices stopped. He must still be hearing lingering nothings from the nightmares.

His eyes blinked open, wincing at the grey light pouring in through the window. When his sight adjusted, Winter squinted. The sky was completely grey.

Snow?

Indeed. Thick snowflakes hurled through the sky, likely blanketing the land below which he couldn’t see from this angle. Winter reached out and felt along the smooth black silk blanket that covered him, balling the material in his fist. Even at the castle, he never felt such a luxurious texture like this. 

He sat up.

“Huh!” Winter gasped and doubled over. 

Again?!

His hand clutched his chest, nails digging into his skin. The half-moon marks drew blood; it was just that painful to endure. Those tiny zaps pulsed, shooting across like mini lightning bolts. His shoulders convulsed, muscles locking. Drool dripped onto the bed. He moaned for it to stop. 

It couldn’t be his childhood illness returning! This was more than that!

Winter wondered if death would feel better.

Soon, the agonizing wave faded, leaving him worn out, sore, and sweaty. Winter wiped the spit from his chin and brushed the moistened bangs away from his face. 

It’s over. It’s over. What is that pain, though?

As he calmed his racing heart, he scanned the decently sized room, much bigger than the dwarves’ cottage. 

It was modest—a plain bed with tall wooden posts, dark green curtains pushed aside to uncover the tall window, a candle chandelier, and other practical furniture in the center. Though, Winter wasn’t sure what to think about the paintings, depicting gruesome monsters and war.

The bedrooms at Nordenstein Castle where he grew up were flashy, embellished with gold trimming, and crystal decorations from faraway lands. It was unnecessary, but the Queen took advantage of the country’s budget to show off to other visiting kingdom delegates. 

Still, this room greatly improved compared to his leaky tower… and especially that odious dungeon. The firepit in the wall adjacent to him kept the temperature toasty.

Feeling better, Winter pulled back the blanket, noticing that his clothes were not his, but a dark red tunic shirt and pants made of a soft material he couldn’t name.

Who changed me…?

He poked the bruise around his ankle. It was from the shackle. The prince went to the edge of the bed, carefully stepping onto the smooth wood floors, where a large rug with an interesting pattern was laid out. Winter touched various items in the room, inspecting their cleanliness. 

One of those objects was in the corner, resting against the wall. A thin white sheet covered it. Given its square shape, it might have been a painting. It was weird for it to be on the ground instead of on the wall.

Winter went over and slipped it off.

A mirror? 

He squatted and saw himself, the reflection looking back at him. His appearance was a little rough—he was skinnier than before and his hair went in all directions from sleeping. Plus, if it really had been three decades…

I hadn’t washed the whole time! Anyway, why is the mirror hidden? They are rare.

No matter. Winter lost interest and inspected the rest of the room, dragging his finger over the stuff to dust-test it. There was none.

They should see how spotless it is!

Since living with the dwarves, it became his duty to clean, since he was pretty useless at other things. It was tasking because they didn’t care about the condition of their living space, especially after spending days in the mine, bringing in dirt, mud, and bags of precious stones. 

He chuckled when remembering their reaction when he tidied up for the first time. His friends alwa—

Winter’s small smile quickly fell. They could never see the shininess of the floors or dustless decor. According to the dark elf, his seven friends were gone.

Feeling suddenly sick to his stomach, Winter retreated to bed. He nestled in and yanked the covers back up. The weight of the world pressed down on him, and he realized he was truly alone.

***

RUMBLE.

It was his belly.

A delectable smell brushed his nose, welcoming him to wake up. Winter rolled over to his other side to find the source. The light coming into the room hadn’t changed much, so his nap must’ve been brief. He stopped turning, almost jumping out of bed from fright when he saw a person in a chair, watching him with a bored gaze.

It was the elf.

Unlike the dungeon, where it was dark and hard to see with a dim torch, the daylight revealed just how intimidating he really was—the brightness in his gold eyes, how thin his gloved fingers were, the long white hair hugging his frame, and the thick black feathered cape cascading down one side of him to showcase a sword belt around his waist. 

He screamed royalty. He had to be. This was no common elf that Winter had studied in his books about the Unseelie Court, or creatures who leaned more toward the darkness. 

Is he a dark elf or a light elf, though? I still don’t know. The air around him... he must be dark. But… I don’t sense evil from him, unlike my stepmother or others who want to harm me.

Like how the elf analyzed him, Winter did the same, asking himself if his senses were wrong. 

I don’t understand. Why can’t I see his inner ugliness?

“I can see you are confused,” the elf commented. “Is it because you cannot tell what I am? You wouldn’t be the first, since I am neither.”

Neither?

Winter hesitated to ask, but didn’t he deserve some answers? “Who are you?” 

“Why don’t you tell me your name first?” His eyes gleamed.

“Snow White.”

“No. Your true name.”

Winter stayed silent, lips pressed together. Let’s skip that question, then.

“Myrkrheim. Where is it?”

The elf tilted his head, aware of the topic change. “Do you not know? If you can remember, you will know my name. And you need to ea—” He paused mid-sentence when spotting the mirror, expression angering.

He rushed over and put the sheet back on the mirror to obscure it. When he swerved around, face scowling at him, Winter cringed.

“Why did you uncover a mirror?” the elf raged, yelling loud enough that it rang through the room.

“I… I…”

“Don’t you realize what you could have done?”

“D-do what?”

“Souls can become trapped in mirrors. Did no one teach you anything? If your soul ends up lost in a mirror with the mana, my curse can never be…” He growled loudly, picked up the concealed mirror, and placed it under his arm.

And he left, slamming the door after him.

Winter stayed where he was on the bed, reflecting on his anger and words.

No, he didn’t know what he almost did. There was supposedly a mirror shard inside of him. Souls could get stuck in them, too. Plus, mentioning a... what was it? A Magic Mirror?

“The poison apple should’ve killed you instantly, but a piece from my Magic Mirror ended up inside you, protecting you.”

There was a lot Winter didn’t understand about mirrors and how they’re connected to this place. He rubbed the spot over his heart. That guy wanted the mirror piece or whatever, which Winter still didn’t know how it got there.

If it was true and desperate to get it back…

He’s trying to hide how much he wants the shard. 

Winter saw a smidge of hope. He could hopefully use that to his advantage.

But I know.