(Winter’s point of view)

Winter didn’t know which moment was the most terrifying in his life.

It was either 1) learning weeks after his father’s death that he had passed away, 2) when the huntsman was going to kill him, or 3) the king of Myrkrheim determined to cut open his chest with that scary-long fingernail. 

But he could say with confidence which moment was physically the most painful—it was when his heart was literally going to burst like a grape about to be squished under a squeezing pressure. Did the sensation start when that elf with a name he now knew, King Taerynn, tried extracting something out from within him? Or the lightning bolt things sparking from his body like some supernatural magic? 

Neither.

It was when his soul screamed for it to stop as the mana began leaving him. Winter felt that—the energy slowly trickling away from his veins, blood, organs, mind, and just everything. For some reason, he knew. He knew he would die. Call it fight or flight, but he then fought really freaking hard to keep it. 

Winter was a pushover. He listened like a good boy at the castle and with the dwarves. But he couldn’t agree to this. Not at all! No!

“Here,” the voices said. “Here.”

“It’s… telling you… no!” Winter yelled.

Truthfully, the whispers themselves never said, “No.” He just wasn’t ready to let go. King Taerynn should’ve consulted or at least warned him! And he decided to dissect Winter so suddenly?! What the hell!

Stop! The harder he fought mentally to hold on, the more mana the elf used in return. And when he used that command, “Be still,” the panicking human sorta… blacked out.

When Winter came to, King Taerynn was still above him. Not much time seemed to have passed given they were in the same positions as before.

“Bear with me.” 

W-what are you doing?

He put his hand on Winter’s chest. Their skin was clammy with sweat. “Heal.”

Gray light illuminated from his palm. It was so bright, the prince couldn’t stare directly without going blind.

There was a moment when he couldn’t breathe at all. His insides stopped working. They shifted like a puzzle. Without air, that prevented him from gasping and groaning. It ached, definitely, yet the pain didn’t compare to earlier when his life force was threatened.

“Ahh.” Winter finally breathed in, long and relieved. The coughing fit stopped entirely. His sore diaphragm and throat from hacking disappeared. The mana working on his lungs and bones tickled, rather than hurt. It wasn’t a bad sensation. Rather, he… sorta liked it? Relieving, in a way. A little freer. 

When King Taerynn let go, Winter wanted to rest. This was the best he’d felt in a long time. It made him sleepy.

Okay, I admit I want to slee—what’s wrong with him?

The elf’s expression had a sense of… longing as he stared in the distance. Like homesickness or missing someone. Winter was very familiar with it, recalling finding out he’d never see his father again at such a young age. He still felt that at times even though it had been almost two decad—well, supposedly five decades. 

The cold fae who ruthlessly locked him up in the dungeon now looked like a lost puppy.

Winter focused on his energy, reading his soul. My hunches were right. He’s not evil, unlike those faefolk at the tavern, that servant with the eye patch, the hellhounds, and my stepmother. Evil or nasty souls don’t make such faces. So how could such a person be the ruler of a place like this? A place so cruel and unforgiving?

But Winter spoke too soon. 

King Taerynn roughly took out an item from his pocket. The reminiscent sparkle in his golden-yellow eyes vanished into a glare, full of suspicion and almost angry in a way. He reached toward Winter’s neck with his other hand as if to choke him and snarled, “Tell me when and how you got that scar, Snow White. And why you have a shard from my Mirr—”

He froze before he could touch him. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and collapsed beside Winter. The thing in his hand dropped. It clanged to the ground.

Huh? Huh?!

Winter turned his head to see a passed-out elf, whose sleeping face was a mere millimeters away. When their arms grazed, he yelped, squirmed out of the scorched bed too quickly from fright, and landed on the hard floor below. 

“Ouch,” he mumbled and sighed. 

Knowing King Taerynn above had passed out and wouldn’t come after him, Winter stayed there to recoup and think for a moment. A lot had just happened that needed to be processed. 

Did he just try to kill me? No, he ended up healing me in the end. But what was that about with the nails? And the… shard? King Taerynn had mentioned it before.

He observed his fingers, flexing them. It was mysterious how his body felt brand new and invincible; much better after waking up from the supposed coma in the mountain. Even when living with the dwarves. Possibly the tower, too. Hungry and thirsty, yes, but not “on the verge of dying from starvation or thirst.”

A shiny object under the bed caught his eye. Winter reached under to grab it. This must’ve been the item that was dropped. It was a… gold pocket watch? It was simple in design and nothing striking about it. The cover had bumps and ridges of carved leaves and thorny vines. The gold seemed slightly dull, too.

The accessory was expensive back home. Winter recalled aristocratic men at the yearly parties having one in their suits to show off. But theirs were flashy and sparkly under the light. 

He went to open the watch carefu—

BANG!

Winter sat up instantly at the loud noise, startled. He hid the watch in his pants pocket. 

It was the doors. They flung open so hard that one broke off its hinges from the top. Four guards with helmets obscuring their heads strode in, swords ready to be drawn. The dark elf servant with the eye patch came right after them and paused at the sight—the burned blankets, Winter on the ground looking quite disheveled, and their king unmoving on the bed with his white hair out around him. “M-My Lord?”

King Taerynn didn’t respond.

“You,” the servant growled. It was directed at Winter. “What have you done?”

He shook his head fast to deny whatever accusation they were thinking in their heads. Yes, the scene looked pretty bad, and they had no idea what happened. To them, it must’ve seemed like… treason or an assassination!

I’m dead. I’m definitely going to be put to death!

“Get out,” the dark elf said under his breath, shaking with contained rage.

When Winter didn’t move from confusion, the mutter turned into a thunderous roar. “Get out! Get out! Get out now!”

The prince recoiled and scrambled to his feet, tripping over the carpet. He was so afraid of everything in Myrkrheim! Sprinting past them who went to attend to their ruler, he ran. And ran. And ran. He ran through the maze of hallways and past a few maids and butlers with gnarly wounds and missing body parts. Winter didn’t know where he was going, he just had to flee. Tears threatened to fall.

I miss my friends! I miss the apple orchard! I miss the river! I want to go back to the Forbidden Forest!

Soon, the hallways were kind of familiar. They were clean, shadows red from the crimson moon outside, and no spider web in sight. It wasn’t like this nice condition before, but it was undoubtedly the same hallway where his guest bedroom was located. Weird, but he had absolutely no energy to speculate about this phenomenon.

Winter slowed down when he reached the door. Yes, this was undeniably the same one. He leaned against it to catch his breath.

“What am I supposed to do? After everything I’ve been through, why do I deserve this fate?” He mumbled to himself, about to cry. “I can’t escape. This is the Hel realm. I’m a living person trapped in the fae afterlife. Those demons in the city will eat me alive! I can’t believe I went down there! Were the angel numbers wrong? What is the path I am supposed to take?” 

Wallowing in self-pity, Winter slipped into the room and closed the door after him. Nothing had moved—well, except the bed covers were made, which they weren’t this morning. The fireplace was now lit. A tray of food and water from hours ago was on the table. The servant must have brought it and discovered he was missing.

Sighing, he huffed at the small table and inspected the cold food. 

Thanks to whatever the mana did to me, I’m not hungry but… I think I should eat.

The meat wasn’t good anymore to consume, but the bread, soup, and honey cake might be fine. That guy promised eating fae food he provided wouldn’t bind him here. At this point, with no one to depend on, Winter could only trust what he said was true.

He ate it slowly and swallowed hard. Though it tasted delicious, Winter struggled to eat. Maybe not from being hungry? Hopelessness? Gloomy? Knowing King Taerynn would try to cut him open again? At a loss, Winter sat like a zombie. He chewed small bites until the edible parts were gone.

After drinking all the water, he turned the large chalice in his grip to study the jewels. Winter’s eyes drooped. Then his head. Exhaustion set in. It was getting late. He had been so adamant about not sleeping and dealing with the pain, yet a little food was his downfall. Practically crawling to the bed, he plopped on top, not bothering to change into pajamas or even get under the blanket.

It was lights out for him.

***

“Here.”

Winter stirred awake and groaned. When he concluded it was nothing, he went back to sle—

“Here.”

His eyes gradually opened and was welcomed by the red moonlight. There were no signs of the sunset approaching, so it was still the middle of the night.

Are the guards not coming to hang me? Maybe King Taerynn okay?

The body aches were back. Whatever magic King Taerynn had done to make him feel brand spanking new… had faded. A headache pounded in his brain. 

“Ugh,” he complained and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Good thing I ate a little before falling asleep. Drink, too.”

His slumber wasn’t very restful, either. He swore he kept waking up and hearing throaty clicking sounds. Plus the whisperings that just woke him. Winter touched his forehead. It felt warmer than normal.  

I guess I was having fever dreams. Only nightmares.

Winter closed his eyes aga—

“Here.”

He gasped and ran off the bed, eyes going wild trying to find who else was in the room. But… the eerie voices were familiar. Where had he heard them before? 

“Here.”

Winter furrowed his eyebrows and looked down. It was coming from him. Actually, from his pants. There was a slight bulge in his pocket. He reached into it and pulled out the watch and chain, forgetting it was there. 

As Winter stared at it, the voices started up again. They weren’t saying “here,” but an old language he couldn’t understand. Elvish? He didn’t need to comprehend them to know they wanted him to open the pocket watch. The whispers sped up like a chant, matching his racing heartbeat.

His other hand touched the cover, thumb grazing over the thorns. And the voices ceased when he did that.

Dead silence.

“Here,” a single whisper uttered.

The prince lifted the top.