Taerynn

King Taerynn saw the trepidation flash across the man’s face. He wanted to roll his eyes. It was so typical of a human to respond with fear when seeing him.

Though he did not often come face-to-face with their weak species, the reaction was always the same whenever it happened—they would realize he was a dark elf, scream, and run away. Sometimes, they even passed out on the spot.

Let’s get this over with.

“What’s your name?” Taerynn asked.

The question confused the young man, who finally stopped floundering in his grasp.

“My… name?”

Did I speak Elvish? You know what I mean.

But he could not push the request or show anger that could frighten him.

Yes, Taerynn did know his name—Snow White von Kastel, but that was because he’d heard it through the grapevine. The prior King of Ascelin had had a daughter. Rumors of her beauty had even reached his ears, which was how he had recognized the, er, prince in the coffin, who was not a princess at all.

Very peculiar.

And learning a human’s true name in that manner did not count for fae folk. To influence a mortal, they needed the person to provide their name willingly.

Once Taerynn had power over Snow White’s identity, deconstructing the soul would be much easier, though it would require a very fragile process to find the mirror shard. He really needed the man’s name to force him to cooperate. An unwilling heart and mind would make that complicated.

“Yes. I asked for your name.”

They studied each other. Taerynn’s hand felt Snow White’s rushing heartbeat in the sweet spot under his jawline.

*THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP*

He’s nervous.

Those ocean-blue eyes that had previously been horrified had become calculating. Taerynn watched them move up and down before staring into his face again. It was almost as if he was… seeing right through him.

The king did not like that and was taken aback.

Does he know my intentions?

“My name is Snow White.”

Ha, not as sharp as I thought.

“Then,” Taerynn smiled wickedly, “I need you to—”

His hold on Snow White’s face constricted more, making the young man whimper. Taerynn leaned in further to see into his wide-opened eyes and peered into the black iris pools. They were as clear as a sunny day in Midgard (the human realm) with no opaque sheen.

The haziness would have indicated they were being influenced by fae. But there was none. That meant one thing.

The elf could not hide his vexation any longer and scowled. “Snow White is not your true name.”

But I’ve heard the stories. This is Snow White. Could they have been wrong?

When his captive didn’t reply, Taerynn scoffed and let go, albeit harshly. Snow White, or whatever his name was, dropped to the floor. The heavy chain attached to the wall made a loud sound, ringing throughout the dungeon.

*CLANG*

“You lied,” Taerynn added.

Fae hated being lied to. Despised it, really. It was a one-way ticket to them making the liar’s life hell.

Snow White coughed and gradually stood with his hands placed on his knees. “I-I’m not lying. That is my n-name.”

The timidness had returned, like a lamb about to be swallowed by the wolf.

Scared. Then observant. Now scared again?

Taerynn could not figure him out, which was irritating. If Snow White wasn’t his true name, then it had to be… a nickname.

It was the truth, but also not. So, in a way, it wasn’t technically lying.

“What is your true name?” Taerynn asked, his golden eyes gleaming.

As expected, Snow White fell silent, avoiding eye contact. He focused on the filth growing in the dungeon.

Determining his true name was going to be more difficult than planned.

Whatever.

The king of this damned wasteland could wait. He had only been searching forty-five years for the Magic Mirror shards, going to the human realm merely once a year because of the curse. Painstakingly trying to find each minuscule piece that called to him had forced the ruthless King Taerynn to be patient.

And the curse was all thanks to Snow White’s stepmother—the queen.

“Why don’t you think about it a little more?” he asked more calmly.

The tone was meant to translate as, “You should consider it very carefully by the next time I come.”

Taerynn turned to leave and closed the heavy, iron-barred door behind him. It was the perfect metal for fae-folk prisoners, weak to it and possibly fatal… but not elves. His species had their own weakness, but iron was not one of them.

And even then, he was an exception to that. He was a… one of a kind elf, which had led to nothing but tragic ends since the day he was born.

The king took a step forward to leave the dungeon.

“Wait,” a faint voice called out.

He paused, waiting.

“C-can you at least t-tell me where I am?”

Since he’ll be with me until his death, it won’t matter if I tell him.

“Myrkrheim.”

***

Winter

Winter let out a long, shaky breath after the dark elf had left, leaving him alone in the dungeon. He put a hand over his chest.

His heart wouldn’t stop thumping wildly. The hard beats were painful.

Ever since seeing the elf’s face and being touched by him, there was… something going on inside.

A warmth? A pull?

It felt like the odd sensations were coming from his heart, but not exactly. It was deeper, more… within. He couldn’t explain, for he had never felt it before. When the sensations were gone, the feeling dissipated, leaving his fingertips tingling.

Without the elf there, the silence was more deafening than anything. Winter studied the area he was locked in, corner-to-corner, wall-to-wall. And then he surveyed the ground, where his vomit was. The apple bites still looked new.

When he saw the fruit’s red color, a burst of missing memories crashed into him at full force. It was literally like he had been struck, and he was knocked backward into the wall behind him.

Winter held onto the rocky wall to keep himself up as it all came barreling back: An elderly woman with a hunched spine and a large, infected boil on the bridge of her nose had appeared suddenly. She’d acted nice and offered him things, such as a comb. And Winter had known she was acting. A total fake.

In reality, he had sensed the true wickedness inside her.

Because ever since ‘that incident’ when he was nine years old, and his eye had almost been blinded by glass, Winter had changed. His childhood frailty had improved, and he was basically cured.

The prediction that he would die before his teenage years was proven false. The Nordenstein Castle’s physician had not been able to figure out how he could be sickly one day and then fine the next.

But there had been another shift in him. It was a secret. No one knew, since it used to frighten him so much at night, thinking he was possessed or something.

It was possibly a newfound intuition, or maybe the heavens had given him foresight. When the bandage had been removed from his eye a month later, Winter had cried and panicked. A lot.

He hadn’t understood back then, and had been too petrified to ask his stepmother despite her witchcraft ability. It had taken time to get used to the new sixth sense and accept why he perceived demonic energy more in some than others.

Winter could see the actual ugliness in people, only it was magnified a thousand times. If a person was bad, he saw how bad, how evil.

And that older woman who had kept insisting on him taking her ‘gifts’ had been exactly that—evil, which reminded him too much of the queen.

The last present she had tried to offer was a glistening apple from her basket. It was the most delicious apple he had ever seen, much more delicious-looking than any of the rotten ones growing in the dwarves’ orchard. Winter recalled salivating over the shiny redness when she had cut it, eating half to show him that it was fine to consume.

Yet, something hadn’t felt right. He had declined. The woman’s aura had been too vile to accept anything, and he’d told her not to return, since his friends would be back from mining the next day. Her eyes had held a dangerous glint, even though she’d smiled and said it was fine.

The following day, he had gone to the orchard and gardens to collect any ripe foods that were ready to be harvested. He’d wanted to prepare a hardy feast for the dwarves the next day. On the ground under the apple trees had been several fallen ones, including the best-looking apple that had ever grown on their land.

How lucky! he had thought to himself.

Winter had brought the apple and the basket of goodies back to the cottage. When he’d gotten hungry later that evening, he examined the fruit, and something had felt off. Yet, he had still wanted to devour it.

How could someone not want to when it was as yummy as it seemed?

His mind had whispered as if they weren’t his own thoughts, more like a spell, “Eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it!”

Eat it? Winter had wondered in a daze. Yes, I want to eat it.

So he had taken a bite. And two. Then thr—

That was the final thing Winter could remember… and then he had woken up in a dungeon with a dark elf while puking up that same apple.

Poison. The apple was from her! It was too perfect to have grown on our trees! How could I have been so… foolish? I shouldn’t have ignored that awful feeling I had! Did living carefree for two years blind my judgment?

Winter reflected on what the elf had told him:

“You have been missing for thirty-three years. I discovered you in a glass coffin in an abandoned mine. Your friends are dead.”

Three decades ago…

Dead…

The seven dwarves—nameless, hard-headed, and stinky—were dead. They had saved Winter’s life after discovering him in the Forbidden Forest, accepting him as their own, and becoming the only friends he had ever made.

The fun they’d had while singing and dancing, teaching him how to hunt and use a dagger for defense, learning basic survival skills such as cooking, and being free.

Winter covered his mouth to avoid wailing, but he couldn’t help it. Tears trailed down his cheeks. His legs were unable to hold his weight up, and he crumbled onto the nasty ground coated in slime and strange puddles of muck.

It’s not fair that I have to grieve here! Where were they buried? How did they die? Will I ever know?

It was too much—too much information, too much happening at once, and too much to accept this abrupt change.

Myrkrheim.

The elf had said that name.

Myrkrheim, Winter repeated in his head. Myrkrheim. I’m there now? Where have I heard it before? Was it in my studies? The books I read?

I also should have asked for his name. That darned elf tried to influence me with my true name! He can’t know. I’d rather die than be controlled.

Time passed. He tried yanking off the shackle until his ankle bled. It was no use.

Day or night, Winter couldn’t tell. There were no windows. He’d watch the fiery torch on the other side of the cage-like door. The fire never extinguished, like it was magic.

It’s freezing!

His breath was visible. When his body began to shake, worry plagued him. If that dark elf wouldn’t kill him soon, the cold would first.

So mana kept me alive for years? I don’t know exactly what that is, but will it keep me alive down here, too, just barely enough to survive?

No one came by either, not a single guard. That was unusual.

*BANG*

Winter opened his eyes, raising his head slowly in the direction that the sound had come from. Something had fallen over, such as a broom. It had come from the hallway.

A cold fear spread through his limbs. Goosebumps peppered Winter’s skin as his instincts went haywire.

Run. I should run. Impossible.

He tensed up, watching the hallway without blinking.

A shadow crept forward.