HOW THE SHADOWS FEAST
ix. into the wolf's jaw

the fifth night

❅          ❅          ❅

Head bowing low to the Bright Mother and whispering prayers with a voice too soft for his canine teeth he suddenly appeared innocent. A devoted child in front of the powerful goddess, asking for her blessing.

Only the sword lying in front of him to receive her benediction reminded of the fact he was not a youth pleading for their life to be spared but a warrior bidding for his weapon to taste more blood than he would lose. An ancient ritual to prepare himself for hunting.

Follow him, Anyan's voice had whispered in her head when Prince Silvan had left the dining hall for this ceremony, and without thinking twice, Saskia had done so. But now, standing at the entrance of the chapel, she did not know what to do anymore.

From behind the altar, an almost translucent little creature eyed her and the prince suspiciously, irises glowing wary as if it had awoken from an age-long slumber. A gospodarchek ...

To this day, it had never occurred to Saskia the convent might have some. That in fact, it had not to be all lifeless stone and cold fire, but could be a true home. Watching the house spirit alive her chest filled with igniting joy. Even though, it could choke the fear that tightened her throat only for a moment.

Not all creatures were benevolent and this protector of the house had not been fed with offerings for decades, thus Saskia feared he would not be powerful enough to keep out the evil spirits.

She did not want to know what else had entered the convent already.

"Have you ever wondered what she sees?" Silvan eventually chose to break the silence. "When she looks down to us gazing upon her from her lithic eyes ... what does she see? A proper devotee worthy to do her work?"

Is it her work, though?

For a moment, she could have sworn to sense concern in his words—an honest sorrow about the things that were happening and that he had sworn to protect Schwarzhain from—but he seemed to think better of it than to share those thoughts with her the next.

"What do you want, desetnitsa?"

The candlelight caught in his raven hair, gracing it with a reddish glow as his head rose. Around him, the shadows quivered.

The word struck Saskia like a blow, but she continued anyway.
"So you know?"

"Mother Gesa told me you are cursed, yes. I should've known when I saw you with Sister Katinka, that the convent's little Hexe found herself a fitting friend."

Saskia clenched her teeth at this dreadful word. Witch. The prince did not even feel ashamed damning with it one of her own daughters in Perhta's presence as his eyes still lay on the effigy, unfazed. Meanwhile, Saskia's wandered to the blood-sprinkled blade. Silvan's blood, sacrificed to the goddess.

"I am a Daughter of Perhta, still. And a knezhna."

"What brings you here? I assume it's not devotion," Silvan said, finally turning around and looking at her. However, in such a way that she would rather he didn't do it at all.

"Not now. I am here to talk to you." If you don't drive me to kill you first.

Tempted?, the demon's laughing voice rang in her head, an intimidating reminder of just how close Anyan was since their pact.

Carefully ignoring it, she added, "Because I owe you an apology, my lord."

"Start by apologizing for interrupting something as sacred as prayer then."

Saskia lowered her gaze in an expression of false reverence. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to disturb you. But I didn't have a chance to talk to—"

"So, speak. Apologize," he demanded, impatiently.

Please Perhta, help me. The priestess forced herself to remember whom she did this for and how much there was to lose if she failed. What was a bit grinning and bearing it in the face of death? Katinka's death.

"My behavior at the market place was indecent. I did not mean any offense, but as you surely know, I was betrothed and did not know how—"

From beneath her lashes, she could see Silvan's brows rise. "Betrothed?"

"To Prince Rogdai."

"Ah, they told me he came for his bride. They did not mention it was you."

"Forgive me, my lord."

However nauseating, Saskia hoped he could see in her now what drew him to her on this winter morning. Beauty may be a target. But perhaps it could be a weapon, too.

If it hadn't already lost its edges, taken off by the convent's cold walls, the sleepless night written all over her face like one of Katinka's legends—a tale of woe—, and the sorrow eating her alive.

"Is that all?" The little spark of interest that had sidled into his voice extinguished, leaving nothing but frosty irritation.

Saskia bit her tongue, anger, and panic roiling in her belly as she felt her only chance to save Katinka slip away through her fingers. This man was so sickeningly cold that she would never be able to touch anything in him.

There was no heart to soften in his chest. In its place dwelt only pride and hunger.

Then feed it until he chokes, the demon whispered.

Saskia slipped to her knees as if in desperate prayer. "Please, allow me to go with you, lord!"

Taken by surprise, Silvan got to his feet. "What?"

"Let me go with you to the woods. I want to help with more than just offerings and prayers. There is worth in seeing what others cannot. Call me cursed but I want to use it as a gift to serve the Bright Mother," she took a shaky breath. "To ... to serve you."

"You are mad!"

The shadows expanded like a giant creature yet awakened, hungry, and ready to swallow the chapel's light whole.

Spilling blood all over the white fabric from the clean cut on his thenar, Silvan's hand grabbed her habit as if to force her to rise again and end this foolery. But it merely remained there, a two-faced threat.

Saskia looked up at him, forcing tears into her eyes. With the humiliation and fear burning inside her veins, it came easy to her. Abasing herself in front of Prince von Winterthal so almost hurt physically.

After proving himself to be the most loyal servant to the gods, Silvan already longed to taste their sweet divinity. Showered in the people's adoration, the prince wanted to delve into his own self-righteous holiness. And who could have been more suitable to worship him than a lovely sacred maiden?

So, Saskia gave him one.

"No! The thought of losing another person I hold dear to the dark while I can do nothing drives me mad. It's unbearable."

Silvan's anger seemed to be swallowed by surprise, yet again.

"I wanted you to take me with you ever since we met," the honeyed, empty lies flowed from her double-tongued mouth. Hopefully, Silvan would realize their poison too late. "Please, please, let me help you."

"You are better suited for the convent," he scoffed, a poor excuse of repulse as his eyes already betrayed, he was wavering. "It will teach even wild creatures like you humbleness."

If you want to kill a predator you mustn't stay helpless prey.

Like a sharp-nailed claw, Saskia's fingers closed around his, still burrowed in her dress. Where now there was the hallowed fabric, just yesterday had been Katinka's hair. It was the hot skin of a beast she touched.

"But what use would be a tame creature to a Prince of Wolves?"

Eyes darkening like the shadows that caressed his face, Silvan's breath caught. Flickering firelight and darkness painted a kaleidoscope of wrath, excitement, revulsion, and craving into his sharp-featured face. After all, this saintly Prince of Wolves was drawn to the darkness, too.

"Truly, what a curse," the prince rasped.

With a violent tenderness, Silvan removed her fingers from his. Cold painfully filled the gap between them in an instant.

It would have been a relief if it had not promised defeat. Saskia felt her lip quiver, shame wrenching her guts.

However, the prince did so only to clutch her hand with his, softly pulling it towards his mouth.

In his voice there was attack and surrender all at once, "You're the knife to my throat."

"You're the dagger to my heart," Saskia whispered.

Pining so much to gaze upon the light, Silvan von Winterthal really had turned blind to the shade surrounding it. The great Prince of Wolves could not even see that he fell victim to his hunted prey.

And while he pressed his burning lips to her icy skin, the shadows sank their teeth into him. Saskia could feel the fresh poison Silvan had bedewed it with every time he cursed her and Katinka etch into her skin.

But for a fawn she would crawl into the wolf's jaws, deeper and deeper until she reached his rotten heart—and then she would rip it out.

❅

On her white dress, the blood stain was a badge of shame.

"Where have you been?" Gesa hissed when Saskia fell back on her chair. "Haven't you learned an ounce of obedience, after all of this? If you disturbed Prince Silvan's prayer—"

"She did not, Mother," Silvan answered before she could. "However, I bid you to allow me to take her with me."

The entire hall went as quiet as the woods in the deepest winter. Only Anyan, for the first time seemingly, sipped his wine.

The high priestess looked at him with unconcealed confusion. "On your hunt? But she is a priestess. She is ..."

Cursed. The word hung in the air with more gravity than it could have if it were spoken. Thus, it resonated in everyone's minds and hearts. Too dark to be said out loud.

"An honorable Daughter of Perhta," Prince Silvan finished Gesa's sentence. "And my bride elect."

In unison, the entire room stopped breathing, and Mother Gesa turned a shade of pale that was even whiter than Anyan's snow-colored hair. The only one who could compete with her was Franka—and in her eyes shone tears, too.

Saskia knew she had always hoped to flee this place and lead a life as a princess somewhere. Forgive me, Sister. Maybe someday you will be glad I saved you from ending with a beast as a husband.

After all, their engagement would find a quick end, as she hoped.

"Bride?" Mother Gesa stuttered, and after realizing she had in fact, understood him correctly, rose from her seat and rushed to the prince's side.

"Silvan. Are you aware of what you are doing?" she whispered.

Protest resonated in her voice— a softer, smoother one than the sharp-edged one aimed at her daughters, although Gesa knew perfectly well that this was not a request. For all her authority, when the Nights of Smoke came crawling into the valley and danger was immediate, she was barely in the position to question the Order.

"This is not a decision made rashly..."

Her fingers, digging into Winterthal's arms, only vaguely resembled those Saskia knew so well as stern executors of violence. Their fingerprints and every line of Gesa's hands had seared itself into her cheeks.

However, now there lay nothing of the sacral violence in her grasp, no maternal strength, but pure desperation. Boney and knuckles chalk-white against Silvan's black clothes, they looked like brittle spruce twigs. Hand of a mother who realized—no matter how she might push and pull—she held no power over a lost child anymore.

"I made up my mind, Mother."

"But, my lord, she ..."

Silvan waved his end, corners of his mouth turned down as if annoyed by all the questions already and signaling he would not have any of this nonsense anymore.

"She is a knezhna from a respectable family. What better match could there be? Or is there any reason you think that one of your own Daughters you allow to wear the veil and serve the Bright Mother would not be a suitable wife?" Silvan asked, voice so low and husky that it made no bones about the trap he laid.

For the first time, Saskia saw Gesa lose her countenance as she watched her horrified before her gaze quickly flew back to Silvan. What have you done, Daughter?

Saskia had no answer for her, she held her stare calmly, almost ruthlessly. But she felt no joy in seeing her grim mother speechless for once, only a gnawing shame. She had made use of Prince Silvan's own weapons and dirtied her hands with their vileness.

"No," Mother Gesa whispered, finally. "May the Bright Mother bless your union."

At the words, Franka clenched her fists. Later, Saskia would overhear her whisper to Philomena: "You know it is right, Mena. You know it. This is madness. Devout sisters should not end up as traitors, and the cursed one that held nothing but resentment for this place shouldn't wind up as an honorable daughter. Not at the prince's side as a helper and wife."

"Franka, Saskia is not—" Philomena would stutter.

"She is not one of us. Everyone knows. Even Gesa and I bet the prince does so, too."

Just now, Philomena was the only one who granted Saskia a glance devoid of disbelief or blatant rejection as she spoke. "May the Bright Mother bless you both and lighten your path."

"There are no bonds stronger than those formed in the Nights of Smoke," Anyan said, true satisfaction in his voice. Saskia did not know who he was really talking about.

Silvan raised his goblet in a toast while, with a complacent smile, placing his hand around Saskia's fingers like chains on a beautiful trophy he had won.

She hated every second of it but it was a small price to pay. The sweet wine tasted of revenge.

❅           ❅           ❅

"Here you are, Brother Vitus," Silvan von Winterthal asked, closely followed by Brother Radovan outside to the crenellations. They had copiously celebrated the prince's engagement; he could tell from the laziness in their voices and their wine-widened pupils. Now, the men drank in the fresh cold air almost as avidly.

"And yet not enjoying yourself on this day," the prince added.

It was true he did not: Except for the older priestesses who seemed to have taken a liking to him he was treated with ignorance by most. Perhaps it was for his still very boyish face not befitting the warrior he tried to represent or his factual youth or the simple fact that he had not earned himself a standing among the Order of Wolves.

However, this was not what made Vitus sullen.

"Something is wrong today. I can feel it," he announced. The sickly moon hung over the convent covered in a crimson veil: Death's bloody scythe ready to cut another throat. Vitus could almost feel the cool blade on his skin.

But instead of the others' concern, he raised only laughter.

"Tomorrow your first hunt will begin. You're nervous, that's all," Prince Silvan explained. "We all were."

Even he himself remembered his hands shaking when first facing the beasts of the twelve nights, and though they were steady now, the gnawing uneasiness hid beneath that surface had stayed ever since.

"The only thing wrong is that you are sulking here alone instead of killing time with us or that cute priestess. What was she called again?" A sly smile appeared on Radovan's face.

Philomena, Vitus thought. She seemed like a sweet girl. However, even if he had had anything to offer that could pique her interest, it would've been hopeless. The convent was her home she did not mean to leave.

Thus, all his puerile hopes withered as fast as the poinsettia petal in his pocket would that had come loose from Mena's wreath.

"Come on, Brother, make the night worthwhile. Could be your last, after all."
Radovan burst out laughing again as though he'd told some profound joke while his words made fear's grip around Vitus's chest tighten.

"No, thank you. I'll join you later ..."

Something is wrong, and I will prove it. Perhaps then they would finally take him seriously.

So, after the others went back in, yearning for the warmth of the fires and joyful company again, Vitus ranged the area, one hand always resting on his sword, the other ready to grab the flintlock and thus, fight against whatever creatures lurked in the dark.

Despite thinking he could feel them watching him from the shadows, laughing at him even, he saw nothing.

Maybe I am truly a nervous wreck, he thought, sighing softly and lowering his hands when he finally ended up in front of the convent.

At the door, there was nothing but a white mare and a bunch of dogs, waiting calmly. Something about it standing there, not even tethered, and surrounded by equally still black hounds, seemed unnatural. As if there was no other way for those animals than to stay frozen in time until their master came back.

Prince Anyan's horse?

Vitus approached it carefully, caught by its pale loveliness and drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Never had he seen something that intricately beautiful. In the dark night, the mare almost appeared as if created from moonlight itself.

However, the moment Vitus was close enough and the actual light—that of the candles surrounding the convent—hit the mare's head, it burned right through it, leaving nothing but bones: an equine skull with oddly sharp teeth and eyes so black as if he was watching into the depths of the underworld's abyss.

The silence was suffocated by his own blood singing in his ear, a heartbeat hammering so fast and hard in his throat that he feared to choke on it.

Sweet Mother, what is this?

Panting and sword almost slipping out of his wet hands, Vitus stumbled back to the door. To the safety of even more blessed fires and chalk-white runes.

However, when he looked up at them, pleadingly, there was nothing but bright smears on the dark wood and stone. With horror, the realization hit him immediately, but the scream he wanted to let out got caught somewhere in his tight throat.

It died there the second he saw the riders emerge: Their horses seemed the breathe smoke and fire, and among them, he could have sworn to have spotted the dead prince he helped to lay out himself.

Run, run, run!

The young warrior lunged at the door, but his boot slipped, sending him toppling into the snow.

"Please, Bright Mother ..." Vitus croaked, hoping that the mistress of light and darkness who guarded the gates between life and death would allow him to stay in this world a little longer. Instead of the holy symbols he wore on him, however, he clasped the petal of the winter rose.

Above, Death's scythe glowed ensanguined, andthe lovely charm of bells already filled the winter night air.

To be quite honest, I was pretty nervous to post this because there could be so much misunderstood about this chapter for the topics I tackle here once again--objectification of women mostly, especially in the light of religion--is a sensitive one. And it gets even more complex to show how a woman might use the ways she is objectified and sexualized for her means. I tried to put so much into it and I hope I did not miserably fail.

I think in the light of recent book trends I feared that this scene could be read as supposed to be as "sexy enemies to lovers". Which is quite frankly absolutely not the point.

As always let me know what you think!

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