Winter's parched lips tasted the metallic tang of blood, a grim reminder of his confrontation with the horned prince. Sprawled on the straw floor of his dim cell, he contemplated his grim fate. Betraying Taeleorn by safeguarding what the prince coveted most had consequences. Taeleorn sought her life force, and Winter feared he might seize her child and then execute her, as was their macabre custom. Would Winter now stand in her place?

The revelation of Taeleorn's secret came too late for Winter. Somehow, the horned prince had grown attached to the girl meant for sacrifice. Taeleorn had concealed his love from everyone, aware that the other keepers of the forest would not understand. Their ancient race aged slowly, and if she stayed, she would grow old while Taeleorn retained his youth. Winter, not part of their world, could not recall his life before this, not even sure if Winter was his real name. The mere thought induced a headache; all he wanted to focus on was her.

Winter had developed a fondness for the girl languishing in the dark chambers of the forest keepers. Her pitiful cries tugged at his heartstrings, and guilt gnawed at him for leading her to this desolate land. He wanted to ease her suffering, bring solace to her fractured spirit. Candles to fend off the darkness, blankets to ward off the cold, songs, and the warmth of her hand in his—these were his feeble attempts.

When she was allowed out, it was because she had forgotten her former self, her spirit broken. The green-cloaked figure, though aware she would not flee, kept a watchful eye on her with a tinge of jealousy. Winter guided her through the tunnels, warning her to stick to the ones he showed her. Despite the calming herb tea he provided, the oppressive darkness kept her on the brink of sanity.

They ventured to a vast cavern for their daily meals—a grand spectacle with keepers seated at a long table adorned with precious stones, golden candelabras, and platters of food. Taleorn, accompanied by his friends, occupied a prominent place, and at the head of the table sat the queen, his mother. The others waited their turn, surrounded by flickering candles in the dimly lit space. Ladies in brown woolen dresses, matching the walls, served as trusted servants. After their meal, Winter took her on his chores, a guise to teach her but driven by his longing for her company.

Both Winter and the girl were outsiders, useful as servants. Winter, a teind-payer destined for sacrifice, had been spared by Taeleorn's plea to his mother. Despite his freedom to roam, he remained captive to the faeries, memories erased. The prince trusted Winter, even loved him, granting him freedoms. Winter hoped Taeleorn would understand that, like him, he had saved Eve. Now, with displeased faeries, his fate hung in the balance—return to a forgotten world or be sacrificed at the altar?

Footfalls echoed, signaling someone's approach to his cell. Would others support him, or fear of the horned prince keep them at bay? Circled by uncertainty, Winter knew the inevitable had arrived. They would take him to Taeleorn, seeking answers through any means necessary. Winter would not prolong his agony; he'd tell Taeleorn what he sought. As he faced impending torment, he hoped she had escaped, no longer feeling her presence, no longer witnessing her pain. Was there anyone who could save him?  

(Edited 1/28/24)