The woods stretched endlessly in every direction, a sea of green and brown bisected only by the winding game trail beneath their horses' hooves. The morning air was crisp, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine—the kind of air that filled the lungs and made men feel alive. Lord Harriot, riding just ahead, was doing just that—grinning, breathing deep, and, of course, talking.

  “…So there I was, the beast charging straight at me! My men shouting, my hounds barking, but I didn’t falter. No, I stood my ground, and when it was close enough—” He mimed drawing his sword, nearly unseating himself in the process. “One clean stroke, and down it went! A wolf the size of a bloody carriage, I swear on my name.”

  Princess Everburn did not so much as gnce in his direction. She needed to keep up the pretense, needed to let him believe the courtship was progressing. And so, this morning, they had ridden hours into the royal woods for a hunting trip. Something to keep the man happy. Something that meant enduring more awful stories.

  She gnced over the hunting party—a pack of men she shared nothing with, ughing and jostling in their saddles. Then, cutting off Harriot mid-boast, she asked, “Your pet elf isn’t with us?”

  Harriot blinked at the sudden shift, then chuckled. “Qyngmi? No, no, the bells would scare off the prey. The fool never comes along.” He shook his head, as if the very idea were absurd. “Strange thing, really—hates nature. Funnily enough, for his kind.”

  Princess Everburn let her gaze drift beyond the game trail, past the twisting branches and sun-dappled underbrush. The air was cool, the forest alive with the rustling of unseen creatures and the distant trill of birdsong. She liked nature. It was good to be away from the castle, away from the stone walls and endless whispers of court. Even under these circumstances.

  For a moment, she let herself enjoy it.

  Then, a sharp bark cut through the morning stillness.

  Lord Harriot straightened in his saddle, grinning. “Ah! They’ve got the scent!”

  The hounds howled again, eager, insistent.

  Harriot spurred his horse forward, already reaching for his bow. “Come, Princess! The hunt is on!”

  The hunting party surged forward, hooves pounding against the earth as the hounds howled and crashed through the underbrush. Lord Harriot rode with enthusiasm, his bow already in hand, scanning the trees for movement. Princess Everburn followed, though at a more measured pace. She was not here for sport, nor for the thrill of the chase—only for the performance of it.

  The scent of prey drove the hounds into a frenzy. A fsh of movement ahead—a stag, darting between the trees, antlers crowned with sunlight. Harriot let out a triumphant ugh and loosed an arrow. It missed, striking a tree with a dull thunk, and the stag veered sharply to the left.

  The hunting party split in pursuit, each rider chasing in a different direction. The thunder of hooves and barking of dogs became scattered, distant, swallowed by the vastness of the forest. Harriot cursed under his breath and turned his horse, meaning to follow, but the princess’s voice stopped him.

  “Wait.”

  He reined in, blinking. They were alone. The others had vanished between the trees, and with the dense foliage around them, even the sound of pursuit was muffled, distant.

  A breath of wind rustled the leaves. A silence settled in—thick, expectant. Princess Everburn’s fingers flexed slightly on the reins. Something wasn’t right.

  A sharp, pained yelp split the air.

  Princess Everburn turned her head toward the sound just as Harriot jerked the reins. “Come on!” he barked, spurring his horse forward. She followed without hesitation, the two of them weaving through the trees, the damp earth kicking up beneath their mounts.

  They found the dog colpsed in a patch of trampled underbrush, its chest heaving, its dark eyes wide with pain. Deep cw marks ran along its fnk, fresh and glistening. The poor beast had been running from something.

  Harriot was off his horse before it even stopped moving. He rushed to the animal’s side, falling to his knees in the dirt. “Oh, you poor thing,” he murmured, running his hands over its fur, trying to assess the wound. His usual bravado was gone, repced by genuine distress. “You’re all right, boy. You’re all right.”

  The dog whined, trying to lift its head. Harriot swallowed hard, his hand trembling slightly as he stroked the creature’s side.

  Princess Everburn sat still in the saddle, scanning the trees. A predator was near. The forest had gone quiet.

  Not just quiet—dead. No birdsong, no rustling leaves, no distant chittering of small creatures in the underbrush. The air itself seemed to tighten, thick with something unseen.

  Then, a sound. The deep, deliberate snap of a branch beneath something heavy.

  The forest seemed to exhale as something massive pushed through the undergrowth. Twigs cracked like brittle bones, leaves trembled as the very air shifted around the intruder. A hulking shadow swayed just beyond the line of trees, its breath slow and measured, sniffing, testing the air.

  Then, with a lurching step into the light, the bear emerged.

  It was enormous—easily twice the size of any normal beast, its fur a patchwork of old scars and fresh filth. Blood, dried and fresh, crusted around its maw. Its eyes were wild, bck pits that reflected nothing but hunger and rage. The moment it saw them, it let out a roar, a sound that rippled through the trees and sent birds scattering in terror.

  Lord Harriot screamed.

  Harriot’s scream wasn’t a battle cry, nor the startled shout of a man caught unawares. It was the sound of someone who had just realized—too te—that he’d wandered far too close to death.

  As the bear charged, Harriot moved—with a strange blend of recklessness and purpose—not away, but forward, diving over the bleeding dog. His hands scrambled at his belt for his dagger, but his fingers were clumsy with fear. The weapon slipped from his grip and thudded into the dirt, useless.

  The bear did not slow. It bore down on them, its monstrous weight rattling the very earth beneath it.

  And then—

  The bear lunged. Its massive jaws, lined with jagged teeth, opened wide, ready to cmp down.

  But they never closed.

  Princess Everburn was no longer on her horse—she was between Harriot and death itself, her hands cmped tight around the beast’s maw. The bear’s momentum should have sent her sprawling, should have crushed her beneath its weight, but she did not budge. Instead, the beast jerked to a halt, its head locked in pce.

  It snarled, breath hot and reeking, muscles rippling beneath thick fur as it thrashed against her grip. It could not move.

  Her eyes burned red. Not metaphorically—literally. Twin coals set in her skull, casting a faint, hellish glow. Beneath her skin, something pulsed, something unnatural. Her veins shimmered like molten metal, lines of fire snaking down her arms, illuminating every tendon, every flex of her grip.

  The bear let out a strangled growl, half-choked by its own halted momentum.

  Princess Everburn did not blink.

  The forest held its breath.

  And then, slowly, her fingers tightened.

  The bear, eyes rolling in pain, let out a wheezing, panicked snarl. Its body trembled, its instincts screaming that something was wrong. This was no prey, no ordinary creature of flesh and bone—it had lunged at a woman, and instead, it had met something else entirely.

  Still, desperation overrode reason. With a final, pained roar, it raised a massive cw to strike.

  It never got the chance.

  Princess Everburn’s free hand shot forward in a tight fist.

  Bone cracked. Flesh ruptured.

  The bear’s skull caved in.

  Blood and brain matter burst outward in a wet spray, spttering her face, her chest, the ground at her feet. The beast spasmed once—then crumpled, its ruined head hitting the earth with a sickening thud.

  She stood over the corpse, breath heaving. The glow of her veins pulsed like a heartbeat, her eyes burning through the settling mist of gore. And on her face—through the crimson streaks and the dim forest light—there was a look of fury.

  Not shock. Not fear.

  Rage.

  Lord Harriot stared at Princess Everburn, his mouth slightly open, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. For the first time since she’d met him, he had nothing to say.

  She turned her glowing red eyes to him.

  For a moment, he thought she might kill him next.

  Then, without a word, she exhaled sharply and sank to the ground, resting her elbows on her knees. Her hands were stained with blood and something thicker. She didn’t seem to care.

  “Give me a minute,” she said between heavy breaths.

  The glow in her veins pulsed, dimmed. Her red eyes faded back to their usual color. She inhaled, then exhaled again, slower this time. Steadying herself. Pulling her power back inside.

  The forest was silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Finally, Princess Everburn broke the silence. She looked down at the wounded dog, its bored breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps. “It won’t live,” she said ftly. “The wounds are too much.”

  Harriot didn’t respond. He just stared at her. Not at the blood drying on her hands or the shattered remains of the bear’s skull, but her. The way she said it. So cold. So certain.

  The dog whined, barely lifting its head. Harriot swallowed hard. His stomach turned.

  “I heard stories,” he said at st, his voice unsteady. “About the magic in your bloodline. How it was used in war.” He hesitated. He had dismissed those tales as embellishments—old legends to make a royal house seem more terrifying. But what he saw today…

  He forced himself to meet her gaze.

  “I thought it was just myth.”

  Princess Everburn let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Thirty years of peace might do that,” she murmured. Her breathing had steadied now. The molten fire beneath her skin was flickering now, fading... “There hasn’t been a major conflict in our lifetime.” She gnced at her hands, flexing her fingers, still slick with blood. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Lord Harriot was still shaken, but curiosity gnawed at him. He hesitated before asking, “Does that mean the other stories are true too? About those who… use it too much? Who lose themselves?”

  Princess Everburn exhaled slowly. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out, resting a hand on the dying dog’s head, her touch gentle despite the raw strength she had just dispyed. The animal shuddered beneath her fingers. Finally, she spoke. “Yes.”

  Harriot shifted uneasily. “So, the stories about the Mad King?”

  Everburn kept her eyes on the dog. “Everything in the history books about my great-grandfather is true,” she said. “He leaned too hard on the power. By the end, he was no more human than that bear.”

  She gnced at the fallen creature, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to kill it,” she murmured.

  A beat of silence passed before she spoke again, quieter this time, almost uncertain. “I… I don’t think I even want to use this power. To use my blood.”

  She exhaled, slow and measured, as if trying to steady something inside herself. “I was born for this, you know,” she said, her tone edged with something bitter. “My ancestors were warlords, conquerors. It’s what they built this kingdom on. It’s what they bred me for.”

  Her fingers curled into her palm before she forced them to rex. “But I was raised in peace.” She shook her head. “Gods bst it all, I like peace.”

  Her gaze drifted back to the bear’s ruined skull. “And I don’t want to turn into something else.”

  For a moment, the only sound was the faint whimper of the wounded dog.

  Harriot swallowed hard and looked at the animal. He knew what had to be done.

  They left the dog behind once he’d finished.

  Lord Harriot walked a few steps ahead, his face drawn, his usual bluster gone. Princess Everburn followed in silence, watching him carefully. He had seen her strength. Seen what her bloodline could do. And now, for the first time since their courtship had begun, he seemed to truly understand what it meant to stand beside an Everburn.

  When they reached their horses, Harriot found his had bolted some distance. It snorted and danced in pce as he approached, still trembling from the violence it had fled. He murmured softly, running a hand down its neck until it calmed beneath his touch. Only then did he speak.

  “I always knew marriage was about more than just the people in it,” he said at st. “Duty. Politics. But I don’t think I ever really understood.” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Not until now.”

  Everburn didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked out into the woods, at the towering trees, the endless green. The weight of her ancestors pressed against her ribs. Finally, she said, “I knew you'd view things a certain way—expected it, even, before you ever arrived. To think otherwise would’ve been a luxury, a bit of wishful thinking I couldn’t afford.”

  Harriot turned to her, searching her face for something—reassurance, perhaps. But whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. Her expression was calm, composed. Yet something flickered beneath the surface. Her eyes were downcast, avoiding his. Not like she didn’t want to meet his gaze—more like she couldn’t. Like, after everything that had just happened, she no longer felt entirely human.

  He swallowed, gncing once more toward the path they had left behind. Then he climbed into the saddle. “Let’s head back.”

  Everburn nodded and took the reins. Neither of them looked back as they rode toward the hunting party.