Empire of Shadows

1.

The snow drifted lazily down to the earth—the white specks blending in with his white hair as he ran.

Warm blood dripped from the wound on his side, leaking through his wool tunic and onto his thin coat. His breaths came in cacophonous rasps and the cold air stung his lungs with every inhale.

They'd caught him unprepared, and now they'd dragged him into the winter darkness to kill him—if given the chance that was. He wasn't planning on giving up any time soon.

He slipped, falling into the snow at the base of a large fir. His blood colored the blanketed earth red, dots of it blotting a trail directly to him. A horse whinnied in the distance and he scuttled back to his feet.

Keep moving, he thought, keep going or they kill you.

His boots slipped as he ran forward, the white stone walls of Boar's Keep appearing from the snow. There were men talking now, dogs howling and barking in chase.

Why didn't they just let the dogs after him?

They were afraid of him, they were afraid of the power he might wield against such majestic beasts.

So was he.

It was the power in his veins that dethroned him. It was the same power that caused a royal guard to stab him through with a longsword. That power... he'd never asked for it and now, if they had their way, it would destroy him.

He pressed his hands against the wound, his dull fingers warming with the blood that leaked from his body.

How much blood had he lost? How long had he been out in the cold? Exposure could kill as easy as a knife and the fingers of his unbloodied hand were beginning to turn red and numb. At one point they burned, but now they were just numb—a sign of hypothermia. His breath floated above his head like a whispered prayer as he lowered his head and stumbled on.

Keep going. Aslaug will be there for you, she will save you. Any who defy her will die. He repeated the chant to himself as he pushed forward through the ankle-deep snow.

He reached the white stone walls of Boar's Keep, letting them take his strength as the horses grew louder. There was a howl of dogs and then a man screamed. "He's this way, look at the tracks! Come on!"

He cursed under his breath, forcing his frozen legs to move faster. His trousers were doing a poor job at keeping out the cold and his body felt numb from the elements and blood-loss. His teeth chattered together as the voices grew nearer.

What would he do when they caught up? Fight them? With what? They had him powerless, completely and utterly powerless.

There was the shill cry of horses and more shouts of men as he dragged his bleeding corpse through the snow. His hands splashed red against the white-washed stones that blended in with the snow. He could see the gap in the wall leading into the castle.

Just a little farther, he convinced himself, pushing forward.

He slipped to his knees again as the first horse came into sight. The rider dismounted quietly upon seeing him and took a broadax from his saddle pack. A pin on his coat distinguished him as a royal guard—not the one who had initially run him through, but of the same motive. His icy eyes stared forward, unnerved by the bloody boy.

"Ketil Østberg, as it is written so it shall be."

The other riders filed in around him, tightening their circle of glossy hooves and flaming torches. Ketil straightened up, his heart leaping. He slipped his red hand out of his coat and lifted it. He was shaking from the cold and blood loss.