Isabelle flinched as the splintering oak door slammed shut behind her, closing out the scowls and mutterings of the tavern workers inside. An icy gust blew past, and Isabelle shivered, pushing her windswept curls from her face. Not even her snug wool coat was enough to guard against the bitter chill of the Black Forest. The village tavern may not have been very friendly, but at least it had been warm.

 

This was the third village she’d come to in the past week, and so far, no one knew of a castle in these woods. But Isabelle had become suspicious of this professed ignorance. The villagers’ fearful eyes and curt responses told a different story. There was a castle in this forest. But no one wanted to talk about it. Which did not bode well for Isabelle.

 

Standing outside the tavern now, Isabelle peered up at the slate blue sky. It was not dawn yet—the sun rose late and set early this time of year, especially so far north—and she wondered if she should wait for daylight before setting out. The village here was small: a cluster of houses, a business or two, and the one tavern, all pitched on either side of the road. Beyond the village, the road ended, leaving no clear way through the tangled wood.

 

Isabelle wound the gears on her lantern, and as the bulb flared to life, she raised it high, throwing a circle of bright white light ahead of her. The road ended, but perhaps there was a path, Isabelle thought, as she ventured past the final stone houses. The wooded land rose just ahead, obscuring what lay beyond—more forest probably. Indeed, the air was scented with the musty fragrance of cold, muddy earth and dead leaves.

 

Isabelle hesitated. Her lantern’s cold, metal handle bit into the crevices of her palm as she shifted her grip. Sunrise must have been close, because the world around her had begun to lighten, the black veil of night lifting. But the way forward was still concealed, murkier than ever in the pre-dawn gray.

 

A shadow shifted ahead, something moving in the dark.

 

Isabelle froze. Her spine felt rigid, as though something had clamped it tight. The movement could have been anything—a hawk winging beneath the forest canopy, the wind rustling the furry branches of a spruce tree. But something about the way that shadow undulated in the gloom—with uncanny grace—put Isabelle on alert.

​

“Heard you’re looking for the old castle.”

 

Isabelle gave a start, her heart leaping in her chest.

 

A woman glided out of the forest, materializing from the darkness.

 

Isabelle’s breath sank out of her. “Stones.”

 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.” The woman gave her the briefest of smiles, her glinting teeth a flash of white. As she stepped into the light of the lantern, Isabelle took in the sight of her. She had thick, fiery red hair, bound in a complicated mass of braids. Her skin was wintry fair, her cheeks pink with cold. And she was tall. Isabelle was tall, but thin and bony. This woman had a heft to her, a muscled litheness.

 

She must be a woodswoman, Isabelle realized, perhaps a trapper, living off the woods. She didn’t have the air of a villager, and she dressed in rough clothing—brown trousers tucked into well-worn boots, a thin scarf stuffed into a leather vest. And a wool sack coat—a garment often worn by men rather than women.

 

“Well?” the trapper said. “Are you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Looking for the old castle?”

 

Hope seized Isabelle by the throat. “Yes, I am. If it’s real, anyway.”

 

“Of course it’s real.” The woman gave a short laugh. “This forest used to be one big kingdom. And a kingdom’s got to have a castle, doesn’t it? Though I understand your skepticism. People around here don’t like talk of that castle.”

 

“So I’ve gathered,” Isabelle said.

 

The woman smiled again. There was something off about her smile—as though it meant to convey something more than friendliness. Something sinister.

​

Isabelle shook off a chill as a cutting wind sliced through her black coat. The mistrust of the villagers, the darkness of the early morning—it was putting her on edge. If there was something off about this woman, well, Isabelle knew people who lived alone could be a bit strange. She herself was, after all.

 

“So the castle?” Isabelle prompted. “Where can I find it?”

 

The woman turned, shrugging for Isabelle to join her. “There’s a path you can start on. I’m headed that way myself—I’ll show you.”

 

Isabelle followed, relieved. She’d begun to think this entire venture was a fool’s errand. That the telegram she’d received had been nothing more than a cruel prank. The telegram had contained news of Isabelle’s brother, claiming he was being held prisoner in an old castle here in the forest. But the details had been vague, and as Isabelle delved further into the forest, she’d begun to think it was all for nothing. But now, as Isabelle trekked up the sharp rise in the land and down a dirt path, she felt hopeful for the first time since leaving the Glen Kingdom.

​

The forest was formless in the early darkness, shadows blurring together. Bulging fir trees were like sleeping giants and barren alders like twisted monsters, their branches grasping and grotesque. Isabelle kept her gaze on her guide, wary of wandering off the path.

 

“This is just an old deer path,” the trapper told her. The ground began to level out. “It winds through the woods here and eventually disappears. But the castle isn’t far beyond that. You should reach it today.”

 

“This castle then.” Isabelle stepped over a mossy rock jutting up from the ground. “It’s the seat of the old Forest kings?” Even concern for her brother couldn’t dampen Isabelle’s interest in such an intriguing historical site.

 

“Sure is,” the trapper said.

 

“And it’s still standing?”

​

“Was the last time I saw it.” The woman came to a halt, rounding on Isabelle. “Did anyone in the village tell you why they don’t speak of it?”

​

“Hardly. They refused to acknowledge it exists.”

 

“Sounds about right,” the trapper muttered. “Well. If you’re going there, you should know. People say the castle is cursed.”

 

Isabelle felt an icy hand grip her heart. She was not typically a fanciful person. She believed in what was rational, what was recorded, and what could be proved. But she also knew very well that curses were real. They had been recorded and proved. “Cursed? In what way?”

 

“No one really knows.” The trapper studied Isabelle as though appraising her mettle. “There are all sorts of rumors. But the story generally goes that—back when the kingdom still stood—a witch cursed the last Forest king. Him and his family. Even their descendants.”

 

A shiver rattled through Isabelle. Enough time had passed that the sun should have risen by now, shedding morning light. But the Black Forest was true to its name. The dark fir trees soared overhead, blocking out the sky. Even the bare-limbed alders loomed, their knobby branches snarling together in a tangled canopy. A thin layer of snow lay over it all, dusting the fir trees and clumping in the crevices of the alders. The snow should have lent the landscape some beauty, but even its glossy sheen was overshadowed by the dim forest.

 

“Why did the witch curse them?” Isabelle asked.

​

“Who knows?” the trapper replied. “Some say the king slighted her. Some say they were lovers, and he broke her heart. Others claim the royal family was involved in something dark—forbidden rituals and blood magic and all sorts of madness.”

 

Isabelle mulled this over, her usual skepticism breaking through the sordid corners of this tale. Forbidden rituals? The old Forest kings had been pagans, and their citizenry allowed to worship whoever they chose. And it was hard to believe a witch would care if the king was involved in dark magic.

​

“Some of the stories are outlandish, I’ll grant you.” The trapper turned, scanning the way before them. “But something happened that night the king fell. The stories agree on that. It was no invasion or famine that toppled this kingdom. Something struck down the royal family in one swoop. And the castle has been abandoned ever since.”

​

There could be some truth to it, Isabelle thought, watching a tiny critter scurry across the path. There was little historical evidence to say why the kingdom fell, and no one knew what had become of the last Forest king. “And their descendants?”

​

The trapper turned to her. “What?”

​

“You said the witch cursed the king’s descendants as well. Or were there any descendants? If everyone was killed—”

 

“I didn’t say they were killed. I said they were cursed. Including their descendants.” The wind picked up, soughing as it blustered through the fir trees. The trapper’s red hair blew in the wind, but she stood still, untouched by the cold. “Some people say they fled to the mountains. But others say the descendants still walk these woods. Haunting the forest. Living out their curse.” Her gaze settled on Isabelle with a smile that did not reach her cool gray eyes.

 

Isabelle swallowed. She suddenly wanted to be on her way—and leave this woman behind. “So the castle itself isn’t cursed then.”

 

“I suppose not.”

 

“And it’s not abandoned anymore?”

 

“No. It’s not. But the one who lives there now—some disgraced lord—doesn’t much like visitors.” The trapper’s tone turned bitter.

​

The one who lives there now. Isabelle reached for the crumpled paper tucked in her pocket, the transcript of her telegram. The paper felt brittle in her hand, the well-worn creases grown sharp. According to the telegram, her brother had stayed at the castle as a guest—until he’d done something to offend the lord of the castle. Now he was a prisoner. Though she hadn’t seen him in three years, Isabelle knew her brother, and she could well believe Ansel had done something stupid or criminal. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t worried about him.

 

“Well, whatever he likes,” Isabelle said, trying to make her voice light, “I need to get to that castle. So, I just follow the path?”

 

“Yes. Follow the path through the woods. When it ends, you’ve got about three miles before you reach the castle. But it’s a straight shot through the forest. Due north.” The trapper stepped aside. “I’ll leave you here. I’m headed elsewhere.” A smile played at her lips as she watched Isabelle pass. “Good luck. And you really should try to reach the castle before dark.”

 

Isabelle stilled. She turned back towards the trapper.

 

“Why?” she asked.

 

“Oh. You know. There are those stories. The cursed descendants haunting the woods.” The trapper smiled. “And wolves.”

 

“Wolves?” Isabelle echoed, trying to hide her alarm. She’d lived most of her life in the woods, but in the southern kingdoms, where wolves were scarce.

 

The trapper waved a hand. “Yes, they’re all about this forest. And at this time of year, food gets scarce. They get hungry. But not to worry.” She tipped her head. “You’ll be fine. So long as you reach the castle before dark.”

​

Then she was gone. Vanishing through the trees, the deep foliage swallowing her up.

 

Isabelle let out a long breath after she’d gone, feeling shaken. Nonsense, she told herself, heading down the path. She’s just a strange woman.

 

Still. That didn’t mean Isabelle wasn’t in danger. Whether it was unfriendly villagers or the merciless winter weather—or wolves or curses or this “disgraced lord”—Isabelle knew she was risking a lot, coming here alone. She probably should have asked Prince Garrett for some soldiers to accompany her. Garrett, the crown prince of the Glen Kingdom, was Isabelle's closest friend (strange as that was, since Isabelle herself was a commoner). Garrett was also an adventurer. Searching for an abandoned castle in the Black Forest was just the sort of endeavor Garrett loved. He would have helped her in a heartbeat, had she asked.

 

But the girl who’d sent her the telegram—a servant at the castle—had insisted she come alone. And besides, this was a family matter. Estranged though they were, Ansel was family—the only family she had left.

 

Isabelle pressed on, following the scanty deer path through the wood. The ground beneath her feet grew soft and doughy, the untraveled path awash with fresh mud. Once or twice, the path almost disappeared, and Isabelle thought it was at an end. But then it appeared again, and she realized it had only been eaten by the forest—by the dense clusters of trees and overgrown bramble. As the hours passed, Isabelle cast uneasy glances overhead, looking for glimpses of sky through the trees. How much farther did this path go on, and how long left until dusk?

​

Finally—her relief so thick it clogged her throat—she came to the end of the path. Another three miles due north, the trapper had said, and she would reach the castle.

 

But she’d only gone about one mile when she heard it. She’d just slipped over a slick patch of mud, mumbling a curse as she caught herself. But her curse was drowned out by a long, keening howl—a howl that quivered through the air and ghosted past the back of Isabelle’s neck.

 

Isabelle’s breath snagged in her throat. Wolves.

 

Another howl sounded out, and before it was done, a second one, joining the first in an otherworldly symphony. Isabelle licked her cracked lips. The stillness that had come over her seeped through her bones, settling on the inside like a hardening lump of clay. Hardening into fear.

 

Those wolves sounded close. Much too close.

 

Isabelle turned around. She scanned the forest behind her, her gaze roving over the darkening wood.

​

And latched onto a pair of yellow eyes, smoldering like embers in the shadows.

 

Isabelle’s breath froze in her chest.

 

She turned and ran through the woods, and the cries of the wolves raced after her.