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As a child, your nurse makes you promise never to leave your rooms after midnight, not until there is light enough in the sky that you can see your own two feet without aid of torch or lantern.
“There are beasts in these halls,” she warns you. She speaks as gravely as she did when she delivered the news of your uncle’s death.
“Do the guards not strike them down?” you ask.
“Only in daylight,” she answers. “But your rooms are warded, and the beasts may not enter unless you show them the way in.”
You wonder why it is the whole castle is not warded thusly, but she is telling you to sleep and wishing your dreams will be sweet.
†
You do not forget your promise. You keep it for many years, but you stretch the boundaries of it over time, loosening it, wearing down the strength of its bonds with age.
At first, you only press your ear to the door to listen. There is nothing to be heard but the footsteps of the nightly patrol. You stay awake longer, pinching yourself when you begin to doze off, and try listening again in the empty hours of the night.
There! It is faint, but it is there: grunting, a rhythmic pulse of movement, the scraping of metal on metal… Or perhaps it is the sound of bone being ground down by monstrous teeth?
You do not listen every night, but each night you press your ear to the cool wood and hear the beasts prowl, your fear of them grows.
But so does the seed of curiosity. It sows itself deep, sprouting vines that creep along the edges of your dreams, blooming into shapeless shadows.
You find those shadows manifested when you at last inch the door open. Your tutors have always called you a curious child. They say it with praise, encourage it even, and so you feel justified in testing the strength of the old promise.
You are rewarded with dark, hulking shapes that walk on too many legs and hug the walls with too many arms.
And not a guard in sight.
You should be satisfied. You have confirmed the beasts’ existence. Your nurse was right to make you promise all those years ago, before governess and solitude took her place.
But you should know by now curiosity is not easily sated.
†
As you grow, so do your responsibilities, and you have little time to think on shadows. They are not weeded out entirely, but they wither in the neglected corners of your mind where shadows are meant to stay.
Until, the night before you are officially crowned heir, you cannot sleep, and your legs have outgrown the pacing space of your rooms. You will go for a walk to help soothe the excitement and fears noisily keeping sleep at bay.
It is only when you unlatch the door that the memories of beastly shadows blossom once more. But you have long since outgrown childhood promises and lies. You know now the beasts’ true form, its true nature. You hold back a bitter laugh, not because the truth amuses you—no, the truth itself is a bitter medicine to swallow—but that you ever feared them. You are the heir. You have been since your uncle’s death. Such beasts would be fools to prey upon you.
Yet you cannot shake the memory of your nurse, eyes wild in the flickering light of the oil lamp, her fingers digging into your small arms until you bruised and promised.
The promise lays unwound at your feet. You could pick it back up, refit it…but you are the heir. You do not wear garments that are not perfectly tailored to your form.
You step out of the outgrown promise and into the shadows.
The stretch of corridor outside your rooms is void of man or beast. You roam, and thoughts of tomorrow’s ceremony indeed no longer trouble you. But you do not walk aimlessly. You are searching—hunting—for beasts. You carry no weapon but your confidence in your heirdom.
The first life you cross paths with in the night is no beast, but a servant. She looks about nervously, asking what she can fetch for you so you might go back to your rooms. You dismiss her curtly.
The moon is nearly full, and its light, sliced by the high, narrow windows, illuminates your way. You have lived nearly all your life in these walls, yet they are unfamiliar in the empty hours, and you lose your way.
It’s laughable, to be lost in one’s own domain, but you have turned too many corners in this unfamiliar landscape.
It is then the first beast appears—around a corner—so sudden, you collide. Leather paws grasp your arms, so you do not collide with flagstone, but they do not release when your feet are firmly beneath you again.
“Highness.” There is none of the usual deference in the word, no respect. The beast speaks it like it amuses him. “The hour is late, and you are far from your bed.”
You swallow your fear, though a piece of it sticks stubbornly in your throat. “I must have lost track of time.”
“A precious thing to lose,” he growls. His fangs flash in the moonlight. Perhaps in another light, you might call it a smile. There is a sort of mirth in his eyes, but it does not invite you to join in.
The beast turns you about and slides one paw to your shoulder, the other to your waist, and nudges you forward.
As your surroundings grow familiar again, you think perhaps the beast is not so beastly after all, that it was merely the hour and your imagination rather than the beast himself that frightened you so. But this thought is not accompanied by relief. Rather, you feel strangely disappointed.
“Goodnight, highness,” the beast purrs in your ear before the door to your rooms click shut.
†
The tendrils of shadows grow once more in your dreams, forcing themselves into every crevice they can find. You wake in the night with the cold ghost of them on your skin, though every inch of your flesh feels burned raw all over, like too much time spent under the summer sun.
You begin to discard your sleep clothes once your servants leave you for the night in anticipation of the heat. Covers tossed aside, you lay exposed to the dark canopy of silks. Where air touches skin, the heat dissipates, but your mattress may as well be a bed of hot coals. Turning over offers your back relief but tortures your core.
When you at last concede defeat, you don your thinnest dressing gown—though even that scalds—and leave your rooms.
You tell yourself you are not looking for the beast. You tell yourself, if you cannot sleep, you will make use of this time to familiarize yourself with the strange shadows of the empty hours so that you do not lose yourself again.
“Highness.”
You have only heard the beast speak once, and it was many weeks past, but his voice is as familiar as your own. You turn to see him stalk toward you, the only sound the scrape of metal on metal like grinding teeth. He is surprisingly light on his feet, given his bulk.
Once again, you try to swallow your fear, and once again, a shard of it lodges in your throat.
“Losing time again?” he muses.
You shake your head. “Not at all. I could not sleep, and so I thought a walk might clear my mind.” It is not lost on you how the beast’s gaze slides down. You swear you can feel it, two points gliding across your skin beneath your dressing gown. You may as well have left the thin bit of fabric in your room, for all that it burns through skin and modesty.
“Best not to wander at these hours,” the beast says. He placed a hand on your shoulder, another on your waist, and guides you back to your rooms. He whispers in your ear again, but this time, it is a warning. “I will not see you here to safety a third time, Highness.”
Or perhaps it is a promise.
†
You walk into the shadows a third time the next night, garbed once again in only the thin dressing gown, the silk belt tied loose over your hips.
The beast is there, right outside your door, waiting as though he already knew you would test his words.
There are no words now. He tugs the poorly tied belt loose, and the dressing gown slides off your shoulder, pooling at your feet. Fear is sharp in your throat, but you find the pain of it familiar, almost comforting.
Movement in the shadows catches your attention, and you make the mistake of looking away from the beast. As more of them emerge from the dark, the one before you slides a paw up between your thighs. He laughs at your whimper, low and gravelly.
Cold metal burns your back, and more leather paws sear your skin. A pair of them grab your thighs and pull the ground from beneath your feet. You do not try to push either beast away, you do not scream, but more paws grab your wrists, and another fills your mouth.
You see the flash of fangs before you are lowered, not onto your feet or even your buttocks—onto him.
Until that moment, you have felt little pain in your soft life. Pain was something to be avoided. You did not think pain could be sweet, a balm unto itself.
It is the only skin you feel. The rest is leather and steel and stone.
It is a wonder steam does not rise where tears attempt to cool the fire, futile though that attempt is. In a distant, obscured corner of your mind, you wonder how your flesh has not sloughed off in the flames. The rest of your mind is filled with the growling, barking pack that surrounds you, waiting for a turn to feast.
And feast they do, each taking his turn, his pack mates holding you in place for him even when your body grows limp. But they take their turns unseen. The first beast fills your vision through it all, the shadow and metal face unobscured despite the tears or pain or exhaustion as your body and mind are worn down, a limp, leaking sack for all they have poured into you.
He watches you through it all, and you find yourself watching him through every jostle, every muffled scream. Your eyes never leave the shadows that hide his.
You fear him, but you do not hate him. You know you should, but even resentment is absent, and the fear has turned sweet like undiluted wine. You are drunk on it—on him.
When the beasts have each had their turn, they part for him. His pack may have their fun, but his claim is clear. You are lowered onto him once more, and you cannot help but wonder if this was not the throne you were made for.
A low bark of an order disperses the other beasts, and he carries you into your rooms. Not to your bed, but to the washroom. The flagstone is cold. You expect it should be painful, but pain no longer has meaning. Your mind has rejected pain this night, perhaps to save you what little sanity you have left.
When your beast is satisfied, he cleans you and the floor with the same coarse touch, then carries you to bed. He dresses you with the sleep clothes you shed hours ago and pulls the covers over you, burying the bones of his feast to gnaw on at a later time.
You know this is not an act of tenderness, but you feel cared for all the same. Valued, precious. Perhaps not as the heir—perhaps not even as a person—but you find that doesn’t matter.
“Do not roam in the empty hours again,” he commands, the silhouette of his bulk looming over you, the shape of him crisp even in the dark. You have never felt so small, not even as a child. “The beasts who dwell within them have tasted you, and theirs is not a hunger easily sated.” A glint of fangs flashes in the shadow of him. “But you need not lack for company on these restless nights, for now I know the way in.”
He will never again call you highness after this night, nor will he ever speak your name. He will bestow on you new titles—titles he alone will growl in your ear and carve into your soul.