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His father's mangled body hangs on the wooden cross for the crowd to see. A crown of thorns on his head. From high upon his throne, the mad Morgenstern King laughs.
Alexander tries to see his father's face as he groans in pain, but it is so contorted in agony and bloody that he sees one he no longer recognizes. For a moment, their eyes catch.
Alexander holds his breath, waiting for recognition, solidarity, an apology.
They look back wildly, like those of a fanatic's—delirious with pride. Alexander glances at the vultures circling high over them. Scavengers recognize the stench of death even before it occurs.
His mother's tears seep into his skin through the thick cloaks they wear. Her sobs tremble through his arm. Isabelle holds her back when she makes to run towards his father, whispering that she would have to be quiet and controlled, or they would be recognized and taken away.
—
You have been granted immortality. His father's eyes gleam. Why do you not rejoice? You will rule by my side!
The curse spreads like nightshade through Alexander's veins. It's more than he can bear, more than he wants to bear. A line of scales, harder than stone, blooms around his wrists.
But I have never wanted this. He doesn't say.
—
The Elders caution that the Dark Forest is vengeful. Yet he forges on, at his father's behest, a duty-bound son that he is.
They trudge through its treacherous geography. Through rain and mud and grime. Alexander doesn't know the cost until they find the glowing chrysalis deep in the forest's core.
So the curse stabs and winds and scorches its way through his veins. Burning hotter than the fire of the desert sun and snaking up from where his fingertips touched it, up through his limbs, until it pierces his heart and he remembers no more.
When he comes to, the Hunters—his brethren—have only looks of pity in their eyes and laments on their lips. He watches them take away his bow and quiver. He watches them take away his badges of honor.
Isabelle rants and rages at their kin with raised fists. Still, when they click their tongues and shake their heads, she pleads and entreats.
The Hunters only look on in pity, and Alexander knows he has now become the hunted.
—
Only a warlock can lift a curse so potent, the healer laments. Alexander looks at the blood let from his hand. He now bleeds amber, thick like honey, hotter than fire.
—
The cart carries them away from Idris, away from home, the dust from familiar streets rises in the wake of their disgraced exile.
Alexander stares at claws that replace his fingers and resolves to find a warlock.
Mutely, he watches the sun that sets in brilliant and rosy hues of golden and crimson, oblivious to the turn of his fortune. His only comfort is his sister's anchoring presence, having drifted off in an uneasy slumber against his arm.