The wind swept northward. The drooping willows stirred to its insistent fingers. The wind brought more than the scent of a pine forest to the Willow Marshes. It brought a strange taste as well, something ancient mixed with a little new. It reached through a clearing and into the open window of a humble cottage on stilts. It slipped through the home, touching a woman’s hair before climbing up the chimney.

She turned from her kettle, tea forgotten. There was a hint of something in the air, a taste once forgotten. She’d been taught to read omens and knew that this was no ordinary breeze. The kettle boiled over, the flames complained about the water but she paid them no mind. She tried to place this new taste in her lungs. She allowed herself no reaction when she finally remembered it. Conflict.

She turned around, upended the kettle on the flames, burning her hand as she did so and stalked out of the hut and into the Willow Marshes.

The ash trees around the dilapidated hut were silent, their voices stolen. The birds, such as they were in this place, were gone. The birds were clever.

The Hag Prince crouched in his hovel, his simian feet tucked underneath him. His collection was spread before him, no less than eight elvish molars –he used to have more, but he’d traded them– fifteen copper coins carefully wrapped in cloth, a pouch of mismatched wood or bone buttons, a crumpled pile of stained blankets, a hairless skin and a handful of toes. He smiled at his pun as he picked one up with his dextrous feet. His teeth started to grind Filthy elves. What business was it of theirs?! Stealing other people’s things, stealing my music! He caught himself before he dulled one of his teeth. At least humans are still dumb. He took comfort in this thought.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4