The village of Briar Hollow smelled of death and wet ashes.

Smoke from the pyres hung low between the crooked cottages, mingling with the bitter herbs Elara burned night after night in a futile attempt to drive the plague from her home. The sickness had come with the early frost, turning strong lungs to fluid and smooth skin to black rot. Whole families had been wiped out in a matter of days. Now it had come for Lysa.

Elara knelt beside the narrow cot, wiping her little sister’s fevered brow with a cloth soaked in cool spring water. Lysa was only seventeen, all sharp elbows and tangled chestnut hair, once quick to laugh and quicker to tease. Now she was a hollow thing—skin stretched tight over bone, lips cracked and bleeding, chest rattling with every shallow breath.

“You have to fight, little star,” Elara whispered, voice hoarse from days without sleep. “I won’t let you leave me.”

But the village healer had already shaken his head two nights ago. There was nothing left but prayers to indifferent gods and the slow march toward the burial field.

Elara’s hands trembled as she stood. At twenty-four she was considered past the age most village girls married, but she had never wanted a husband or a quiet hearth. She wanted her herbs, her forest, her freedom. And she wanted her sister alive.

From beneath the loose floorboard beneath Lysa’s bed, she pulled the forbidden thing: an ancient grimoire bound in cracked black leather, its pages edged in faded gold. It had belonged to their grandmother, who had warned the girls never to open it unless death itself knocked at the door.

Tonight, death was already inside the house.

Elara slipped out into the cold moonlight, the book clutched against her chest beneath her wool cloak. The forest pressed close to the village edge, ancient oaks twisting like guardians—or jailers. She moved deeper than she had ever dared, boots sinking into damp moss until she reached a small clearing where the trees parted to reveal a perfect circle of silver moonlight.

She worked quickly, heart hammering.

With a silver knife she sliced her palm, letting the blood drip onto the earth in a wide circle. From the grimoire she read the old words aloud, her voice growing stronger with each line even as fear clawed at her throat.

“By blood and moonlight, by thorn and shadow,

I call to what walks between the worlds.

I offer what is mine to give—

my body, my service, my future—

whatever it takes.

Heal my sister. Save Lysa.

Come to me.”

The wind died. Even the insects fell silent.

Elara’s blood began to glow where it touched the ground, faint violet light spreading through the circle like spilled ink. The air grew heavy, charged, pressing against her skin. Her nipples tightened beneath her dress from the sudden, unnatural chill and something else—something that felt dangerously like anticipation.

She raised the knife again, slicing a second line across her palm to feed the spell more power. Warm blood ran down her wrist.

“I offer whatever it takes,” she repeated, louder. “My life if I must. Just save her!”

The ground trembled.

A crack, sharp as breaking ice, split the night. The air tore open like silk ripped by invisible claws. From that shimmering wound stepped a figure that stole the breath from her lungs.

He was tall—impossibly so—cloaked in night itself. Silver hair cascaded over broad shoulders, framing a face of cruel, perfect beauty: sharp cheekbones, full lips curved in faint amusement, and eyes like black starless voids that seemed to drink in the moonlight. His clothing shifted between shadow and midnight silk, revealing glimpses of pale, flawless skin and the hard lines of a warrior’s body.

Prince Thorne of the Unseelie Court regarded her with lazy, predatory interest.

“Well, well,” he purred, voice smooth as velvet and dark as sin. “A mortal woman with the audacity to call me by name and blood. How delightfully reckless.”

Elara’s knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself to stand straight. The cut on her palm throbbed in time with her racing heart.

“You can heal her?” she demanded, voice shaking only slightly. “My sister. The plague. I’ll pay any price.”

Thorne’s smile widened, revealing the faintest hint of too-sharp canines. He stepped closer, circling her slowly. She could feel the heat of him even from a distance—unnatural, seductive, pulling at something deep in her belly.

“Any price?” he echoed, tasting the words. “Careful, little herbalist. Mortals who speak so freely to the Fae rarely live to regret it… or they live a very, very long time regretting it.”

Elara lifted her chin, meeting those endless black eyes. “Whatever it takes. Just name it.”

The Fae Prince stopped in front of her. He reached out one elegant hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face with surprising gentleness. Where his fingers touched, her skin tingled with raw power and unwelcome heat.

“One night,” he said softly. “One night of your complete and total surrender. Your body. Your pleasure. Your obedience. In return, your sister will be whole by dawn.”

Relief crashed through her so hard her eyes stung with tears. One night. She could survive one night.

“I accept,” she breathed.

Thorne’s smile turned wicked.

“Oh, sweet thing,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted across her lips. “You should have asked for the terms in writing.”

The glowing runes on the ground flared bright violet, wrapping around her wrists like living bracelets. Elara gasped as a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. The last thing she saw before the world tilted was Thorne’s dark, hungry eyes and the promise of far more than one mortal night.

The bargain was sealed.

And the year in Faerie had already begun.

The violet light from the runes flared so brightly that Elara had to shield her eyes. When the glare faded, she was no longer alone in the moonlit clearing.

Prince Thorne stood mere inches away, towering over her. Up close, he was even more devastating. His skin held the pale luminescence of moonlight on fresh snow, and his silver hair shimmered with threads of starlight. Those black eyes—bottomless, ancient, and far too knowing—pinned her in place like a butterfly to a board.

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.

“You mortals are so delightfully predictable,” he murmured. His voice wrapped around her like warm velvet, sliding across her skin and stirring things low in her belly, she refused to name. “Blood and desperation. Every time.”

Elara swallowed hard, her bleeding palm clutched against her chest. “You said you would heal her. My sister. Do it. Now.”

Thorne tilted his head, studying her the way a cat studies a particularly bold mouse. One elegant finger traced the air above her wrist, and the glowing runes pulsed in response. A shiver raced through her body—part fear, part something darker.

“As you wish.”

He snapped his fingers.

A wave of cool, sparkling magic rippled outward from him, passing through the trees toward the village. Elara felt it brush against her like silk and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, in their little cottage, she imagined Lysa drawing her first clean, deep breath in weeks.

“She will wake at dawn,” Thorne said casually. “Healthy. Whole. The plague will never touch her again. My word is binding.”

Relief crashed over Elara so violently that her knees buckled. She caught herself on a nearby tree, bark biting into her palm. Tears stung her eyes. “Thank you.”

Thorne laughed softly, a dark, musical sound that sent goosebumps racing across her arms. “Do not thank me yet, little herbalist. The price has only begun.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer. The scent of him—night-blooming flowers, smouldering cedar, and something wild and electric—filled her lungs. His hand rose, cool fingers tilting her chin up so she was forced to meet his gaze.

“One night of your complete surrender,” he reminded her, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Your body. Your pleasure. Your obedience. Every gasp, every moan, every trembling inch of you belongs to me for that night.”

Elara’s breath hitched. Heat flooded her cheeks. She had expected a monster. She had not expected this—beauty so sharp it cut, charisma so potent it made her thighs press together instinctively.

“I agreed,” she whispered. “One night. Take it and be done with me.”

Thorne’s smile turned predatory. He leaned in until his lips hovered just above hers, close enough that she could feel the cool brush of his breath.

“Ah, but here is where mortals always stumble,” he whispered. “Time moves differently across the veil. One night in your world… equals one full year in mine.”

Elara’s heart slammed against her ribs. “What?”

The runes on her wrists flared hotter, searing into her skin like living brands. She gasped, trying to pull away, but Thorne’s other hand caught her waist, holding her firmly against him. His body was hard, unyielding, radiating power, and barely leashed hunger.

“You belong to me for one year in the Evernight Court,” he continued smoothly, as if discussing the weather. “You will attend my court. You will survive the trials. And you will warm my bed whenever I desire. Refuse… and the bond tightens. Painfully.”

Panic surged through her. She shoved at his chest—solid as marble—and felt only the faintest give. “This wasn’t the deal! I said one night!”

“You said ‘whatever it takes,’” Thorne corrected, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “The old words are precise. The magic heard your desperation and sealed the terms. There is no going back.”

Elara’s mind reeled. A year. Trapped in the faerie realm with this beautiful, dangerous creature. Her sister would live, but she would lose everything else.

Thorne’s thumb brushed slowly across her lower lip, sending a spark of unwanted heat straight through her.

“Fight it if you like,” he murmured. “I enjoy the struggle. It makes the surrender so much sweeter.”

The rift in the air yawned wider behind him, revealing glimpses of a night sky filled with impossible constellations and a palace that shimmered like black diamond and moonlight. Shadowy vines reached out from the tear, curling gently but insistently around her ankles.

Elara looked back toward the village one last time, heart aching. Lysa would wake. She would live.

That had to be enough.

She turned back to the Fae Prince, lifting her chin in defiance even as fear and a treacherous thread of dark curiosity twisted inside her.

“Then take me,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “And may you choke on your bargain, Prince.”

Thorne’s laughter was rich and delighted. He pulled her flush against him, one arm banding around her waist like iron.

“Oh, Elara,” he purred against her ear as the world dissolved into violet light and rushing shadow. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you.”

The forest vanished.

The mortal world vanished.

And the year in Faerie began.

The world dissolved into chaos and colour.

Elara felt as though she were being pulled through ice-cold silk and starlight. Colours she had no name for swirled around her—deep indigos bleeding into violent violets, silver threads of moonlight stitching the darkness together. Thorne’s arm remained locked around her waist like a band of iron, his body the only solid thing in the maelstrom. She could feel the hard planes of his chest pressed against her back, the cool brush of his silver hair against her cheek, and the steady thrum of ancient power radiating from him.

When the spinning finally stopped, Elara stumbled forward, knees hitting soft, moss-covered ground. Cool night air, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something sharper—like crushed starlight—filled her lungs. She pushed herself up, brushed tangled chestnut hair from her face, and looked around.

They stood in an enormous courtyard bathed in perpetual twilight. Towering trees with leaves of black and silver formed living arches overhead. Crystal lanterns floated lazily in the air, casting shifting patterns of light across marble paths veined with glowing purple. In the distance rose a palace that seemed carved from the night itself—obsidian spires spiralling upward, windows glowing with inner starfire, thorny vines climbing its walls like possessive lovers.

This was not her forest. This was not her world.

“Welcome to the Evernight Court,” Thorne said smoothly, his voice echoing with quiet satisfaction. He stood tall and regal, the rift behind him sealing shut with a soft whisper of magic. “Your home for the next year.”

Elara spun on him, fury and terror warring in her chest. “A year? You tricked me!”

Thorne’s black eyes glittered with amusement. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the heat of his presence made her skin prickle. “I did no such thing. You offered ‘whatever it takes.' The old magic is not known for its leniency toward desperate mortals. It simply… interpreted your words with enthusiasm.”

He lifted one of her wrists, tracing the glowing violet runes that now encircled it like a living bracelet. Where his finger touched, warmth bloomed—seductive, treacherous warmth that travelled up her arm and settled low in her belly.

“These marks bind you to our agreement,” he murmured. “They ensure you cannot run. They ensure you fulfil your part… or suffer the consequences.”

Elara yanked her arm back, but the runes pulsed in warning, sending a sharp sting through her veins. She hissed in pain.

Thorne clicked his tongue. “Careful, little mortal. The more you fight the bond, the tighter it becomes. Obey, and it will feel like silk upon your skin. Resist…” His smile sharpened. “And it will feel like thorns.”

Elara’s breath came fast and shallow. One year. Trapped here. Her mind raced to Lysa—safe now, waking to an empty house and no explanation. The thought nearly broke her.

“What exactly do you expect from me?” she demanded, forcing steel into her voice even as her body trembled.

Thorne began to circle her slowly, like a predator admiring his newest prize. “Everything. You will attend every court function at my side. You will participate in the Seven Trials of the Evernight—ancient tests of will, desire, and power. And most deliciously…” He stopped directly behind her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You will come to my bed whenever I summon you. Willingly or not, your body will learn to crave mine.”

A shiver raced down Elara’s spine. She hated how her nipples tightened beneath her simple wool dress, how the low timbre of his voice made heat pool between her thighs. This was wrong. He was a monster wearing beautiful skin.

“I will never crave you,” she spat.

Thorne laughed, low and rich. He stepped in front of her again and cupped her jaw with surprising gentleness, tilting her face up to his. “Oh, but you already do, sweet Elara. I can smell it on you. The fear… and the hunger beneath it.”

Before she could protest, he leaned down and claimed her mouth in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was possession. His lips were cool at first, then searing as magic flared between them. Elara gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with expert dominance. One hand tangled in her hair while the other pressed against the small of her back, pulling her flush against his hard body. She could feel the unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing against her stomach.

For one treacherous moment, Elara kissed him back—lost in the taste of wild magic and midnight. Then reality crashed in, and she bit his lip hard.

Thorne pulled back with a dark chuckle, a tiny bead of black blood on his lower lip. He licked it away, eyes gleaming with approval rather than anger.

“Delightful,” he purred. “I do enjoy a mortal with fire. It makes extinguishing it so much more satisfying.”

The runes on her wrists flared brighter, sending waves of tingling pleasure through her body that nearly made her knees buckle. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Thorne’s smile widened. “See? The bond already hungers for your surrender. Come.”

He offered his arm like a gentleman, though there was nothing gentlemanly in the hunger burning in his gaze. When Elara hesitated, the vines along the courtyard paths stirred, reaching toward her ankles in silent warning.

She took his arm.

As they walked toward the towering palace doors, Thorne leaned close and whispered, “The year has only just begun, Elara Voss. By the end of it, you will beg for my touch. You will wear my marks with pride. And when the final night comes… you may not wish to leave at all.”

The massive obsidian doors swung open without a sound, revealing a hall filled with fae nobility in shimmering silks and living shadows. All eyes turned toward them—curious, cruel, hungry.

Elara lifted her chin, heart pounding, as Prince Thorne led his new mortal prize into the heart of the Evernight Court.

The twisted bargain was sealed.

And the real game had only just started.