Rose and Steel

He had the makings of a seasoned hunter, but she was no ordinary prey.

The small clearing had grown still with his slow, methodical approach, save for the trill of distant birdsong and the shiver of leaves whenever the humid air swept through and rattled them. But the chittering of squirrels and rustling of wild hares in the underbrush had since ceased, and she was left alone to wade through the lake’s sun-spangled shallows, distinctly aware of his movement in her periphery where he prowled through the overgrown tangle of brambles, presumably in search of a better vantage point.

“Do you truly intend to ambush a young woman while she’s bathing?” Her voice was not sharp with derision nor strained with fear, but cut cleanly through the surrounding quiet with as much ease. She sensed him tense as the question was posed to him, likely taken aback by the realization that he had been spotted in spite of all of his efforts to remain undetected— as though such a thing should not have even been possible.

For several long moments, neither of them spoke. She imagined he was weighing his options, and wondered how long it might be before he resigned himself to his failure and forfeited the hunt, making for a hasty retreat home empty-handed and nursing a bruised ego. She was surprised, then, when he instead ventured forward and emerged from the cover of the trees with his arms raised in a show of wordless surrender. But that surprise slowly turned to intrigue, and she veered toward the embankment so that she could face him directly.

Her first thought was that he was quite unusual. Staggeringly tall. Taller than any man she had seen before. Lean, but powerfully-built, with broad, sweeping shoulders and the physique of someone who had devoted the majority of their lives to the grueling task of honing themselves to physical perfection. When she allowed herself the momentary indulgence of imagining what he might look like beneath his clothes, it inspired visions of polished stone chiseled by someone with discerning taste and deft, masterful hands. But it were his eyes that set him apart. Slanted and keen and lambent gold, bright and clear enough to strike a sharp contrast against the deep swarthiness of his complexion. And there was something else there too. Something insatiable and achingly familiar that both exhilarated and bewildered her.

“Well? Isn’t this when you’re supposed to offer some manner of apology for your rudeness?”

Still, he remained silent. Stoic. Appraised her with those cautious, critical eyes. For all of his vigilance and uncertainty however, there was also a distinct absence of fear, and she dissolved abruptly into a flurry of girlish laughter as she canted her head and took her bottom lip briefly between her teeth. As admirable as his bravado might have been, he was faced with a manner of prey he had obviously never encountered before, and he had not yet given thought as to how he might approach her.

“You aren’t entirely sure what to think, are you?” she taunted, splashing childishly at the blue-green water with one hand in a bid to fill the uncomfortable silence. “You’re wondering if there really is any truth to the stories. Am I fae? Am I a witch? Something in between? Do I truly lure young girls here and drag them back to my lair so that I might feast upon their innocence and steal their youthfulness for myself?”

She knew what those wretched villagers said about her. She had been persecuted and demonized and condemned countless times in as many years. Anything strange or remarkable or exceptional frightened them. Any deviation that threatened the mundanity of their sad, unextraordinary lives was perceived as a threat. Her lengths of silver hair, for instance. Iridescent and as luminous as starlight where it tumbled, wild and unkempt, to her hips. Or her eyes. Large and upturned and an otherworldly shade of blue-violet that was made only more startling by the deep bronze of her skin. Abnormalities. Points of vanity for herself, but marks of a monster to the ignorant few who were so quick to vilify her. And he was no different. There was as much hate in his eyes as theirs.

“I’m not here to entertain your games, witch.” His voice was low and rough. Not raspy or grating, but husky with impatience, and his eyes remained fixed intently on her, in the way an apex predator might study its quarry before it readied itself to pounce. Yet he made no move to approach her. Only slowed to a halt a few feet from shore and lowered his arms, until one rested naturally by his side, and the other set a hand loosely atop the pommel of the sword sheathed at his waist. A deadly looking crossbow hung from his right shoulder, but she did not see a quiver of arrows to accompany it.

“Oh, but I’m so much fun to play with.” There was a certain lilt in her voice now to accompany the undercurrent of amusement, and she waded through the water toward him, pausing only when he reached for the bow and trained it on her with steady, practiced hands.

“Not another step,” he warned. Her smile widened, but she complied, moving only to wring the lake water from the ends of her hair.

“Are you really so frightened of an unarmed girl?” She taunted, unashamed of her own nakedness as she stood there before him, bare and glistening and partly silhouetted by the warm sunlight where it angled through the trees. He remained unfazed. She had expected his eyes to wander. To devour the sight of her with lecherous intent, the way other men were wont to do. Yet he remained visibly unaffected. “You strike me as a man who has hunted his fair share of dangerous beasts. Do I really pose so much of a threat? Like this?” If he was afraid, his stony countenance did not betray it. In fact he remained perfectly still, but his expression darkened with equal parts distrust and unwavering resolve.

“You may be accustomed to the company of fools,” Calm. Composed. He spoke for the first time with a cold impassiveness that matched his harsh features. “Unfortunately for you, I'm not one of them.” There was a brief pause, during which he casually reasserted his grip upon the bow’s tock and trigger. “Now, before you test my patience further, I expect you to return to shore slowly and dress. Depending on how painless you make this, I may or may not allow you to accompany me back to Idralis bound, but not gagged. The choice is yours to make.”

She bristled and narrowed her eyes derisively as the playfulness from before quickly vanished, only to be replaced by a thin, sardonic smile.

“Very well.” She willed her voice to remain light, despite her growing vexation with the man’s arrogance, and waded obediently back through the shallows until her feet found the mossy shoreline and she could lift herself from the water. Even standing at her full height on level ground, she only reached his chin. But his size did not intimidate her.

“How brave of you to come alone. I would have thought a Prince of the capitol at least would have warranted an escort by—”

“Dress.”

His command brooked no argument, but even exuding the air of authority that he did, she still saw his jaw work and his grip tighten, and an opportunity presented itself. Without warning, she took a small step forward, closing the scant space between them until the sharp point of the loaded bolt gently found resistance against her chest. She leaned into it a little further, as though daring him to shoot, and his brow arched in silent inquiry. But he did not pull the trigger. Then, with deadly calm, she lifted one hand and gently pushed the crossbow aside. Her slender arms rose to slither across the breadth of his shoulders and around the back of his neck, until she could press her body to his. Mold the softness of herself to the solidity of him. Standing on tip-toe, she could just brush the shapeliness of his bottom lip with hers. Teasing and featherlight.

His resistance faltered. She felt it in the way his posture relaxed. In the way the hunger in his eyes intensified as he watched her. Still calm and unyielding. But as she moved in to kiss him, she realized her mistake too late, and when he buried his calloused fingers within the silk of her hair to yank her head back with a ruthlessness she did not anticipate, he leveled her with a grim, humorless smile.

“You’re as predictable as she said you would be, Ilara.”

Her mind reeled. She felt the blood drain from her face and her eyes grow wide with horror. There was only one ‘she’ he could have been referring to. Only one way he could have known her true name. Only one person who could have told him of her vulnerability to the enchanted collar of cold iron and star sapphires she felt him deftly - and with certain finality - clasp about her throat. But why this man? What could he have possibly offered in exchange for such knowledge? What would have been worth that sacrifice?

Blinking up at him in hazy disbelief, she had only a few seconds to register his intent before he’d hauled her up and slung her over his shoulder.

“I gave you a choice, witch. Remember that.”

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Author's note: I just want to give a huge thanks to anyone who took some time to read this work! As a beginner and aspiring novelist, this was meant to be a quick one-shot as I attempt to find my voice and explore and discover my own writing style. Dialogue has always been the weakest point of my writing, so I thought I might force myself to practice that a bit here. Any sort of constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated.

If this story generates enough interest, I may continue developing it through further chapters here on Vocal, so if anyone is keen, let me know and I'll keep that in mind! Have a wonderful day, and good luck with all of your current and future projects!