Everything was chaos. Prince Albert rode behind his father, sweaty and armored atop the flurry of Swift’s hoof beats, dodging arrows and deflecting enemy spears and swords. The King whipped the reins hard and his palomino mare raced faster towards the brink up ahead. Down in the valley below would be Kingdom Myriad and their destination: the castle of that kingdom and the home of the King’s brother, Marcus. It had taken them five days to reach this point, and three battles along the way. The King knew his troops were almost spent, but he had to keep going, had to figure out why Marcus had betrayed them. With Albert behind him, they broke through the last clump of enemy soldiers, thankful none of them were on horseback, and instructed Albreton’s knights to keep the enemy contained.

Metal on metal, the swish of a sword cutting flesh and the cries of those being trampled echoed through the forest behind the King and Prince Albert. On their whole journey, they hadn’t encountered a single Nymph. That was testament enough to the noise, to the bloodshed.

Another body fell. Prince Albert paused a split-second to look back and assess the troops before he and Swift leapt off the brink together and landed beside his father, who had taken lead for the entire journey. Alongside the King, Prince Albert cascaded toward the castle sitting lonely and unguarded amidst the long, wafting grasses of the valley. The world grayed undertow as the horses galloped down to the castle gate: tall and impressive, yet somehow not foreboding. The gate shone silver, but the castle itself was constructed of a rich, black stone called knightglass. There was no mote and no other obvious means of defense aside from the thick castle walls. The castle stood much taller than it was wide, melancholy and silent, just as it had in the prince’s childhood memories. It was an untouched, dry rock settled above the current of waving grassland, poignant and obstructive.

The sky turned dusk.

“Father,” Prince Albert said between choppy breaths as Swift skidded to a halt before Castle Myriad’s gate, “Are you sure this is a good idea?” He sliced empty air, whipping the excess blood off of his blade before he sheathed it. His armor was growing heavy and, though he would never tell his father this, he was apprehensive about this meeting with his uncle. Prince Albert hadn’t seen the man since he was a mere child, only tall enough to reach the back of his father’s knees. He had a feeling Marcus would still be just as intimidating as he was back then, that he would still carry that cold-eyed stare above his garish smile.

“Do not question your elders,” said the King. For once, it sounded as though it were an afterthought, not stated with the conviction Prince Albert’s father was so known for.

If anything, that made the prince more nervous. He swallowed his fear and dutifully responded, “Yes, Father.”

The gate creaked open, leaving a faint echo on the air. The bellows of the castle seemed to encroach, pitch darkness crawling out from beyond the gate. The prince heard his father swallow and then clear his throat, pronouncedly. The horses were hesitant to enter that place, but they did not disobey their riders. As they cantered inside, the dark consumed them, shifting along and over itself like a pile of snakes. Instead of slamming closed like Prince Albert thought it would, the gate remained open, inviting anything else foolish enough to enter. If he concentrated hard enough, the prince could hear the gate speaking in a voice so smooth and soft it ought not to have spoken at all.

“Exit this place,” it was saying spookily, in a curling vernacular barely audible in the crevices of Prince Albert’s mind, “I dare you.” Tearing his attention away, he focused on the sound of Swift’s hooves, on his father darting faster down the corridor in front of him, on thoughts of Jasmine and if she would miss him until he returned to Castle Albreton. He heard the gate snicker and close with a boom somewhere far behind them and it was then that the black encompassed everything.

A horse neighed, but neither the prince nor his father could tell from which horse it came. Both halted. Horseshoes clacked on the stone floor as the King said, “We must find my brother’s quarters. There is no throne room in this castle, as I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes, father.”

Clack-clop-clack. Swift shook beneath Prince Albert.

“Calm down, Swift. It’ll be all right. Only a little further,” said the prince. He placed his hand on the wall of the corridor and pat Swift on the neck, telling the stallion to move forward.

From then on, their journey was black and dank. The King and Prince Albert, devoid of their sense of sight, heard every loud clop of the horses’ shoes, every breath that was breathed and every clink of armor as they bobbed on their horses’ backs, venturing slowly forward. They smelled the mold and felt the cold wall as it scraped along their palms but it was long before light revived their eyes.

When it came, the light wafted up to the King and hovered there, a ball of painful white luminescence, so contrasting in the dark that it gave the prince a headache. Prince Albert squinted, trying to make his eyes adjust. It didn’t work too well. Swift and the mare stopped and the King dismounted from his saddle. The sound of his clattering armor rebounded off the walls.

Bowing to the light, the King said, “I request an audience with King Marcus.”

Prince Albert held his breath and waited as the light swam back and forth in the air, then pulsed.

“His Majesty is dead,” it said in a child’s high pitched voice.

The prince’s breath escaped him. Even in the dimness, he could see his father’s shocked expression. Sweat beaded down both of their faces and the light pulsed again, seemingly awaiting a response.

With his father lost in a mixture of awe and grief, Prince Albert took it upon himself to ask, “How did he die?”

“This one does not know,” said the light, “This one was absent when it happened.” Its tone was emotionless, its flickers expressionless.

“Can you tell me when he died?” Prince Albert pressed. In his peripheral vision, he could barely make out his father’s grave demeanor, accentuated in the broken shade.

“This one only knows the day. This one does not know the hour.”

“That’s fine,” said the prince, “Please tell us as much as you know.”

The light twirled and dimmed. Then it said, not quite hesitant, “458 days ago, the color left Kingdom Myriad. During the night, His Majesty died. Her Majesty found him cold the next morning, lying in bed as if he were sleeping.”

“The color left?” The King demanded, suddenly out of his stupor, “You mean to say everything went gray, or black or white?”

“Yes,” replied the light.

In the scattering dark, the prince regarded his father. The King returned his glance. They both knew what this meant. This meant King Marcus had no intention of attacking Albreton. This meant someone else had been pulling the strings, someone who could banish color. This meant they were dealing with a magician, and a magician is the worst enemy one can have.

“Thank you,” Prince Albert bowed proper and royal, curling over Swift’s neck, “You have shed light on our situation in more ways than one. But I must ask; is there anything else you can tell us? Do you know anything more of the war on Kingdom Albreton?”

The King remounted his mare.

“This one only knows it wasn’t the dragon’s fault.”

Prince Albert squinted, trying to make sense of what the light had said, “Pardon?”

“This one knows the dragon isn’t guilty. The dragon didn’t want to break the wall; he told this one himself. He didn’t want to so it isn’t his fault. Please don’t hurt him! He didn’t mean it!” The little ball of light sounded more like a child than ever, pure, eager truth tumbling out of it to ricochet off the corridor’s stone walls. Speaking with such conviction, no one would have been able to argue that the little light was lying, the least of which two nobles from a brother kingdom.

“I believe you,” said Prince Albert, “We won’t hurt the dragon.”

It glowed a little brighter.

“Little one,” said the King, so tall and kingly atop his mare that the little light wafted a stone’s throw backwards, “Kingdom Albreton thanks you. There is one more thing I must ask.”

The light bobbed as if it were nodding.

“Do you know who commanded my brother’s army to march Kingdom Albreton a year ago?”

“It was a toad, King Allard. It was a toad that disguised itself as His Majesty.”

Realization struck the King and Prince Albert like an anvil. They knew of only one toad capable of such spellwork: Fragmaroginog, the one they had thought saved them, who they had thought defended them from King Marcus’ imminent army and whom King Allard himself had welcomed to Castle Albreton for his ingenuity and services to the kingdom. Prince Albert felt the nausea as it crept along the lining of his stomach. Everything was cold, his armor, this corridor, his heart.

“Jasmine!” Prince Albert shouted almost sooner than the thought registered in his brain, “Jasmine is still at the castle!” Cupping his mouth, he ignored Swift’s neigh and reared surprise, “What have I done? I left her there; I left her with him!” He caught the reins before he fell off Swift’s back, more an afterthought than anything. Swift landed back on all fours and twitched his tail around, flicking it violently.

“You did not know,” said King Allard, “Let us make haste.” Jerking the reins of his mare, he raced back toward the gate with Prince Albert hunched over Swift as the stallion bolted to catch up. They left the little ball of light glimmering in the corridor, and it did not follow them.

Five days ago, Jasmine found herself helpless and alone, sitting on an empty dirt island in her sopping blue dress after an eel in the mote tried to drown her. She had no idea where she was or even if she was still somewhere in Kingdom Albreton. With her dress soggily twisting around her form, she had risen and circled herself around, trying to find any sign of life besides the birds hooting and cawing far above her head. Even when she squinted and strained her eyes to the point of giving herself a minor headache, she couldn’t make out any coastlines in any direction. The island was sticky with wet dirt and smelled of mildew while the opaque white water swirled along its shores.

Jasmine had screamed at first, yelled out to anything that might hear her, called over and over for help. When her throat had become grainy and sore, she sat and pondered the situation in which she had found herself. For the first time, she fully understood how far she was from home, or help, or anything friendly. So, with nobody around to see, she fell onto her haunches and cried, unashamed and alone.

It was then that someone had tapped the exposed sole of her foot. Caught in her despair, Jasmine hadn’t noticed one of the crows land on the island, preen, and hop over to her. She lurched over and shrieked.

“Rude,” the crow had said. “That’s not a very nice way to greet someone.”

Jasmine sniffled. She wiped her eyes. At least the crow was small, never mind the fact that it was talking. She had to have been going crazy. She told herself she would just have to make her peace with that. Jasmine responded with, “Sorry. You scared me.”

“You scared my flock with all your yelling,” it said, tilting its head briefly to the right before it fluffed out its feathers and hopped a little closer.

Jasmine recoiled.

“Don’t be afraid,” the crow had said. With its scratchy voice, that remark hadn’t been the least bit comforting to Jasmine. But she had nodded and regained her composure, nonetheless.

“Where am I?” She asked the crow.

“Nevramere,” answered the crow as its flock swirled down out of the sky like monochromatic vultures. It occurred to Jasmine only then that she was the only thing on the island that had any color. As they landed, Jasmine had gotten a better view of the fowl. All of them were black, white, gray, or some combination of the three. Not one spec of yellow or blue colored them, not even in their eyes. Even the sky was dull and gray.

Jasmine felt like she had been thrust into a black and white movie, like she was stuck deep in an old, reeling horror film. But that wasn’t what concerned her most.

“Is there a way out of here?” Jasmine had asked, “Can you tell me how to get back to Albreton?”

Dread balled up her chest when every single bird had turned its head to the sky and laughed, their vocals sharp and quivering, and the crow, their apparent leader, had cawed thrice at a charcoal black cloud hovering overhead.