“For two nights, the demon didn't come, as if it
knew it was tempting fate. But on the third night,
at the peak of dark, the prince smelled the roses-
A cry yanked him out of sleep.
Something was on top of him.
Not a demon or monster.
Instead, a boy about his age.
He had red waves of hair, a long, gentle nose, and
skin the color of the moon. He clutched his bloody
Wrist in the folds of his shirt, his mouth quivering,
his eyes bright with fear.
A severed hand lay in the trap.
Blood leaked onto the prince.
Blood for once not his own.”