Wynter Wilde, Trapeze Extraordinaire

Overgrown, caterpillar-like vines stumbled over each other in tough, twisting tangles. They formed rough, thorny clumps of sharp and soft mystery, covering up the Elderwood Forest’s greatest secret.

A tower that was so enshrouded by shrubbery, it looked more green than grey on most days.

A lofty column with a slim opening at its apex so far up its length that no one had ever dared venture inside.

Wynter Wilde, trapeze artist and sleuth, intended to climb the tower. Claim the glory that came with the challenge.

He slicked back his moon-white hair into a knot at his neck.

The jagged piece of muddy mirror in front of him showed a distorted image of a man with blue ice-chip eyes, a prominent nose, and sharp, delicate features.

Wynter sucked in a breath.

He was going to do this.

He was going to fucking do this.

He bent over his oakwood table, surveying his tools. A ten-foot-long rope. Two picks that could bury themselves deep, deep into any stone, including hardened rock. Etherberry powder, for keeping his hands free from slick sweat.

He picked up the pewter pot of tree gum and let a finger caress its sticky surface, swirling the tip of his nail in circles until a soft, rounded globe appeared.

The glowing green of the ball was abruptly stifled when Wynter dug the sharp pick into it.

He rolled another ball into existence and it seemed to sink onto the second pick, as if saying a warm hello after a long while.

The forlorn brown sack on his straw cot jumped up when Wynter reached for it, and he smiled, tossing his tools inside.

The sack was spelled with an enchantment from a forest witch years ago. He had found it in a ditch, half-covered in a strange, green goop. The Elderwood Forest was both a terrifyingly beautiful and haunting place. Filled with magic, good and bad. Brimming with spells and poisons, smiles and teeth.

Wynter knew that adventuring in the forest wouldn’t lead to any good. But he was nothing if not a man with an appetite for challenge.

He slung the sack on his shoulders and trod outside to his horse.

“Aye, Leila. We’re off today. Best be ready. Journey’s long,” he said, running his fingers through her long, chestnut-colored mane.

Wynter leaped onto her back and lightly dug his heels into Leila’s side.

And they were off, skittering, prancing, dancing to the forest.

Wynter’s cottage was at the edge of town, but that didn’t stop the milling townspeople from gawking as they heard the clattering hooves headed inside the forest.

The day was bright and wholesome, but the leafy green of the forest camouflaged all its inhabitants in shades of green, obscuring nearly all bits of precious sunlight that trickled in.

The earth became softer, heavier.

Wynter could tell in the way that Leila’s hoofbeats became languorous and steady.

A spot of light shone ahead, and he spurred on his horse.

Leila broke into the grassy clearing, the one Wynter had explored on his own so many times before.

“Alright, Lel. Stay put,” he said, dropping off her back into a low crouch.

The tower gazed down at him, its stare both welcoming and reproachful.

“Ay, don’t worry now. You’ll have a visitor,” he whispered to the green foliage.  

Wynter pulled the long, matted rope from his pack and looped it around his waist twice. He tugged at it, let out a little tut sound when finding that it was secure, and stepped forward.

He dug the pick into the solid, vine-covered grey rock. It slid in with a satisfying scrape. He braced himself and jumped up, driving the second pick a few feet higher.

And so the journey began.

One after the other, dig in, dig out, stop, breathe, repeat. Sweat poured down Wynter’s back in waterfalls, leaving a cool, sticky sensation. The black window seemed to be miles away. Why was he even doing this?

No.

There was no room for doubt. Looking down, he realized he’d made it halfway. And he couldn’t stop now.

Wynter adjusted his pack, set his shoulders, and kicked off the stone, driving both picks in at the same time. A risky move. But they flew in, securing him.

This was why they called him Wilde of the Trapeze. The number one man on the circus call list. He was dangerous and daring and brave. One of a kind, his lovers would say. And they weren’t wrong in any regard.

Wynter smiled tightly. “It’ll be just a moment, Leila!”

She whickered in response, sounding vaguely annoyed.

“There are carrots in the sack,” he said in way of apology.

Snorting, she seemed placated.

Wynter did his move again, pulling the picks out and shoving them into the stone quicker than they had come out.

Gods, if the circus master could see him right now…he’d be flayed alive. Jhan Marten was strict and unyielding, tolerating no outside activities that could harm his performers. But Wynter never cared for the rules much anyway.

The window seemed closer now. Promising and warm.

He shook his head, letting the matted white strands of hair fly free from his forehead. Sweat dripped into his eyes and Wynter cursed at the abrupt stinging.

Now that he was closer, he stopped driving in the picks two at a time.

Dug in one after the other, pausing. He had come too far to fall.

The ledge of the window was a foot away. Wynter slung the rope into the black darkness, simultaneously shooting a pick through it.

A thud resonated inside and he smiled.

Wynter pulled himself free of the first pick and climbed up.

The rope, as he’d predicted, held his weight, though its frayed appearance might have conveyed otherwise to non-climbers.

Wynter pushed off the stone and flipped inside, scraping his knee on the ledge in the process.

Well, all trapeze artists weren’t perfect.

Thank the gods he didn’t have an audience.

Wynter looked around. Everything was tinged in hues of black. It was like that darkness had swallowed up the light.

A deep, dark mysterious voice spoke from the shadows. “Well…hello there. I haven’t had a snack in centuries.”