In the moon-deep clearing of the Dark Court, the queen sat silently on her throne. She turned a hollow glass sphere between her elegant hands; a vessel, waiting to be filled. Her Realm was withering, but the means to save it was nearly within her grasp.

The old ways had closed; the circles tumbled and broken, the wild places lost. But as long as she ruled the Dark Realm, she would fight for a return to the human world.

Midnight wind lifted her hair, the dark strands tarnished silver by starlight. Centuries of patience honed her to stillness as she bided. Soon. Soon.

A shiver ran through the court, and the queen smiled. That smile could cut to the bone, and the creatures nearest her throne cowered.

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“Huntsman,” she called. “I charge you—seek out your quarry in the mortal realm.”

The antlered form of the Huntsman detached himself from the dark trees.

“I shall call the hounds,” he said in a voice pulled from nightmare. “Tonight, the Wild Hunt rides.”

“Do not let her escape.”

“My queen.” He bowed, his antlers sweeping a shadow across the moon.

Turning, he let out a piercing whistle. Feral red-eyed hounds flowed to him from the shadows, lithe and deadly. Behind them came the riders, white-haired elfin knights upon flame-footed horses. Without a word they leapt into the sky, blotting out the stars with their passage.

The eerie winding of the horn unfurled through the night. Small animals curled tighter in their dens. Any unfortunate, wakeful creature felt panic freeze their blood at the baying of the hounds and the thundering of hooves as the Hunt was loosed.