They kidnapped the princeling, those plotters against the king. Put a sack over his head, carried him deep into the forest and left him, his comely smile extinguished amid tear-stained cheeks. Regicide, yes. But who could murder the darling child?
People whisper of the prince’s dark fate. Fell into a crevasse? Whittled down by starvation? Devoured by beasts?
No.
The prince broods to this day, cracking bones and munching sparrows, on a throne of mold. His back has stooped, his arms grown long, his teeth sharpened. The Troll King wears a bloody crown above a yellow sneer and plots revenge.
Levi Krain rose from the depths of a clear, cold northern lake and enveloped a small mid-western city. Since then, he has moved on to bigger and better things and now resides in the heart of Lovecraft country, where he spins tales and refuses to drink the water from the well. Twitter: @LeviKrain.
Maura Yzmore 