Deep in the heart of an ancient, sprawling forest stood a castle made of cold, grey stone. It was a lonely place, surrounded by miles of tangled oaks and a few struggling farms on its outskirts. A wide, rushing river flowed nearby, its dark waters churning with secrets. Inside the castle, the air was always chilled; the master was too stingy to keep the hearths lit, leaving the long corridors to feel like always-winter.
Among the staff was a young servant boy named Edward. Though his clothes were tattered and his pockets were empty, Edward was rich in spirit. He had a spark in his eyes that no amount of hard work could dim. He was the first to wake and the last to sleep, scrubbing floors until his hands were raw, yet he never lost his sense of wonder. He was always curious, always wanting to understand why, and always wanting to learn more.
Life in the castle was a constant battle against hunger. While the master sat at a table overflowing with fresh fruits, salted meats, and honey-glazed bread, the servants were often left with nothing more than stale bread and watery potato soup. Every night, the meal ended with a strange ritual. A heavy silver dish, covered by a domed lid, was brought out last. The master would point a cold finger at the door, dismissing everyone. Edward, watching from the shadows, always wondered what was so special that it had to be eaten in total secrecy.
One evening, it was Edward’s turn to clean up after his master. As he went to clear the table, his heart thudded when he saw the secret dish. For the first time ever, it wasn’t empty. A tiny, pale scrap of meat lay abandoned near the rim. Driven by a hunger that felt like a physical weight, Edward snatched the morsel and swallowed it. It was cold and salty, but food nevertheless.
As Edward lay on his thin straw mat that night, the castle felt colder than usual. Soon, a dull ache started in the pit of his stomach. At first, he thought it was just the “hunger pains” he was used to, but as the hours ticked by, the sensation changed. It felt as though a knot was being tied and untied inside him. By midnight, the pain was a sharp, twisting heat that made him curl into a ball, sweat beading on his forehead despite the frost on the windows.
The pain reached its peak just as the sky began to turn from charcoal to a bruised purple, moments before the first light of dawn. As he gasped for air, the silence of the night was broken by a sound coming from the moonlit garden just outside his low bedroom window.
It was a dry, sliding sound: the sound of scales against dead leaves.
“The warmth has left the stones,” a low voice hissed from the shadows of the ivy.
Edward froze, his eyes wide. He realised he wasn’t just hearing animal noises; he understood the words.
“Forget the stones,” another voice answered. “It is noisy in the pantry again. The rats are growing fat on the master’s grain.”
“Yes,” the first voice whispered, closer now, right against the windowsill. “If we find the crack in the foundation, we shall have a feast before the sun rises. The rats are slow and heavy tonight. They think the walls protect them.”
Edward stared at the window, his breath hitching. He wasn’t just a servant any more. He was a listener of secrets, and the garden snakes were planning a hunt right beneath his feet…