The Demon in the Wood

Before he ruled Ravka, before he was the Darkling, he was just a lonely boy with an extraordinary gift. In this prequel story to the New York Times-bestselling Grisha Trilogy, Leigh Bardugo takes us into Ravka’s mysterious past, when Grisha lived as fugitives and the Darkling took his first steps on the path to power. Discover new territory in the Grishaverse.

Leigh Bardugo

The Demon in the Wood

A Darkling Prequel Story

Grisha - 0.1

ePub r1.0

Titivillus 19-05-2021

Leigh Bardugo, 2015

Digital editor: Titivillus

ePub base r2.1

For the readers—thank you for wanting to know more

The Demon in the Wood

A Darkling Prequel Story

How many were there, Eryk?

It was a stranger’s voice, speaking a stranger’s name. But through the haze of pain, he remembered. His mother had given him his new name on the way up the mountain, as the wind blew down from the pass, rustling the needles of the pines. The northerners will want to call you Eryk, she’d said. He’d pulled the furs up around his ears and thought, They won’t want to call me anything.

He managed to open one of his eyes. He could feel the crust of blood tugging on his lid. The other must be swollen shut. Had someone broken his nose? He couldn’t remember.

He was lying on a stretcher. Two men were leaning over him, and they wanted answers.

“How many?” asked the man with the red-gold beard, the Ulle.

“Six,” he managed. “Maybe seven.”

The other man leaned closer. Eryk had only seen Annika’s father from afar, but he recognized him well enough now—his hair nearly white like hers, his eyes the same bright blue. “Fjerdan or Ravkan?”

“They spoke Ravkan,” he croaked. His throat was raw. Because I was screaming when they pushed me under.

“Enough.” His mother’s voice, cool and hard as a diamond.

Madraya. He was embarrassed by the relief that rushed through him. You’re not a child, he told himself. But he felt like one, lying there in his wet clothes, cold and helpless.

Eryk forced himself to turn his head so he could see her. His skull beat with a red rhythm, each pulse driving the pain deeper in jagged shards. He tried to blink it away.

His mother’s face was creased with concern, but he recognized the watchful look in her eyes too. They were the newcomers—they were always the newcomers—and when things went bad, they were the easiest people to blame.

“We need to evacuate the camp,” said Annika’s father. “If they found the children last night—” His voice broke.

“We’re not going anywhere,” growled the Ulle. “We’re going to raze that village and take ten of their children for every one of ours they took.”

“We don’t have the soldiers for an attack. We must use caution—”

The Ulle’s voice rasped like a sword drawn from its sheath. “My son is dead. So is your daughter. My caution perished with them.”