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Chapter Text

A sobbing scream awoke me from sleep, and frightfully I searched the room for an intruder before I came to my senses and discerned that it was I who had let out the violent call. A rush of footsteps ascended the staircase to my bedroom, and at once Lizzy appeared in the doorway, a look of horror wearily stretched across her countenance.
“My dear! Are you alright?” she gasped with concern, flocking toward my bed in the sea of her ruffled dress.
“Yes—yes I’m fine,” I muttered. “Just another nightmare.”
“Oh, I was worried it was that,” she shook her head. “You’ve been doing so well. I thought they may have been kind to you and stopped.”
“I don’t believe things like that ever really leave you,” I sighed, sitting up to stretch my limbs. I hastily wiped the perspiration which hung from my forehead.
“Perhaps you’re right, but no matter.” Lizzy loathed agreeing with my pessimism, for she looked at the world with fortunate eyes, and as my maid, wished to impart the same confidence upon her mistress. “We have things to tend to this morning. I’ve already laid out your dress and prepared breakfast for you in the sitting room downstairs. Take your time, miss, but remember we do have quite the schedule today.”
As she spoke she paced about the room, throwing the curtains open and uncasing the windowpanes. From outside the bustling sounds of the early day’s rush of trading outdoors filled the room, and at once the soft morning light cast its radiance upon the portrait that hung above the mantel. My father and mother, in glittering garments, sat righteously beside one another, regal in their bearing, gazing downward at my feeble figure. Had they would’ve known it would be the only living remembrance of them, besides their daughter, perhaps they would have attempted a smile.
“And I made your favorite—your mother’s blueberry pastries,” Lizzy continued. “It was a trouble finding someone here to trade for blueberries, but I managed.”
Undoubtedly I was grateful for poor Lizzy’s efforts, and painfully I roused a smile upon my lineaments to signify. The day was never one of joy for the two of us; she had served the regal bloodline since her adolescence, had grown close to my father and mother, San and Jennifer Derlock, in her earliest years, and was as intimate with them as I, their own daughter. Neither of us would pronounce it, but on the anniversary of their death, the two of us would be tormented by the memory of the violence of their passing, and every minute would evoke vivid sights, sounds, and shrieks from the very moment they took their final breath. I attempted to dispel these thoughts, but the scent of blueberries from downstairs, steaming with a bitter sweetness, cemented them within my mind.
Though at a loss of an appetite, I stomached Lizzy’s breakfast spread. She had been correct in her early exposition; as it was the yearly observance of my parents’ passing, and thus the commemoration of my unfortunate coronation, I was obliged to speak at Ellery Manor, the hall adjacent to the tribe I oversaw. While it was true that I reigned as empress of the village of Syndor, the Nature Tribe was my home, where people who wielded the same magic as me dwelt, and thus it was a haven incomparable to the rest. Each tribe would be in attendance for my speech, however, and would accordingly be looking to me for courage, and with a strained face I would give it, not without grating difficulty.
“Lizzy, I’d like to ride Clover to the Manor today for my fitting,” I said, fastening my feet into my worn riding boots.
“Certainly, ma’am,” Lizzy replied. “Would you like me to go fetch her from the stables?”
“It won’t be necessary, I’ll go myself.”
“Well alright then—we can walk to the stables together. I have all your usual dressings ready at the Manor.”
With haste we moved to the stables, nestled in the corner of the Nature Tribe beneath shady oaks and twisting vine branches. My mare had been a birthday present, gifted to me by my father, years ago. I could still recall the anxious shock it had given my mother, for she had never known the women of Syndor to be adept at riding. I had gallantly convinced her, however, and Clover and I had been inseparable ever since. At the sound of my footsteps she turned from her trough glowingly. Her glossy white coat shimmered in the sunlight, and at once I leapt over the fence, mounting myself upon her bare back as she awaited my command.
“Would it be alright if I caught up with you?” I turned to Lizzy, watching her step into her horse’s stirrups. “I want to go see Noelle before we get started.”
“She’s your right hand,” Lizzy assented. “Of course. Don’t be too long, dear. Have her come along.”
“Maybe I will.”
I headed southward, exiting the Nature Tribe and directing Clover across the faded wooden bridge built over the river that divided Syndor. Directly across the creek sat the Shadow Tribe, the society Noelle Windsor, my closest confidante, led. Though she would not inherit the title of empress if I were to pass, Noelle was largely influential when it came to dealings with the crown, and, besides Lizzy, she was who I trusted most in the village. I found her door ajar, and dismounted Clover to find her inside her cabin.
She stood behind her trading counter, her grey eyes attentively studying the blade of a sword she was polishing. It was a relief to find her cabin empty of any visitors, as her post was commonly one of the busiest in the village. Noelle was known for her weaponry craftsmanship, and her unfailing creativity in finding new defenses to forge. Such advanced machines of fortification, to her credit, were what the Shadow Tribe was known for other than their darkened mystical prowess, and Noelle took pride in it.
“New sword?” I asked, leaning over the counter to catch her attention. At my greeting she smiled warmly, her brows relaxing from their naturally stern expression.
“Oh, no,” Noelle sighed. “An oldie, but a goodie. Just cleaning her up for Brett. You know how much he loves his swords.”
“And I know how much you love him,” I teased.
“Now you know he’s just my friend. What a scandal if I were to be in love with my second in command!”
“I know I know,” I muttered. “But you know I’m always going to be rooting for you two.”
“Oh I’m sure. It’ll be your dying wish if you have one,” she sneered with a grin. “I just can’t wait for the day you and Trent finally marry.”
“Oh! Don’t mention him,” my excitement vanished. “Our betrothal is like salt in the wound.”
I had been promised to Trent Mona, a boy from the same tribe as my own, since my birth. As the only family in the village able to bear children, the Derlock bloodline was a sacred thing, and carefully selected, generation after generation, the healthiest and most capable sorcerers from other tribes to marry and continue their lineage with. My father, then head of the Nature Tribe and emperor of Syndor, had wedded my mother, a girl from the Weather Tribe, at eighteen years of age, the age all members of the royal bloodline would be married by. Perhaps it had been a blessing to be betrothed to a boy so young, as Trent had taken my innocence in amid the wreckage spurred by the death of my parents and the quick enthronement of myself in becoming empress of Syndor. Trent and I had therefore grown up underneath the same roof in our early teenage years until I was compelled to assume my duty as mistress of the Derlock cabin. For years I refused to step foot into the house my parents had filled with such diligent love and care, but it could not remain empty forever, and at sixteen, three years after my parents’ passing, I returned to it. The silent homecoming had occurred a mere year ago, though it felt to have happened in an entirely different lifetime.
“I still have trouble trying to see what you don’t see in him,” Noelle rambled. “He’s a perfectly fine boy.”
“That’s just it,” I mused. “I lived with the boy for four years and never saw anything wrong with him. The other girls of Syndor nearly died with how much they swooned over him! I had no end of people telling me how lucky I was. That’s hard to believe, though, when your entire family is killed right in front of you, and—” Noelle raised her hand to silence me softly.
“You don’t need to talk about it, especially not today,” she assured me. “I know—marrying Trent and becoming one with him would be the final resting of your parents’ memory. They were the last couple to lead this village, and once you and Trent inherit the throne together—”
“They’ll just be a memory,” I spoke above her.
“But they won’t. You live on in them, as will your children. Syndor will never forget them, not as long as it stands.”
“You’re right,” I breathed after a moment’s quietude. “We don’t need to talk about this.”
“Then what else can I do you for?” Noelle chattered lightly, cleansing the air of our somber mood instantly.
“Well, as you know today is—a busy day—and I was wondering if you wanted to come to the Manor with me to get fitted for my address later. I’m sure Lizzy will fix something up for you if you join me.”
“You know how much I hate getting fitted. Those dresses are so tiresome! But if it makes you happy, I’ll close up shop now and we can go on over together.”
“I would love that.”
With haste Noelle retrieved her stallion, Dusk, and together we rode swiftly to the Manor.
Ellery Manor was a vibrantly opulent estate in its own right. Its foundations were carved from nearly spotless logs, embellished with stony accents and woodland flora to blend its splendor into the surrounding landscape. Outside sat tremendous gardens and fountains looked upon by crystal windows that lit the building from within. The house with its two stories was ornamented with velvet furnishings and incandescent chandeliers, housing a multitude of rooms and hallways that one could get lost within. In the early days of Syndor, when the Nature Tribe and its people were the only inhabitants of the forest, the Manor had been constructed from their abilities to house the handful of sorcerers that sought refuge from beyond the woods. Since the arrival of the other tribes, and the expansion of Syndor, the Manor became vacant, as the Nature Tribe, and consequently the royal family, wished to be closer to and equal in their lodgings to its subjects. The Manor, however, did not fall to ruin in its emptiness; instead, the vast property was opened to the tribes for various uses. What were once grand bedrooms became infirmaries, storage spaces, and libraries for record-keeping, and what had once been sitting rooms to receive guests in had become large ballrooms for august events, fitting rooms to design attire, and meeting chambers to discuss wartime matters. As a child, I had delighted in each affair that brought me and my family to the lodging, and had spent countless hours rummaging through the colorful shelves of the library to read history books of the community at its inception and scrolls that spoke of ancient spells and lost heirs, bygone creatures and unseen tribes. I supposed I had perused every piece of literature within its walls, though I could scarcely remember what their pages had been about now.
Through the various rooms we moved about until we reached the fitting room in the back of the wooden estate. Lizzy flew about the room, her crystalized figure carrying ribbons and lacings and trimmings and other several fabrics.
“Oh! Girls! You’re finally here!” she exhaled as if she had been working with bated breath since her arrival. “Come this way, right here—Skylar, I’ve already laid out your dress. Not so much a surprise anymore, is it? I’ve fixed it up a bit just a little from last year—and Noelle! How glad I am you’ve come! I went ahead and designed one for you as well—oh! I didn’t even know you were
coming, but I had to—right this way—here it is—”
I did not pay mind to Lizzy’s embellished speech about Noelle’s dress. Instead, I looked upon the dressing divider where she had meticulous laid out my garments for the impending ceremony. It was a plain black dress, devoid of any frillings expecting the lacy neckline which resembled creeping ivy upon my neck when worn. Its skirt was not wide, though I knew the corset to be quite tight. Me and the mourning dress were quite familiar; it was the standard attire I was expected to wear each year on the present day. Veiled in an ebony dullness, it was the same dress I had worn on the day of my parents’ funeral. It was a prison to be laced in it, to remember every other occasion it had been worn for, to know that it was a containment which suffocated my grief while putting it on display for everyone to see.
Behind me I admired Noelle’s dress, a simple mauve-hued frock, being fitted about her figure. It was still a becoming and suitable dress for mourning, no doubt, but these were not Noelle’s parents that were being remembered, and thus she would not be gawked at by the village in a few hours’ time, being pitied for any tear shed upon her sorrowful face! She would never know it—how miserably desolate it was to be the object of attention amidst such insurmountable grief, for such sadness to be revisited by those you governed year after year because tradition effected it! How terribly lonely it was—it was overwhelming to think of it, and so I stood quietly, reviewing the stitching of my dress once more, counting each thread, deaf to Lizzy’s bading me to try it on.
Into the dress I slipped, and instinctively gripped one of the wooden posts that lined the windowpane as Lizzy held tightly to the corset laces.
“Now hold tight, dear, and suck in as much as you can.”
But I did not do as I was told, and instead my lungs released their emotion vehemently, and I began to choke on my sobbing breath as my legs gave out and I descended to the floor. Still I held tightly to the wall, my nails digging into the timber, but I did not feel the splinters that pierced my skin, because my tears cut sharply against my cheeks, and I could feel nothing else but agony.
“I hate this dress! I hate this color! I hate this day!” I wept madly. Instantly Noelle and Lizzy came to my side, bringing me to my feet and hastily wiping the tears from my flushed face.
“Oh, no! Don’t cry, dear, or you’ll make me—” Lizzy could not restrain her heartache either, and her hands covered the face that began to twist with bereavement. Noelle laid a silent hand on my
shoulder, failing with words but unfailing in her support.
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” I cried. “It’s been so long since they—I shouldn’t still be so upset. I have things to do, I have—and it’s not fair. None of it is fair!”
“Don’t say such things,” Lizzy composed herself. “You’re allowed to be sad as much as you please.”
“It takes courage to be where you are, who you are, who you have to be, especially today,” Noelle agreed. “Nobody is telling you what to feel.”
“No—but they’re watching me. All of them—all of Syndor—everyday they look to me to guide them and—and sometimes—I’m afraid I don’t want to. I don’t have it in me. Not like my parents did.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” Lizzy encouraged.
“You are far from being alone,” Noelle agreed. “I’ll stand up there with you today while you’re speaking to show it.”
For five dreadful years I had been expected to present myself to Syndor on the anniversary of my parents’ death and speak of it to soothe the anxious minds of the village, and for five dreadful years I had felt sickened to do so. How could I relieve the people of their concerns when I could not mend my own? I did not seem right to feign fortitude when so many of my subjects appeared to depend upon it.
“The world keeps spinning,” I soughed. “I’ll go out there—it’s my responsibility. It’s what they would’ve wanted.”
“Be gentle with yourself, Skylar dear,” Lizzy counseled. “And don’t forget how far you’ve come.”
I knew Lizzy’s words to be only honest, for she spoke for the both of us. She had not been born a sorcerer, had not been a natural addition to Syndor’s people, and in the wake of my parents’ death, had clung to me for comfort. Lizzy was a woodland nymph, abandoned by her own community, and had nearly reached the point of starvation before she was taken in by my grandparents and given a home in the Derlock cabin. To repay them for their kindness, she vowed to assist them in any way necessary until her last day, which would surely serve many generations of the royal family, for nymphs lived tremendously long and gifted lives. Her tears refracted off her sequined frame, and I dried them for her, smiling in solidarity for our shared sorrow.
“Why don’t you wear a different dress?” Noelle suggested, sparking the ambiance of the room. “Give the people something unexpected. Perhaps it’ll give them hope. Besides, black looks awfully dreary on you.”
“Oh! What a wonderful idea!” Lizzy exclaimed, her mind flying wildly with new ideas of style. “Skylar, I have the most perfect shade for you—if you’ll wear it, of course.”
“It has been quite a while of public mourning,” I thought aloud. “Well—why not? Let’s see what you have, Lizzy.”
“I promise I will not disappoint you, miss.”
To her hanging rows of outfits she flitted, and amid her hasty workings I turned to Noelle, inspired by her previous heartening.
“You’re right,” I said. “It will give them hope. It does no good for me to stand over them, wearing the same dress and saying the same things year after year, expecting sentiment to change. The time has passed. A new era is upon us. I have to direct us to it—it’s my divine purpose.”
“You’ll inspire them just like you inspire me,” Noelle smiled.
“I can only hope.”
“You will—you’re our empress—there’s nothing you can’t do,” she bowed.
“I’m finished!” Lizzy remarked from the corner of the room. “It’s done and it’s just beautiful and—well, I hope you like it.”
Lizzy held up the dress proudly, its color glittering in the daylight. The dress wore a voluminous hoop, spewing a soft, sage green color throughout the piece, complete with cream white trimmings on the neckline, cuffs, and hem. It was a garment fit for a ball, and would have been frowned upon to be adorned for an occasion of woe, but the village was under my command, and if I willed the spirits of Syndor to be alight, then they would be so. As honorably as I regarded tradition, I could not deny Noelle as speaking the utmost truth: it was my highest duty to serve Syndor, and I could not allow the land I governed to fall ill with a hopeless despondency for a minute more if I could help it.
I was granted an hour or two of composure in one of the Manor’s private offices before Noelle and Lizzy remerged from their untold whereabouts, ready to escort me to the largest balcony the estate possessed, the principal place where all paramount addresses were made to Syndor. From beyond the Manor’s walls I could hear the congregation of the village moving about in the gardens below.
“Are you ready to speak, miss?” Lizzy asked as she entered the room.
“As ready as I ever will be,” I answered tautly.
“I have your usual speech written here—” she pulled from her bag the worn, faded papers that recorded my annual oration, spoken year after year. I never wished to set my eyes upon it again.
“No need,” I instructed her. “I am going to say something else.”
“Oh! Are you quite sure dear?”
“Well—I can’t read that boring old thing in this new dress, can I?” I mustered a grin.
Noelle nodded in her quiet approval.
“If you think it’s what’s best,” Lizzy hesitatingly consented.
“It is,” Noelle spoke for me.
“I’m ready,” I said, crossing the room, slipping my hands into the two’s offered arms.
We took to the balcony where Noelle and Lizzy unfastened the French doors, a cool breeze instantly wafting through the air of the old house. The sun had reached its peak, though the heat of the day was none. I stepped proudly onto the elevated porch, looking down toward the sorcerers of Syndor. With my arrival they bowed respectfully and rose, awaiting all I wished to speak. Whispers floated through the crowd as they noticed my new garments and beheld Lizzy and Noelle standing beside me. I read their thoughts as if they were my own—they were perplexed by the change, but they were not concerned.
“Syndor,” I began, projecting as neatly as I could rouse. “You are gathered here today to remember the passing of our most beloved ruler, San Derlock, and his wife, Jennifer Derlock. Today will mark the fifth year of their having departed us, and—”
I halted my speech. This was not the monologue I wanted to give. It was not one I ever wished to utter again. A hush fell over the mass, and I continued—
“—and this is the first year that I am declaring it is time to move forward from our mourning, heal our great village, and rise again from the violence and the heartache that has beset us for far too long!” The collection appeared encouraged, and so I persisted. “It is with a heavy heart I have led you for many years, and it is now I must mend the path I have taken us down. It is not with fear and misery I will lead you any longer—it is with a vengeful spirit I will act, to seek justice for our fallen family, for the safety and security of all sorcerers against the werewolves which have plagued us for generations. There will be no rest without peace, and I vow to you all that I will bring harmony to our beautiful earth again—no matter the cost.”
The assembly hesitated in their applause, but it was soon given, as a bated breath is exhaled. I felt their passion, their enlivened spirits, and how my words had affected them to action. It had not been the lecture they were anticipating to receive; rather, it had been one they had needed to witness, that their hearts have been craving to hear since the darkness of death had pervaded our land and stripped them of their sanities. I would restore them to soundness; I had to, for if it was not me, who then would it be?
“In the coming days I will be organizing a meeting with each tribe’s leaders. Please be vigilant—in the meantime, you are all dismissed. Thank you for hearing me and for keeping this village afloat in the midst of such discomforting uncertainty. As your empress, I will see to it that we stay well above the waters from here on out.”
The village was obedient in my instruction, and I discerned the leaders of each tribe nodding in approval of their future obligations. To my sight, it appeared that they, too, had been eagerly awaiting my solemn command, anticipating the day when their authority would be called upon. It had been a direction quite overdue.
In the dispersing of the crowd, I slipped into the formal throne room of the Manor, requesting to be alone for a short time. Unlike in the aftermath of prior remembrance ceremonies, I did not feel a heaviness weighing upon me. Certainly there still survived a gloom to my disposition, but I was satisfied by my initiative, and a contentment put me at ease. I breathed easier in spite of my choking waist at the hands of my corset, and I peered outside of the white windowpanes, focusing my attention on the whistling of the birds and the dancing leaves that lined the crested trees.
How carefree they were, how little were they required to think of their fate! To float to the ground come wintertime would be their end, until the next tide of spring would grant life to them once more.
The soft creaking of the entry door broke my meditations, and, startled, vines sprouted from the oak floor, sending floral webs to block whoever had come to disturb me. Behind the flowery wall I did not recognize the figure, but the voice was clear as it spoke—
“It’s just me, Skylar,” Trent spoke gently. “Apologies—I should have made myself known.”
“You know how easily frightened I am,” I exhaled, the ivy retreating back into the floorboards at his command.
“You would think I would’ve remembered that after living with you for so many years,” he laughed to himself, drawing near to me. I shrunk from his invitation, unwilling to be in company. I did not give a reply, and so he continued—“That was an impressive speech you gave out there. It was refreshing to hear you say what you wanted to say, not what was on some piece of paper.”
“It was nice for me too,” I agreed.
“The dress was a nice touch, too.”
“Oh! Don’t be a flirt.”
“I was just complimenting you on the change—all of the changes.”
“You sought me out for a reason, no need to dance around that reason,” I responded sternly.
“As you wish,” he said. “John Obloy, leader of the Spirit Tribe as you know—he came to me the other day about something. I’m sure he will address it during the meeting you announced you’d call soon, but I thought I would speak to you about it sooner.”
“What is it? Mitch is planning another attack?” My heart leapt into my throat, and I caught Trent’s arm in distress as if he were the one answerable to the village’s safety.
“No! No, the werewolves are not coming, don’t be afraid,” he comforted me. I withdrew instantly, ashamed of my feeble conduct.
“I told you not to frighten me! My nerves—” I wrought my hands together, beginning to pace about the room.
“I’m sorry—I—let me be clear—he senses that more sorcerers are preparing to come to Syndor."
At once my bones softened, and I could have collapsed from the relief his assertion promised me!
“Oh, Trent! Do you know what this means?” I gasped, moving about the room to keep from fainting. “I thought no one was going to arrive to replace my parents—that’s how it usually is, isn’t it?
One sorcerer dies off and another takes their place to keep balance and—oh! This is terrific news! I feared Syndor was dying—for years nobody came, and I’ve never known for them to take this long! But John has seen them—they are coming! Oh! They are! They are!”
Perhaps Trent’s enthusiasm had worn off since John broke the news to him, and so he remained silent, but with a certain smile on his face, happily basking in the elation I wore. It pleased him to see me so enraptured with excitement, for he had only known me to be melancholic. No flamboyant speech of mine could fool him; he needed to behold my confidence, naked and pure, as it was then, and it satisfied him that he had been the vessel that had carried such a message to inspire me to it.
“It’s the most ponderous weight off my shoulders,” I continued to talk freely. “With new talent will bring fresh new minds to help us in strategizing battle. Oh! This meeting will be more riveting than I expected. I’ll have Noelle draw up some plans, and I’ll have John foresee what powers they will bring, and I’ll avenge my parents’ death—I will! Mitch has had his peace for five long years but I will not rest until he is eradicated!”
At my searing exclamation Trent’s lineaments hardened, and his voice lowered as if he were speaking to a child.
“Skylar,” he started, “I’m urging you not to lead with such a spiteful spirit. It isn’t becoming, and it certainly isn’t what we stand for. Don’t let it get to your head.”
“How can I not?” I spat. “And what do you mean what we stand for? Our very purpose as sorcerers of this forest is to maintain balance and harmony for all who live here. Mitch’s entire existence disrupts that! His murder of Syndor’s royal leaders will not go unpunished. He and his werewolves have terrorized our poor village for generations. He is an acutely vile and unnatural creature that nature itself has determined needs to be killed! Why else did nature give us all the other tribes we see today? Why else have we expanded beyond the magic the Nature Tribe possesses? Even these lands want him gone.”
“I understand that, and I’m not denying that Mitch needs to be done with, somehow,” Trent explained. “But initiating any attack with such a bitter heart will not reap success.”
“Yes it will, because it will get the job done. Everything that has ever needed to get done has been done with determination.”
“Determination to bring about a just and fair cause and vindictive vengeance masked as determination are entirely separate things.”
“Maybe so,” I retorted. “But what good has a little ‘determination’ done for us all these years? Mitch is still alive, his pack is still alive, and this entire forest is in ruins because of it. It’s dying, Trent. I will not be the empress of Syndor that allows that to continue.”
“You aren’t responsible for that. You didn’t create Mitch.”
“But my family did—even if it was generations ago. I might not be guilty but still I have to bear it. I am responsible for rectifying it.”
Trent made no response.
“And I don’t understand why you’re so grimly opposed to it all, of me doing the right thing.”
“I’m not against you doing the right thing, only how you go about doing it.”
“What’s the question about it? Mitch has to be killed. There is no other way.”
“No—but if you stay in such a resentful state of mind, it’ll kill you first before it kills him.”
“How dare you insult me—the woman you’re supposed to be marrying in a years’ time!” I scorned him reproachfully. “Imagine if it hadn’t been my parents—imagine if it had been yours!”
Within his green eyes flickered a moment’s look of horror. I had injured him, surely, but I did not care. In a meek act of remedying my wild nature, he held his palm to my cheek, brushing the loose chestnut ringlets from my face. I turned from him, looking toward the ground with shame. I could not—I would not—apologize, and he did not expect any expression of rue from me. He understood I had not meant it, and he loathed to see me experiencing such violent distress. But how was I supposed to act? I was burdened with the fate of an entire village, and he only suffered from the weight of my unrequited love. The boy pitied me, but I was convinced he was pleased that his soul was not my own, and I could almost hear his thoughts as they said—if it is this miserable to love you, I do not wish to know how miserable it is to be you.
“Just promise me you’ll do right by Syndor, do right by your mother and father, may they rest in peace,” Trent whispered.
“I’m calling the meeting tomorrow, lest these new sorcerers arrive then,” I ignored his remark.
“Do you want me to join?”
“No—it won’t be necessary.”
It would not have been unnatural for Trent to sit in on a meeting with the tribes’ leaders, seeing as he was the man I would call my husband soon enough, but I refused. I did not need him there to witness the very behavior he was already condoning presently. I did not need him to judge me more than I already felt him to do.
“As you wish.”
Delicately, as if plucking a flower from the ground, he leant down and placed his lips upon my cheek. I accepted the embrace, but remembering who it was who held me, it did not take long for me to dismiss his sympathy. We gave one another a last longing look before he turned and exited from the room without another word.

Chapter Text

Pasted upon the evening pastel sky the crescent moon hung, and beneath its golden warmth I admired my frame in the looking glass, smoothing out the wrinkles in my nightgown and studying the curvatures beneath it. It had been one full year since I had married the son of my father’s dearest friend, and in the same year I had given birth to my son, Silas. It astounded me how swiftly my body had returned back to its earlier form, though there was a notable change to my appearance. My hips were wider, my cheeks fuller. Skin that once sagged in youth so unnaturally was now tight, and the eyes which had seen the world with fear were now sharp with understanding. No more was I a young girl; I was a woman, at eighteen, and there was nothing that could be done to reverse that.
Bathed in candlelight, Richard stepped into the bedroom, watching me eye myself as if I were looking for a flaw.
“Are you ready for bed, dear?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The baby had settled, and his slumber inspired us to take our own. Wearily I collapsed upon the bed, and Richard laid next to me, his body carefully placed as to not touch my own. I sighed sleepily, considering how I was to tell him of my impending leave the next morning.
“Richard,” I began, “I received a letter today, from my sister. It’s my grandmother—she’s awfully ill.” Conceiving of my grandmother’s state could have sent me into a flurry of tears, but I retained my composure for the sake of our conversation. “I want to go see her tomorrow. I’m not asking you—I’m telling you. I’m going to set off to town tomorrow. I know it’s a long ways but I must—”
“Miranda—you don’t need to explain anything,” Richard soothed me. “I can look after Silas. I’ll have my mother come tomorrow—you know she lives close by for these things. You go to your grandmother. Take as much time as you need.”
My heart faltered with refreshment. Richard was by no means contrary, but I never sought to disappoint him. In spite of my reserve, I loved him, perhaps not as one should love a husband, but as one loves the soul who protects them against all evils of the world. It was in this way I was devoted entirely, my femininity feeling full solace in his presence, and that was enough to satiate me.
“Thank you,” was all I possessed the poise to speak.
Come the morningtide I rose, and flew about the house, tending to my daily chores, setting my affairs in order before I was to ride to town to call on my grandmother. I went about my tasks with an anxious flutter about my heart, my thoughts knotted together in a worrying way of mind, fretfully attempting to keep my spirits hearty. I hardly knew the state my beloved grandmother was in, if it were imperative for me to dash to town at once, or if I could be spared some time to prepare for the journey. I did not think exercising patience was wise, however, and my stresses were lifted when I heard a soft knock upon our front door.
Richard’s mother, Joan, appeared in the doorway, arms wide to welcome me, and immediately I melted within her embrace. Without my pronouncing of it, she knew of my private troubles the day had produced. I supposed Richard had ridden to her cottage nearby early the same morning to tell her of his need for her presence in light of my departure. I did not question it; she was here, and with her attendance I allowed myself to prepare for the flight ahead, surrendering to the care and compassion my husband’s family at once showed radiantly.
“I already hitched up your horse outside to the post. She’s all ready to ride,” Joan instructed. Outside the window I caught a glimpse of my Periwinkle in the dawn’s bloom and I stood with relief at the acknowledgment that she would be sharing my expedition with me. “Do you need me to help with your bags? Shouldn’t be too much trouble for an old woman like me.”
“That’s alright Mrs. Kinden,” I submitted. “I think I can handle myself from here.”
“Well alright then dear,” Joan smiled. “You ride to town and get to your grandmother now. Tell her to stay strong. Stay there as long as you like. We’ll write to you.”
“Thank you.”
Before taking my leave, I took to the kitchen where Richard and Silas sat. I approached them, suddenly discerning the stark resemblance between the two boys, and, with a trembling voice, I bid them farewell. I did not withhold weeping for them, however; my only sorrows lay with my grandmother’s suffering.
“Travel safe, my love,” Richard held me affectionately and nestled a kiss into my golden locks.
“I’ll send a letter once I get there,” I assured him, pulling away to impart my last fondnesses upon Silas. His small hands tugged at my yellow dress, wishing to be raised, but I only bent down to kiss him, and silently withdrew, refusing to shed any tears.
Without another moment’s hesitation, I fastened what meager belongings I thought best to accompany me on my travels to Periwinkle and mounted her, staring off beyond the line of pine trees toward the nearest signs of civilization from our abode. It was not a terribly arduous journey, but the hours would certainly unnerve me, as every second that passed was another second that could steal my grandmother away from me, and such a thought compelled me to ride as quickly as Periwinkle could toward town. I refrained from straining my dear mare, however, and thus I set her off gently, tying my bonnet securely about my neck, and fixing my eyes on the clouds of smoke that rose from the distance, showing the various lives that the morning was tending to elsewhere.

I had never been fond of the city. If my marriage had given me any lasting deliverance, it had been Richard’s removal of me from the growing urban landscape, one I had entirely grown up in and despised all the same. The stinking, choking fumes of industrial development, the close quarters with those you did not know, the dirty streets that reeked of poverty and famine—I could scarcely tolerate it, even to visit. I was sorry for Periwinkle’s efforts; she was a horse that longed to roam in pastures and woodlands, and a bustling town square was no place for her. She shuddered at the thundering movements of carriages and the clamorous shouts from those walking upon the cobblestone sidewalks. I shared in her disgruntlement, awaiting the street my grandmother lived on that stood isolated from the loudness of the town’s center. Oftentimes I felt as though my grandmother did not live in the citified spectacle because of how withdrawn her estate was from the crowded activity, and for her seclusion I was most grateful.
I arrived promptly, and took no time in entering through the gates of her property and riding up the passage toward the entry. I declined to take the trouble to unfasten my bags from Periwinkle, and instead leapt from her back and moved quickly up the stairs, knocking hastily upon the wood. A maid appeared swiftly, inviting the face she found familiar indoors, and I did not hesitate to interrogate her.
“Where is my grandmother? Is she alright? My sister wrote to me and told me that she’s—”
“Ah! Miranda! A pleasure to see you as well,” the maid dismissed my questions, and I turned to her, vexed.
“My grandmother—Rosie—is she ill? Is she dead?” I gasped with horror.
“Your grandmother is just fine, she is in her room,” she responded with irritation. “But it would become you to have some manners.”
I could have flown into a rage at the maid’s tone, but my nerves had been damaged from the journey into town, and I did not have the strength to reprove her.
How coarse, how unfeeling these city folk are! I considered.
“Would you like to have some tea in the sitting room? Please, sit—”
“No,” I spoke tersely. “I would like to see my grandmother. I am not asking permission. I am going to her room immediately.”
I refused to wait to hear her response, and instead glided up the staircase in the foyer to Rosie’s chambers. Without thinking I moved into her room, and saw her laying upon her bed, fitted with white sheets about her. She looked as if she were resting in a coffin, and the pale expression on her countenance horrified me. Indeed she was ill, perhaps irreversibly so, but her eyes lighted at my arrival, and she reached her arm out to greet me.
“Grandmother! I came as quickly as I heard of your state,” I rushed to her side, sitting beside her fatigued frame.
“My child, you did not have to be in such a hurry,” Rosie coughed. “You needn’t trouble yourself over me.”
“You think too kindly. I would not—I could not—be so idle as to leave you here unaccompanied.”
“I have my maid.”
“Ah! That poor, vicious girl! I know you would have preferred my company over hers.”
“That is something I cannot deny,” she smiled, and her face appeared to gain color as she continued to speak. “Pray, tell me how you have been. I have not seen you since your wedding.”
“All has been well at our home,” I explained. “Silas is healthy, Richard is perfectly fine. You know I’m only a boring woman. There isn’t much I have to say.”
A pitiful look in Rosie’s dark blue eyes flashed, and I felt vulnerable, as if she were studying the contents of my words and how they reflected dishonestly on my lineaments. She was judgmental in her bearing, but she was not severe. She would not intrude lest I allowed her to.
“If there is something troubling you, you know I am of open ears to receive it,” she spoke gently.
“I don’t think it would be appropriate,” I answered. “Not in your condition. There are other things to worry about.”
“Child, do not worry yourself sick over my own present frailness. If I were to die tomorrow I would rather you speak of what ails you rather than of what ails me. The time for that has passed. My time has passed.”
“Don’t speak like that! You will get well, you will—”
“You are a smart girl, Miranda,” she silenced me. “I have lived a long, good life. You have paid witness to it. All of our family has. These are my last days. But they are not to be mourned. Don’t treat them so.”
Teardrops fell from my eyes, and I dashed them away as to not distress her. Rosie would not have wished me to cry, though she was sensitive herself, and so I gathered what little strength possessed me to maintain a fine front. I recognized her words as truthful, though I implored for them to be a mere jest, and understanding the solemnity of her state wrought me with concealed despair.
“How much longer?” was the only question I could ask.
“Let us be joyful today, Miranda, and not think of the morrow.”
For several hours we took tea in Rosie’s bedroom, talking intimately with one another as the sun slipped beneath the treetops that stood firmly in the grounds behind her estate. The warm glow reflected into the room, coloring the walls in a lustrous brilliance and bringing a pink hue to Rosie’s cheeks. I begged her to not speak so much as to magnify her illness, but she took no heed of my warning and talked as she pleased, calling to my mind the airiness of her disposition in her younger years. She had grown feeble in her bones, but her heart had not aged a day!
“Now we’ve been talking all this time about nonsense,” Rosie laughed heartily, “and yet you still have not told me of what provokes you. It isn’t just me that worries you. I can see it in your eyes. The eyes never lie, my dear. If they did—well! What fools we’d all be.”
“It’s nothing new that upsets me,” my eyes drew downward, unwilling to be reviewed for their integrity.
“I’ve known you since you were a child,” she began. “I can tell when you aren’t fulfilled. You lose your luster. Frankly, my dear, it upsets me that you feel as though you can’t speak to me about such things.”
“It feels traitorous to admit it,” I responded begrudgingly. “Particularly when it is the man I am supposed to love that makes me bleed.”
I had not admitted it to a soul since uniting with Richard, but it was achingly true—my affections might have belonged to him in name, but they did not in feeling. I respected him as the man of our house, as the father of my child, but there was no passion within me that stirred for him. I had expected such love to grow with age, or perhaps with wisdom, but from the moment I had met him I had not felt anything but a dullness to our attachment, and no experience had broken that lifelessness.
“Why—Richard? Has he hurt you?”
“No—not in the least, grandmother. He is a magnificent husband, and loves Silas as much as I do. But you know our relation to one another—I had no say in the marriage. I never loved him. I thought I could learn to, and I do care for him, but my heart does not beat for him. I do not think his beats for me, either. It is a marriage of convenience, not love.”
“My dear, you must realize that, while your marriage may lack in passion, it does not lack in security. Recall the weary faces you watched as you stepped into town today. How their lives are nothing but chaos and uncertainty and fear. Be grateful for what you have, so that you do not know what it is to be without.”
“I understand that, I always have,” I muttered. I supposed if my suffering showed in tattered clothing and smoky skin then I would be pitied, but there I sat, with a finely trimmed frock and curls tossed neatly, looking the epitome of serenity and satisfaction. It was only my eyes which deceived me; if I could have plucked them out to evade the discussion Rosie imposed upon me, I would have.
“I just—I always wonder what would have become of my life if I had not married so young. If I had gotten to choose. If things were different and there was more for me. It is the definition of wishful thinking, but—oh! I can’t help it! How am I supposed to not feel trapped? How am I supposed to dismiss contemplating such impossibilities?”
“Do not be so severe on yourself,” Rosie voiced. “Now I am traditional and I think you ought to forget your trivial troubles and know your blessings, but what you feel is only natural as a woman. You are aging, time is passing, and with that comes considering what might be different if nothing was the same.”
“And what do you advise me to do? There must be something that can be done to correct me. It feels so wrong to think like this. It would be easier if Richard was some sort of villain, if Silas was a burden, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.”
“You have a duty—as a wife, as a mother. You may not have chosen this life but it chose you, and it seeks for you to satisfy yourself with tending to it.”
“But what if it isn’t my duty? What if I’m meant for something more—something greater? I can’t begin to imagine myself living in this way until my last breath. I feel it in me—something pulling me—there is something else.”
“Perhaps another child!”
“Grandmother!”
“I’m only teasing, dear,” she grinned like a child. “But—oh—it grieves me to see you this way.”
“I thought this kind of life would bring me peace—and it does—but not the peace I expected. I have received all the things little girls wished for—things I wished for in my adolescence—but it is not at all what I believed it would be, and if you don’t know how to advise me, then who will?”
I had maintained my composure for long enough, and with my last utterance my head fell into my hands, and I cried wretchedly! Rosie, with all her sense and sageness, could console me, but she could not cure me. She was devout to the customs of the townspeople, and thus could not particularly sympathize with my position, but she could not bear to see me in such distress. She would persist in soothing me at any cost, even if her words betrayed the law of the land.
“Listen here,” she frowned, pulling me closely toward her. “I may not know how to counsel you, but I know who—or what—does. Your own self. Your soul will not lie to you as others might. If it is peace it seeks, it will find it. I can only pray that the peace it so craves will not come at the cost of your family, however.”
“I would never dream of abandoning them, if that is your concern grandmother,” I promised her. “I may be foolish but I am wise enough to understand that I cannot erase the life I’ve already built. I can only add to it.”
“That is good.”
“Perhaps we might move, or I will write a book, or I will do something—anything—of merit.”
“You were always fond of your writing.”
“I don’t know,” I muttered defeatedly. “It feels as if there is no escaping. Only living some life I never asked to play a part in. But I don’t expect you to say something to magically change that for me. At any rate it feels nice to speak on it. I would never tell Richard how I feel. It would devastate him,”
“These are the things we women must keep to ourselves,” Rosie agreed. “But do not turn away from it, nor deny it. Respect the feeling. Honor it to the best of your ability. I just hope you find what you’re looking for so desperately, Miranda. If not in this life, then in perhaps the next.”
Her withered hand rested upon my own, and such a gesture grounded my bereavement. It felt futile to discuss matters that seemed to have no resolution, but my sorrow pleaded to be pronounced, and so I gave it a voice. I did not wish to delve into the subject further.
“What will you do in your next life, grandmother?” I inquired sweetly.
“Oh—what a question!” Rosie exclaimed, beaming. She enjoyed the spectacle of speaking on her life as delightfully as I enjoyed hearing of it, and her joy was contagious. “In the next life I fear I won’t be human. Perhaps a deer, or a flower, or something too delicate for this earth. I have done my time here, I have served my purpose. I wish to be purposeful for a different cause the next time I visit this planet.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I smiled.
By the time the cadences in our voices had quieted, the room had become veiled in a midnight blackness, and I ascertained Rosie’s fatigue coaxing her to sleep. She had gathered her strength for many hours to entertain me, and I thought it wise to allow her as much rest as she desired. The morning would come, and we would breakfast together, and in the sanguine springtime air we would stroll about the gardens, revisiting memories of my and Rosie’s childhood, generations apart, yet so closely intertwined with one another. I quitted her room thinking of these things, and persuaded myself to sleep in the same manner, anticipating the dawn as if it signified my new life, devoid of each of my present troubles, were to begin beneath its splendor.
I will stay in this pleasantry with Rosie until—I thought as my consciousness wavered between dreams. Her passing will signify the return to everything I wish were wholly different. Tomorrow I will not think of Richard. Tomorrow I will not think of Silas. Tomorrow I will not think of myself.
And the next day alighted, and I did not think of these things, for Rosie had left me silently in her repose, and I knelt before her bed, too sullen for tears, wishing Death had taken my helpless life instead of hers.

Chapter Text

The metal chains stung my wrists, making me writhe with vexation. I paced the cold tiled floor, scarcely able to discern the shape of the room in its haunting dimness. The air smelt metallic, as if the walls were stained with blood that I could not see. I sensed the space was filled with an icy breath, but my skin felt not an ounce of cold. Instead, it burned with a foreign fever no illness could claim as its own doing. Perspiration clung to me, and my eyes itched with a delirium that could not be quelled.
“Let me out! Let me out!” I screeched, throwing my fiery body against the iron door. It was my morning salutation, one that was never acknowledged, but perhaps the new day would bring about a different response, and I was positively stunned when the door was thrown open, the light from outside blinding me entirely.
“You’ve been granted an hour of release. Mr. Smith will call on you soon.”
My husband! I thought with wrathful contempt. Oh! That insufferable, wicked man!
My shackles were gripped into the hands of some silhouette, and my teetering frame was thrown in whatever direction it pleased to go. My feet twisted into different corridors, hearing the wailing and moaning of creatures I refused to realize as human. I knew where I was imprisoned—this was a madhouse, one crawling with decrepit, invalid specimens that could hardly speak a word to save their life! There was no escaping the droll, incessant mutterings that echoed in the hallways, nor the scent of urine that wafted off each article of clothing worn, including my own. Nausea engulfed my body as I was flung about from here to there, entirely unknowing of my dreaded destination. It was a horrid, deplorable establishment, one that I, the honorable Mrs. Aviannah Smith, had no business ever stepping foot into!
“You will sit here until your visitor arrives,” a young boy in a white uniform instructed, restraining me to the chair I was thrown into.
“Oh that man can spare his pitiful visit!” I spat, hastily attempting to wipe the sweat that glowed from my face. It was hot—much too hot for a building such as this—but no other prisoner seemed to be affected by the blazing temperature.
“Mr. Smith has requested to see you, and see you he will,” the boy answered blankly, and turned to leave the room.
This is truly hell now! My thoughts seethed with indignation. What good does he think he’s doing, imposing on me here? The place he threw me into without a second thought? If he would only let me alone—but no! I’m sure he’s come back to throw false pity onto me, and announce his new engagement to some other pretty little thing—!
Suddenly the lock on the door was unfastened, and into the room stepped a tall, dark man in a fine linen suit, glaring mischievously down at me. He petted his mustache, surely withholding a vociferous laugh, and crossed the room, leaning his weight against the table as he stationed himself next to me. I frowned, refusing to look him in his eyes, knowing that he took insurmountable pleasure in my inhumane detainment.
“Love, your hair is all matted,” he taunted. “Don’t they have hairbrushes in this place?”
“Thanks to you they didn’t care to give me one,” I hissed. “They thought I’d hurt somebody with it.”
“Oh I have no doubt you would in your—state,” he commented, taking a seat across from me. His condescending temperament angered my nerves, but, realizing that he wished to see fury flicker in my manners, I remained cool.
“Just speak your reason for being here and be on your way,” I commanded him.
“Well—I wanted to see how you were, love. Knowing you’re locked in this place, with no friends, no society, no balls! Ah! I can’t begin to imagine your restlessness.”
“Don’t tease me so.”
“I will do whatever I please.”
“Oh—I know Mr. Smith!” I laughed hysterically. “And I know that my being here is only because you wished to secure my daddy’s fortune for yourself. Why—you couldn’t have waited one full day for him to rest peacefully in his grave before you sent me here, telling everybody I was mad!”
“My love, you are mad. Money wouldn’t have been able to change that about you,” he rebuked sternly. My femininity frightened beneath his tone. “That’s the problem with you women. You all think that you will go about your life and always stay the same flirty little coquettes you were in your youth. You’ll go to all the dances, you’ll greet all your pretty friends, you’ll bear a multitude of children to bestow your values upon. But you creatures are hardly immortal in your liveliness. You wither up, you decay, you pass on—yet you still insist on plaguing the living with your misery.”
“We both know damn well I shouldn’t be here,” I glared at him. How dared he accuse me of being withered, when he was twenty-two years my senior!
“I would love to agree with you, but I simply can’t. You remember that small outburst of yours after your father’s passing, don’t you, love? It quite terrified our neighbors. Their children, too—oh! They could scarcely bear to see you that way! Disheveled, barely able to speak, as red as a ripe tomato, as drenched in sweat as a dog when he’s come in from swimming in the creek. Even a man as me has never seen a woman in such condition. Strange indeed! I had no choice but to send you here after scaring our beloved friends. It’s unfortunate for me to see that this place has not made the impression on you I wished it would.”
Whether I was a skeleton sitting before him or his new wife at sixteen, with freshness and docility aplenty, his opinion would not be altered. He was a rough man, who had certainly been set on sending me away since his marrying me. I had been a means to an end, a vessel from which to steal from and abandon shortly after. Perhaps I could have blamed my infernal agitation on him, but even I, who wished to vilify every facet of his reputation, knew that would be a false claim. This illness which tormented me had been brought on by nothing—not Mr. Smith’s treachery, not my father’s death, not even my own sensitive spirit. It clawed at me now, wishing for me to flee from the room and escape from the building. It was as if an animal instinct enveloped me, and I fought its power as savagely as I fought my husband.
“I promise you will be released from here as soon as you calm down,” Mr. Smith assured me.
“Your promises don’t mean a damn!”
“Such sordid words from such a pretty mouth. A shame it is.”
“The only promise you mean to make me is to keep me here until the day I die.”
“Yes, seeing you rot within these walls would bring me pleasure,” he combed his mustache with his fingertips, as if he were delicately thinking over the prospect. “But I do wish someday you will be well enough to return to me, love. I simply cannot have nor raise my heir without you.”
“I’d rather die here than give you a son.”
“Suit yourself.”
He rose sharply, startling me. Never before had I seen him turn his anger toward me, but I knew he was capable of it. He would indeed strike me if he desired to. My fits of pique were common, but they were no match for his. Each time I perceived my words as stinging him too bitterly, I would withdraw from the fight, valuing my clean skin above being correct in an argument. I could see it in his eyes then—I was drawing close to the borderline that divided his gumption and his barbarity. I could not allow myself to surrender, however, until I had offended him perfectly.
“Perhaps I’ll have a son here, with one of the other inmates,” I rose to meet his posture, trembling yet unfailing in my inflection.
“You wouldn’t dare let another man touch you—you, Mrs. Smith, respectable, ladylike Mrs. Smith!” he smiled, but beneath his jests I sensed his ego smoldering.
“Well why the devil not? Why—just the other day I saw this young fellow, handsome as the sun, and I know a fool in love when I see one! He doesn’t say much but he stares a mighty lot. I said hello and he damn near fell out of his seat! I can’t think of a better father—much better than you could be.”
“Any sane person working here would never allow for that to happen. Stop with such foolish thinking.”
“Is it really foolish thinking? Oh! I forgot how womanly I can be sometimes. Perhaps that’s why that boy loves me so. Every night I go to sleep and I think of him. He only sleeps a few doors down from me—all these incompetent workers always fall asleep far past midnight. I’ve been able to pick the lock most times, and what I’d give to sneak down the hall and find him in his cell.”
“And what then?” his eyebrows twitched with a hidden rabidity.
“You know perfectly what, Mr. Smith. I’d steal the keys off some snoring guard, and I’d sneak into his room, and wake him up from his sleep, and when he’d open his eyes, I’d be sitting on top of him, as naked as a newborn babe—!”
His hostility peaked, and at once his palm struck my cheek, sending me to the floor. Yet I felt no pain, and a sudden explosion of steam erupted from where I had stood. Violently he cried, holding his hand in an enraged excruciation as if it had been bitten clean off! His once fine palm blackened and crackled, resembling a piece of charred meat. I gasped in horror, remaining floor bound, fearing a second attack. It did not come, and instead he cried—
“You wicked woman! You witch! You’re cursed! I’ll send you to be hanged—or burned—or drowned! Hell if I care! On my life you will not live to see the morning!”
In a furious flash he disappeared from the room, and in his place marched in two workers who dragged me from my chair and sent me back to my solitary cell.
I shook fiercely, but it wasn’t my husband who had frightened me so; it was myself, flushed as if I had been struck by Cupid, and frantically searching about the room as if I were looking for something. I could scarcely think straight, possessed by the violent urge to flee, yet not knowing where to. I likened myself to an animal caged by force, a savage beast looking to claw itself out of the hole it had been buried in. I had to run—I had to, I had to, I had to!—but where—where? There was something wrong, something aggressively awry in my being. I watched the hours pass as if they were minutes, and before long what little sunlight had graced the room became eclipsed by the rising moon. Where had the time gone? What had I been doing? I did not know; all I concerned myself with was the forceful growing of my compulsion to escape—I had to escape!
The singular portal I had to the woodlands surrounding the madhouse was a small window, guarded by unbending iron bars, unyielding to any force I had already applied to it in the days of my confinement. My feminine frame could hardly pierce its armor, constructed to detain the hysterical such as me, but that had not discouraged me from trying, and the many sore bruises that painted my skin in shades of blue confirmed my futile endeavors. But I felt the present night to be different; a rising strength stirred within me, and though I had shrunk in my weight I seemed to have increased in my determination, and at once I flew to the window, placing my temperate hands upon the poles, and stood aghast to see them melt before my eyes! Where railings had once stood firm to trap me there now only existed a shiny puddle of metal, decomposed perfectly as if the very sun had disintegrated them. Was I truly mad? Was my mind playing tricks on my feeble spirit? I did not care, I did not think to prove if what new reality had transpired was true! Without regard to the stones that cut my palms and my knees, I hastily clutched the ends of my dress as I climbed through the fixture and leapt to the ground below.
If I were injured from the fall, I did not feel it, and in the next breath I was running, sprinting, dashing through the darkened forest, fleeing from what little light reflected from the establishment behind me. My breath did not leave me at my flight; I raced for as long as my feet could carry me. I could hardly see what lied ahead but it was no matter to me. My soul was shaken, and the longer I ran the more my nerves calmed, and whatever instinct had cast its spell on me was weakening, though it persisted still. It was directing me forward, closer and closer to—where?
I was surely in some unclaimed countryside, miles from the asylum that had imprisoned me. My eyes scanned the blackness, yet there was nothing to be found. I only perceived stretches of dark expanse, shaded in evergreen boughs, glowing in the twilight. There seemed to be no life about me; the only sounds that echoed in the vastness was the growling of my own stomach, desperately plagued with a wild hunger that had not been satiated for many days. I hardly knew the masculine intricacies behind the art of hunting, and therefore my only option appeared to be theft. Yet I sensed myself to be the only living creature about, and so I trekked forward, resolved to steal from any habitation I stumbled upon first.
The first rays of red sunshine began to peer out from behind the sea of trees, and a new fear pricked within me. I did not wish to be seen in my condition—disheveled, crazed, rabid—as my vanity was much too full to be flattened. If society were to see me in such a state I believed I would succumb to death by their mere testament to my present affliction! What had happened to the once congenial Mrs. Smith? Where were her fine clothes, her fresh scent, her pure skin? What creature had stolen her soul and replaced her previously radiant embodiment to this disgusting, pitiful skeleton? I mourned achingly, for my pride would never dare to be shot as it was then, crawling about the bushes amongst the dirty specimens that called the woods home. I considered myself most fortunate that I did not have a looking glass to then gaze at myself in, for I was certain I would not recognize the face that reflected back at me!
My womanly ego throbbed, but immediately my spirits were lifted when I ascertained a soft glow in the shadows. I squinted, moving cautiously toward the fluorescence, and soon I recognized it as a house in the abyss, faintly showing life within. Surely they must have a barn, or some farm, I thought, drawing closer. If not, I’ll have to go inside to find food.
The lantern which hung near the front door was lit, but no other signs of alertness from inside the house presented itself. My starvation gnawed at me, coaxing me to slip inside. Visions danced in my head of the spread that perhaps laid inside on a white linen cloth, hosting plates of steaming beef and potatoes, and bowls of fruit and pudding, all waiting to be eaten in a flash.
Quietly I entered the house. Although I was desperate, I was cautious, and slowly I crept toward the kitchen which lay vacant. I was quick to perceive, upon the dining room table, a loaf of bread peeking out from beneath a grey cloth. I swallowed my greed, but still I advanced, and I fell to my knees as soon as my hands reached for the bread, tearing into it ravenously as if I believed it were going to vanish right before me if I did not digest it all in one sitting. The sustenance warmly flowed into my stomach, and a newfound vigor alighted in me. And to think Mr. Smith thought me weak! I laughed to myself. I had succeeded in feeding myself, but what remained unsettled within my soul was the call to flee again, far from the slight essence of civilization I still existed in. Consequently I rose, but suddenly my blood turned to ice as I heard the soft click of a rifle poised to attack.
“Drop the bread, ma’am,” a rough voice sounded behind me.
I let the small bits of what remained of my stolen meal fall to the floor, and I turned my head to face the intruder. He was a well-bred, handsome man, who glared at my slovenly appearance as if I were not human like him. Behind him in the gloom of the sitting room I noticed an older woman holding closely a young child to her bosom. Her eyes gleamed with fright, but the man gave no indication of feeling any sense of terror. I did not credit myself as being scared, either.
“If you leave now I won’t give you any trouble,” the man spoke again. “Be on your way.”
Providing an apology for my trespassing was not something I thought necessary. I had been arranging my leave before he had forced it upon me, and so I nodded, crossing the floor of the kitchen toward the exit.
How far I made it to the door I did not know, for in the next instant I had been drawn to another stray morsel of fare in the kitchen, and startled by my sudden movement the man fired his rifle, sending screams of shock to be exhaled from the woman. No bullet grazed my skin; instead I lifted my arms to protect myself, and at their command a blazing fire ignited upon the floorboards, licking the furniture and traveling swiftly up the walls. I was stunned, unable to move, but the flames that touched me did not sting nor burn me. There was not a moment to spare to question my miraculous safety; the blaze grew rapidly without mercy. The shock of the explosion I had affected ricocheted off the walls, and I saw the three inhabitants slumped on the floor, unconscious from the blow.
Did I have time to drag them from the burning building? If I did save them, would they remember what amazing, strange magic, mystical beyond my own comprehensions and unexplainable to my understandings, had occurred before them, and send me back to the madhouse where I had fled from? My conscience writhed in the chest, weighing the options of either choice. These people had not even offered me food, had not thought to help me, I thought with disdain. I was convinced of their morality in spite of the inhospitableness they had showed me, but I could not risk it. If I were to be locked up in the asylum once more, I would be put to death, and I could not allow that to happen. I would live, and I would see to satisfy whatever longing was pulling me away from the madness of society.
Hurriedly I stepped through the flames and out into the twinkling grove. The fire would surely draw the attention of some passerby soon, and I would not be here to be convicted as guilty for it. God forgive me, I prayed as I ran back into the woods, my feet flying to a place I knew not where. You can think me a villain if you must, but if someone is going to burn, it sure as hell won’t be me.

Chapter Text

I had always known the woods to be a distinctive place of the purest serenity. I infinitely preferred its comforting company to the suffocating mires of society. By no means was I critical or cold to community, but it was within the solitude of the trees where I felt most understood, and so I chose to remain hidden most days, veiled from onlookers but unerringly open to the arms of nature.
It was a particularly calm morning, and as customary to my routine I grabbed my bow and a quiver of freshly sharpened arrows and headed out, breathing in the dewy air. Hunting was my specialty; it was my main venture to trade with others in the surrounding tribes. Since my endeavors, I had never been struck with a poor deal. Each tribe knew that if they craved delicately fresh meat, killed honestly and quickly, it was me who could be counted on. It was my source of pride; my accomplishments and my abilities were what tied me to Syndor and they had singularly gifted me the position of being Skylar’s right-hand. I wielded a reputation that, though might have seemed severe and reserved at times, was undoubtedly respected, and it was a name I wished to uphold indefinitely.
Vast stretches of thick grove outlined the lands beyond the establishments of Syndor. There existed a comfortable range I regularly trekked through that was at a distance from the village, but still well guarded from the werewolves’ territory. Though I was not afraid of the beings, I did not wish to have my solitary time interrupted by the sight of one. I could do well in a fight, but what I desired more than a test of my skills was a lack of disturbance during such an intimate moment. There would come a day that would require me to face our enemies who roamed in the western region of our forest, but today would not be that day.
From between the trees I spotted a swift movement. My scouting eyes instantly ascertained the creature, one that was certainly quick on its hooves, but hardly intelligent enough to evade my attack. The doe dashed from one bush to the next, until it settled upon a fine patch of grass beside a still pond, bending down to feed itself. Its dusty coat reflected in the pool, as if it were giving one last show to nature before its life would be taken. I respected the animals that existed alongside us, but I understood that their purpose was to sustain us. More would breed, and more would come to enjoy the earth as this one did presently, and with a sign of regard I armed my bow and sent an arrow flying toward the doe, bringing it down with a direct hit to the chest.
The doe perished at once. It did not give a dying cry, nor did it struggle in its fight to regain breath. I did not long to harm any animal I killed more than it needed to suffer.
“Nice shot,” a voice startled me from behind, and quickly I drew my bow again in defense.
“Brett, you know you can’t sneak up on me while I’m hunting,” I exhaled a sigh of relief when I recognized the face behind the tip of my arrow.
“Nice shot,” he ignored my remark. “Did the wolves teach you that one?”
“You know, that joke wasn’t funny the first time, and it certainly isn’t funny the hundredth time.”
“One day you’ll laugh, and one day you’ll thank me for it.”
Contrary to Skylar’s nonsensical romantic opinions, Brett and I enjoyed no hint of intimate feelings for one another, and it had been well established that none would ever blossom throughout the entirety of our relationship. Our friendship was more sacred than most; in the awakening of my abilities, yet before I had discovered Syndor, I had fled to the forest blindly, unknowing of what I was searching for, but understanding entirely that isolation from the heart of the bustling populace was a necessity. For longer than most, I wandered about the deepest directions of the forest, somehow unable to unearth the village that would provide me with eternal protection. In those uncertain months, I had befriended a wild pack of wolves, ones that were natural to the land unlike Mitch’s horde, and for uncountable days I had lived beside them, learning from them, becoming savage yet inheriting a smartness I had never before been exposed to. Such a faithful connection to nature had provided me a mastering of my magic before I ever stepped foot into Syndor.
Consequently, it was Brett who had discovered me beyond the Veil—the invisible border that deters humans from entering into the sorcerers’ territory so as to protect both species, and which draws new sorcerers to its boundaries to quell their instinct to find their belonging—sleeping beside my constant creatures. Upon our first meeting, my soul had jumped at his presence, inspiring a trust in him I had never been eager to give another before. He had understood my being lost in the woods, and I had followed him to Syndor where at once I felt myself to be at home. In that moment my spirit had quieted, and there was no unrest that ran about my mind recklessly. It had taken time to discover the place my being belonged in, but once I became acquainted with it, I vowed to never forsake it.
“Help me haul this deer back to the Shadow Tribe,” I instructed Brett. “If you can’t be good at making jokes, the least you can do is be resourceful.”
“Yes ma’am,” Brett assented.
The weight of the deer seemed to disappear in his arms as he removed the arrow from its chest and returned the weapon back to me before cradling the animal and setting off back to Syndor. We filled the forest space with jests and sarcastic wit, scaring off any other creature that happened to cross our path. The journey was scarcely an intolerable one when I traversed it alongside my friend, and before we knew it we had returned back to the Shadow Tribe as the lining of trees thinned and our cabins came into view.
“Are you going to trade the deer or keep it for your own?” Brett asked.
“Definitely sell it, if I can,” I answered. We descended into the cellar of my cabin, hanging the poor doe upon an empty hook in the back corner of the room. “I have more meat than what I know what to do with, as you can see.”
“Skylar’s meeting with the tribes’ leaders is today, right?”
“Yes. I was planning on going after making my trading rounds.”
“I loved leading this tribe back in the day, but God I do not miss those meetings.”
“Oh, hush!” I exclaimed.
“You can admit it—they’re practically pointless,” Brett persisted. “Every meeting is the same. Skylar talks about the need to terminate Mitch. You provide some plans. The leaders provide feedback, some good, some bad. Almost always one of them defiantly refuses the plan altogether. It’s like clockwork. It’s amazing, truly. The definition of history repeating itself.”
My loyalty to Skylar wished to refute his point, but I knew him to speak truthfully. As my predecessor, Brett knew intimately the workings of what it was like to be a leader of a tribe within Syndor. It was a title of the highest honor, as the leader was endowed with the responsibility of having to protect their own community by any means necessary. It was, however, a repetitive duty to tend to the empress’ ambition to rid the forest of the werewolf race, beginning with their formidable superior, Mitch. It was the sole purpose she had assigned to herself, as every previous member of the royal family had seemed to do as well since their inception.
“Don’t say such things,” I argued pointlessly. “Skylar is just doing her job as empress of this village. She has her people to protect, a lifeline to sustain. What would you do differently in her position? I’m sure you would do the same thing—because—well—what else could you do?”
“Perhaps I’d cease trying to slaughter him altogether.”

“Now you know that would never work. He can’t exist alongside us. He cannot be a part of nature because he isn’t natural, and balance will never be restored so long as he breathes. We will never know peace until he is gone.”
“You could be right,” Brett stared thoughtfully ahead. “But I don’t think what Skylar and the entire royal bloodline has been getting after for generations is right, either. Something would’ve worked by now. Clearly he possesses an advantage we don’t know about.”
“I guess we’ll just see what Skylar has to say today,” I sighed. “I sense there’s many things about Mitch and his clan we don’t know much of. Whether the royal family has deliberately kept it from us, or Skylar herself isn’t aware of it—I’ll never—we’ll never—know unless she says something.”
“Well whatever happens to be spoken today, you’ll have to tell me all about it.”
“Of course.”
In the aftermath of our inquisitive exchange, we parted ways and I rationed some pieces of the freshly killed doe to be traded for the day. Throwing the raw meat into a protective sack, I trudged to the Weather Tribe to meet Christopher, the leader of his tribe as well, to trade for precious metal to continue building my collection of weaponry. Though Brett acted as a mentor to me, and we were undeniably attached to one another, Christopher was my brother not by blood, but by emotion. The parts of myself I failed to show to Brett out of respect for him were perfectly laid naked to Christopher. I perceived him as entirely my equal, while Brett wielded an authoritative regard from me that required a different approach to friendship.
Being on such terms with the boy, I fearlessly let myself into Christopher’s cabin and called out to him as I entered.
“Hey, what can I do for you?” Christopher welcomed me, shifting his sandy hair to the side of his face.
He stood behind his counter, a clumsy smile strewn across his countenance. Though he was a polished boy indeed, his cabin was far from it; cluttered from floor to ceiling with various miscellaneous items, he was a hoarder by nature, but perhaps that was a gift when it came to his trading.
“What do you sell here, anyway?” I asked, ignoring his greeting.
“Junk,” Christopher replied. “Just whatever I think people will buy like animal furs or newspaper clippings that I smuggled in from society after I arrived here.”
“You know you’re not supposed to leave the Veil.”
“How else would I keep the village entertained with all these silly relics?” he asked amusingly. I narrowed my eyes in protest. “Doesn’t entertain you? Alright then.”
“I’ve just come to give you some meat in exchange for some metal, like usual.”
“I can do that, just let me find my stash.”
He slipped downstairs toward his cellar, and with patience I curiously studied the various objects that lined his first floor. Trinkets, gadgets, figurines, handkerchiefs, cutlery, ornaments—Christopher’s trading post was unique, that much I could admit though I detested the mess. He had never been one that adhered to the rules, and it was evident both in his deportment and in his manner of living. His frequent escapes beyond the Veil were unknown to the other sorcerers of Syndor, but I was acutely aware of them. Although inherently dangerous in their nature, if any sorcerer were adept at evading society and concealing his true self from their preying eyes, it was him, and him alone. I never feared for his safety, nor did he ever question his. Unlike most of the village, he felt at home in the population of those not like him, and his instincts to flee from their observation were not as severe as the rest of ours. He seemed to be able to co-exist with his mystical counterparts as much as with the normal public, though certainly he preferred the company of those who inhabited Syndor, for we were the souls he would not have to eliminate his magic before. For the most part, he respected the guard put in place to defend the near citizenry from our reign and to shield our otherworldly spellwork from those who would terminate us at seeing such feats; therefore, it was only occasionally would he venture to disrupt that shield, and scavenge for more items to sell to his enchanted companions.
At the conclusion of my contemplations Christopher reemerged, and proudly swung a bag carrying mixed metals onto the countertop. I peeked inside, smiling at the shapes of steel, stone, iron, and bronze.
“For your services,” I said, handing him my own sack of meat.
“You keep me fed, don’t you know that?”
“Oh I know you’d starve without me, you don’t need to mention it. I’ve never met a more indolent sorcerer.”
“Well—why hunt when you do it for me?”
“Fair enough.”
“Hey—you’re going to Skylar’s meeting, right?” Christopher questioned, diverting our discourse.
“Yes. It should be soon.”
“Let’s head over there together. I should probably make a better impression than I have been making and get their early.”
“Arriving with me certainly wouldn’t hurt, either,” I teased him.
We enjoyed the lengthier walk toward the Manor come noontime. The distant tolling of the meeting bell sounded through the forest air, signaling to each of the tribe’s leaders to flock to the building at Skylar’s request.
Christopher and I were the first of Syndor’s superiors to arrive. We directed ourselves to the assembly room where a long, large walnut table stretched across the rectangular space, and seven chairs were drawn up to accompany it, one for each of the tribes, in addition to the empress’ seat at the head of the conference table. Traditionally, on Skylar’s right I would be seated as her second-in-command, and to her left, with respect to her roots, the leader of the Nature Tribe would sit. The other chairs were not strictly assigned, though it was customary for each member to sit in the same positions they were used to seating themselves in, and therefore, without speaking, each leader would escort themselves to their preferred bench.
Skylar stood by the windowsill, the curtains flown open, light from the spring afternoon pouring through the glass. She appeared poised, more so than she had been before her announcement to the village days before. She noted our entrance, and, as if she recognized my footsteps as my own, she turned around suddenly to greet me.
“Noelle!” she embraced me immediately, and turned to Christopher to shake his hand respectfully. “And Christopher—I am happy to see you two have arrived. We have much to discuss today.”
Skylar, in spite of herself, wore an expression unlike any other I had seen her adorn as of late: it was an expression of utmost hope. To what, or who, she owed this pleasurable change to, I did not know, but certainly it would be revealed during the congregation.
As Christopher and I took our seats beside one another, the remaining leaders trickled in, welcomed by an enthusiastic Skylar one after another. Sarah, leader of the Nature Tribe, sat in front of me, and we exchanged revering nods. In due time, each seat was occupied, and Skylar assumed her position at the head, presiding over us before beginning.
“I hereby call this meeting to order,” she pronounced. “Customarily, I would have Noelle take the stage to introduce what exactly we will be discussing today, but I wish for this assembly to be different. I have—or rather, I believe it is John who has—pertinent information that needs to be shared with our leaders at once. So I will allow him to do just that. John, you have the floor.”
In obedience he rose, and his rosy cheeks were set aglow as our attentions turned toward his authority. John surely was not accustomed to having many eyes on him at once, but he took the newfound respect with dignity and pride, and he cleared his throat before starting his announcement.
“Good afternoon to you all,” he faltered before finding his words, “and thank you, Skylar, for allowing me the pleasure of speaking today. It is with the utmost important I bestow these details upon the leaders of our tribe today, so as to devise a way forward. About four days ago, I received a vision, a very clear one, showing me the coming arrival of two female sorcerers to Syndor.”
A striking silence signifying the utter shock of the room was clamorous indeed, but John was not taken aback. He persisted.
“As you all might be aware, members of the Dream Tribe have, historically, been gifted visions of newcomers to the village. These visions have never failed us, though they have certainly been lacking in many, many years—not since the death of San and Jennifer Derlock, may they rest humbly in peace.” A moment of quiet stiffened the hall. “It is with great joy I am able to relay this optimistic circumstance to you all. We have been living in fear ever since the tragedy that shook our village, and have been desperate for new talent to appear so that we can continue the fight to defend our great home. We have our silver lining now, and I believe, as well as Skylar does, that we must act upon it.”
At his conclusion he sat down, and Skylar stood once more to take his place as the object of attention.
“Thank you exceedingly, John, for sharing this with us,” she smiled. “I’m sure you all might be quite shocked to hear of this—I certainly was. But we know that this is nature merely running its course. From the very first account of Mitch’s presence, our forest has sought to decimate him and his growing group of confidantes. Where once only stood the Nature Tribe soon grew a village with many different territories, each gifted with many different abilities, forged by the universe itself singularly to bring death upon Mitch’s unnatural presence. It is us that has been tasked with this responsibility to restore order to this land so that we may live in peace.
“For generations those who came before me, with the aid of each tribe’s leaders, have formed plans to fulfill this cosmic duty. For years our best sorcerers, no matter their abilities, were sent to combat this heinous creature. Each tribe has contributed their own to this fight, though, it is unfortunate to be said, it has also been years that each endeavor has failed to bring about some kind of success. Mitch has proved to be an incredibly powerful force, but we are gathered here today to take the arrival of new sorcerers as a victory, and as a sign that we must persist in striving to bring his reign to a prompt end.”
“Your majesty, if I may interject,” Savanna, the commander of the Fire Tribe, spoke up sharply.
“Please,” Skylar gestured. “I’m inviting you all to join in this discourse, as I have plans for how I wish to proceed.”
It struck me as odd that Skylar had not chosen to consult me about whatever initiative she wished to share. I had consistently served as her guide in matters pertaining to such strategy and retaliation against Mitch. Did she not think me fit to contrive of a suitable course of action this time? Certainly she still held my intelligence in high regards, and therefore I could not imagine what had prompted her to hesitate her ideas to my enlightenment.
“We are all acutely aware of the situation that presents itself with Mitch,” Savanna pursued staunchly. “I was personally at the head of the last mission to kill the Grand Werewolf himself. As planned, I led myself and two other sorcerers, one belonging to the Shadow Tribe, and one belonging to the Water Tribe, to his territory, where we sought to use the combined force of our varying powers to overwhelm him. It was a treacherous journey, as all these undertakings are for us. Nonetheless, such a seemingly lethal arrangement should have murdered him where he stood perfectly so. Contrary to our thinking at the time, it did no such thing. He was entirely unharmed by our ploy. Of course this was dissected with disappointment at our last meeting, with questions flying about, asking how this despicable creature could survive such an attack. Nobody could answer it, and I fear that this strange circumstance was politely swept under the rug when, just a few days after our attack, Mitch wreaked havoc on our precious village and personally took the lives of our dear emperor and empress. He didn’t seem to target anybody or anything else, nor did he destroy any land or building. It was only our fearless leaders he sought to devastate. We have been silent about what to do, and the forest has been harrowingly hush about its suggestions as to how we should advance, ever since.
“What I believe we have failed to address, and what we have so carelessly dismissed, is the impossibility of Mitch’s surviving our attack. Though he still remains alive and well, it was our most successful trespassing into his territory, and it was, as far as I know, the only attack we have orchestrated that occurred where we were able to see, with our own eyes, the precise failing of our efforts. I watched as Mitch rose from our deadly assault, and I watched as he transformed himself into the savage beast we know him to be, and before he had the chance to strike, we fled. We knew we were no match for him. I felt it, as did my team. It is with this reminder of that day I speak to you all of that I must proclaim what I have suspected for quite some time, since my arrival to this fair village and since assuming my power as leader of the Fire Tribe—I believe, whole-heartedly, that any attempt of ours to thwart the werewolf will be futile, because Mitch is more than a mere unnatural specimen plaguing this forest; he is immortal, and there exists no strength of ours that can take away his life.”
Several retaliations reverberated throughout the room, piercing my ears with the leaders’ exacting protestations. I glanced at Skylar, who held a stoic countenance, though I perceived a mark of offense written plainly across her lineaments. For Savanna to make such a brazen statement was bold indeed, for it insinuated that Mitch’s guilt for the deaths of San and Jennifer Derlock would receive no consequence. If Mitch were, in fact, immortal, the forest, too, would exist in fear for eternity, and never again would it enjoy the pleasurable harmony it had witnessed since its very inception!
The leaders roared with confusion, fury, devastation, their voices mixing together in a horrid pallet of emotion.
“To say such a thing—!”
“It seems reasonable enough.”
“No other creature that exists among us is immortal, so it can’t possibly be.”
“If he can live forever, then how will we ever rid ourselves of him?”
“Nature wouldn’t dare make a creature so wicked to survive forever!”
“Indeed—especially not one as destructive and discordant as him!”
“Quiet!” Skylar stressed above the commotion of cadences clashing with one another. Everyone fell to silence at once. “No—it can’t be true—it just can’t be possible. A creation such as him would never come to fruition. The very law of nature forbids it. All beings must have one, and only one, death. But no matter the fundamentals of the very world we are governed within—the existence of each of your unique tribes stands on the proof that Mitch can be killed. He is akin to a virus of sorts, and the manifestation of each tribe of Syndor stands as a testament of a cure for him and the unfortunate souls he has forced to suffer alongside his rule.”
“If Mitch is immortal,” Peter, commander of the Water Tribe, conjectured, “what does that mean for his servants? We know he alone is responsible for the other werewolves that roam this forest. We know that his bite on human skin transforms them into the deplorable creatures they are. Are they immortal like him?”
“No—they can’t be,” I interrupted. “According to one of the sieges we conducted years ago, our people were able to kill one of his ferine slaves. They defend Mitch with their pitiful lives, but though they are bound to their master once they are converted to his species, they are, for a fact, mortal.”
“Would killing Mitch—however we’d do it—then kill his servants?” Christopher explored.
“I don’t think they’d just drop dead like flies,” Sarah responded directly. “But they’d certainly be lost and purposeless without their foreman. I think as long as Mitch expires, his werewolf species expires with him.”
“Why can’t we just wage war against them?” Savanna demanded. “Mitch almost eradicated the royal bloodline—we would be utterly destroyed if it wasn’t for Skylar’s survival! We cannot let him get away with nearly shattering the very lifeline of our village!”
“I have to agree, your majesty,” Sarah conceded.
“It’s a mystery if he’ll strike again in a similar way,” John remarked. “That’s something we can’t risk.”
Skylar’s somber eyes glistened with indecision. The gaze of each leader fell upon her, eager for her words as if they were anxiously starving for them. She opened her mouth to speak, and, in a soft tone, much too soft to match the thick tenseness of the room, she decided—
“It is with my sole judgment that I have decided that, when these two sorcerers find their way to Syndor, we will house them, and we will embrace them, and we will keep them safe—but as soon as they have adjusted, we will send them to the Werewolf Territory, and we will have them kill Mitch.”
Her proclamation stunned the group to speechlessness. My head raced; I felt faint. What was Skylar thinking, sending two newcomers to battle against our worst enemy? They would have no knowledge of their abilities, scarcely any comfort in our village, and yet she would be casting them off to find success in the one mission every other sorcerer before them had failed to achieve!
“Skylar, I beg you—!” I rose sharply, my eyes snapping to meet hers. “As your right-hand I cannot allow you to do such a thing. They will be so young—much too inexperienced for the task! They will not—”
“Noelle, we have never used newcomers to fight Mitch, and perhaps their novel powers possess something stronger that will—”
“Your majesty, we have not used them because he would murder them in the blink of an eye! These new sorcerers would hardly know the knowledge of our village, let alone the conflict that has persisted between us and the Grand Werewolf for generations.”
“I have to agree, your majesty,” Christopher stood beside me.
“I as well,” the other commanders spoke in unison.
Skylar’s face flushed, but her eyes remained attentive.
“I do not wish to hear your thoughts on the subject, because I have made up my mind,” she spoke curtly. “This is a strategy we have never thought of before. Perhaps the forest has been telling us for years that the new sorcerers it provides us with are the answer, and we have failed to utilize them in the manner they are meant to because we feared for their security.”
“Your majesty, we feared correctly, because it will be a suicide mission—" Savanna interposed.
The empress swiftly raised her hand to silence the girl, and at once Savanna’s jaw tightened.
“I have nothing more to say,” Skylar held. “This meeting is dismissed.”

Chapter Text

I remained a week in the suffocating city to mourn my beloved grandmother. I had never been fond of any shade of black, but I was obliged to adorn myself in the color to express my grief wordlessly, and the frigidly dark dresses I wore complemented gloomily with the sadness that coated my bones. I could not bear to write of the circumstance to my Richard; rather, I settled on a day of departure when the funeral processions had concluded to set course to find reprieve at my home. I had been delicately drained of each tear in my body, and wearily I harnessed Periwinkle, hardly gathering the strength to keep my eyes alert for the journey ahead. If a thief were to seek to dispossess me of the very clothes upon my back then, I believed my despondency would allow it, for I was in no state to safeguard myself. Rosie’s maid thought it wise to send a carriage for me, but I refused.
“Those carriages do not belong to me,” I argued bitterly. “You must keep them here. Everything must stay the same, and go on as things normally do.”
“But, miss, your grandmother would not want you to be so exposed journeying home. She would want—”
“You—you poor, passionless girl!—do not tell me what Rosie would have willed!” I cried out, my wrathful depression escaping from my flaming eyes. Our argument on the matter did not survive long on account of my wretched retorts, and it was in this manner I abandoned the city: inconsolable, uncompromising, wounded beyond mortal comprehension.
How was one expected to return to normalcy in the midst of such devastating loss? My sunshine had been stolen, hidden behind a fog advancing with supreme sadness, and as I drove my mare on I bore the burden of my grandmother’s tragic absence from the earth. I was bade to shoulder the heaviness of returning as the girl who must remain behind, and attend each departure of her desires, and say not a word of the familiar melancholy that fell upon her once again!
I hardly knew how long I rode until I reached the familiar land of my and Richard’s home. My heart ached for comfort; if it did not receive it, I was sure the very tendons of its structure would split, and I would indeed perish from its brokenness. Perhaps I did not love my husband as one should, but my spirit had become inclined to his security, and thus it was he who I fled to in peril, as I did then.
A chilling silence floated about the land as I came to recognize the environment I trudged through. The earth became more familiar as I walked on, though, in concert, its habitualness took on a haunting touch, and I shivered from its suspicion. Richard—Silas—I must get back to them—I must be going mad with heartache, I thought wildly, compelling Periwinkle to quicken her pace.
Swiftly we approached the sloping foothill that shielded our home in a shallow valley, engulfed in the vegetation of a beginning woodlands. I sighed with relief at the ascension of Periwinkle’s step; there was a softening sensitivity of feeling the final turn of one’s homecoming, when one has perfectly memorized the minute movements of one’s journey homeward. I felt at ease instantly, acknowledging that, down beyond the crest of the hill, my family lay in wait for my arrival. I seemed to almost taste their affection!
At the top of the hillside I gazed down toward my remote residence. In the dusk I glimpsed where the building laid; in its place there was a black mass, shadowed from afar. It looked strange in the growing night, but I dismissed the illusion from the mind and carried onward, longing to feel the bedsheets upon my skin and the tranquility of a tender slumber. I was much too weary to be disturbed further.
Yet my contentment slipped from my sanities as I traversed closer to the house. It was not the impending darkness playing tricks on my fragile eyes; the house was indeed blackened, charred—as if set to fire! The wood was split and the bushes tinged with a charcoal color, and at once I hastened Periwinkle to bolt to see what was the matter!
“Richard! Silas!” I screamed, nearing the wreckage. “Joan! Silas!”
There was no answer from within the house. Anxiously my heart thrashed within my throat, and I flew from Periwinkle to the ground. My mare was in a fit as well, nickering madly as if we were surrounded by wolves.
“Our house! What has happened to our home?” I cried desperately, running up to the remains of the front door. My fingers fumbled over the scorched remains of the foundation, searching for a clue of what went terribly amiss. “Richard! Joan! Silas!”
Perhaps lightning struck the place—was there a storm while I was away?—I faintly recall rain—they must have broken from the house—toward Joan’s place—surely they must be there! I rationalized, scanning the wall for a suitable way to enter. My family was certainly safe at Joan’s cabin not far from our farm, as Richard would have surely defended our family from the flames of such a treacherous disaster. They would have written me—wouldn’t they? Well—perhaps this only happened a day ago—perhaps the letter never reached me—
The damage appeared vaguely fresh, and with my newfound justifications I choked down the tears that began to form. How impossible it seemed that I was on the precipice of a bellowing anguish again, when I had certainly exhausted my sorrows for the past week! But they would not be required to be expressed—no, not one tear would be necessary—because they were indeed safeguarded from the catastrophe, having fled from the fire successfully before any harm came to them. Yes, I nodded to myself, it must be. Perchance they left a message somewhere in the ashes, somewhere here—
Frantically I hunted the embers for a sign of their survival, a postage indicating their great escape. Among the dust I surveyed the burned furniture, the singed clothing, the melted glass. I knew not a single fiery calamity that could have taken responsibility for the overwhelming destruction. Certainly a kitchen fire would have been extinguished promptly, or a lone spark from the fireplace would have been quickly quelled. It seemed an act from heaven above, an unforeseen accident that had left my family scrambling with no time to salvage any piece of our beloved abode!
Suddenly my eyes were arrested by something slumped in the cinders. I crept toward the foreign material—it was not wood, nor fabric, nor rock. No, this was something entirely different—perhaps metal from a pot or pan? No—perhaps a marble trinket from the mantlepiece? No—it flashed red and black, and it appeared soft and once full of life. Gently I leant down to touch the specimen, to uncover its whole from the mess, when at once I leapt up, screaming in horror, when I met the shining eyes of a face scalded and marred beyond recognition, still gleaming as if it were still well and alive!
Mixed within the shroud of onyx upon the floor of our once lively home were three bodies, and I discerned their ghastly figures in the rubble—their heads, torched without hair; their arms, legs, torsos, all grotesquely disfigured and discolored. I counted—one, two, three—one man, one woman, one child—the whole of my family, the whole of my heart, all laid violently to rest in the ashes of an untamed blaze born from origins unknown!
From the depths of my lungs I wept furiously, scarcely able to breathe, and I fell to the ground, screaming to the heavens, the entirety of my frame failing in an instant! I gasped for air, whilst still wishing each inhale were to be my last, as my soul surrendered to the torturous suffering, and I clutched my chest, reeling from the total ruin of my universe. There was not one being on earth that could withstand such wretchedness, and I did not see myself fit to be the exception. I had exhausted my capacity for grief, had completely effaced my lust to live, and with eyes shut tightly, bleeding rivers of anguish, I resolved to terminate my affliction, by way of terminating my very life, at once.
I stood up sharply to find something to grant me eternal relief, but froze in wonder as I opened my sights to the world again. At my feet there rippled a perfect pool of water encasing the foundation of the house, wetting the remains of the building and my perished kin. As far as my blurred sights could behold, the greenness of the valley had paled entirely; each blade of grass and every leaf upon the pine trees had withered and decayed into a mass of grey, flooding the scene with an absolute dullness. The change shocked me, and spurred me to tears yet again, and the grievous spell raged! My tearshed seemed to have doubled, and a river of anguish bled down my cheeks, spilling into the water that lapped at my feet.
The fantastical happenstance scarcely moved me in the midst of my intolerable hell. My blood turned to ice, my bones became stiff—there was but one inkling of consciousness left in my frozen mind, and it uttered one small word, repeatedly, incessantly, until it screamed—
Run!
Blinded by my blueness I ran to Periwinkle and kicked her sides violently, and promptly she dashed into the woods, knowing not where her rider wished elsewhere to be. I clutched her mane tightly and buried my face into her coat, painting her hide with thousands of shining droplets of dejection. The forest bent to my heartbreak, famished from any fresh dampening, and transformed into a dried sea of foliage as I rode on, trampling the life it once radiated with. Periwinkle galloped faster, faster, faster—too quick for me to see where we were, how deep we had fled into the forest, how much time had passed since I had seen my fair family deceased before me, cauterized completely, laying in graves of ashes that the elements would soon turn to dust…
Run!
In the distance there was a raging river, one Periwinkle nor I could not cross. But the voice persisted, it infected me with a delirium that could not be dismissed, and I hastened the horse forward, in spite of her concerned protests! She blore loudly we pressed on, quickly approaching the white waters of the channel, and I thought myself demented—we would lose our lives in the rapids! —but I did not fear death, nor drowning, and her hooves hit the waves, but we did not descend into the depths below. Beneath us a thick shield of ice formed on the surface of the water, growing at each advancement of Periwinkle’s step, and before I could cry with amazement we had safely driven across the vast waterway, landing on the earth once again.
Run!
“Wait! Stop!” a voice called out from the trees, echoing hauntingly throughout the heavily timbered land.
Immediately I drew Periwinkle to a halt and searched the grove frantically, wiping away the tears from my bloodshot eyes, and talking aloud to calm my nerves.
“Now I’ve really—now I’ve really gone mad! I hear voices—everywhere!” I shut my eyes and screamed so as to quiet the chorus of thoughts that roared within my mind, until it spoke again—
“Do not cry! Oh—do not cry!”
I looked up and before me stood a young woman with auburn hair and pale skin, clothed in a tattered beige frock and possessing the fiercest expression in her eyes. Periwinkle started, and at the sight of the madwoman my fright flared, and I raised my hand to the sky—from the air, enclosed within my palm, a sharpened icicle formed perfectly, poised to strike! Without thought I thrust the weapon down toward the girl’s figure, but before its serration could afflict her the crystal sword burst into a flurry of rain, destroyed by a strong burst of flames that erupted from her hands. The conflict between water and fire ceased within the second, and only a puff of steam lingered as a testament to its existing.
The girl and I gazed at one another without saying a word of the magical events that had transpired beyond our will. We did not need to speak; a twinkle of trust enchanted both of us, and I held my hand out to her, beckoning her to join me upon my mare.
“I’ve escaped—I’m running—I do not know where—” the girl stuttered, shaken by the intensity of her emotions.
“We’ll run together,” I assented, pulling her up to sit behind me. “I’m Miranda.”
The girl flung her arms about my waist, and I felt her warm body tremble and sigh as her head attached itself to my back. I ascertained her ease at once.
“I’m Mrs.—Avi. My name is Avi.”
“You need not explain a thing,” I assured her. “But I—I do not know where I’m going.”
I knew nothing of the girl beside me, but I did not think it wise to pretend as if I knew precisely where I was headed.
“Neither do I,” Avi confessed. “I’ve been in these woods for days—weeks. I was called here. I was—”
“So was I.”
Avi’s struggle sounded as if it came from my own impulses. I turned around to face her, and our eyes met, eyes that had borne witness to far too much turmoil in a forbiddingly short period of time. But to hear of her tortures would be a waste of her breath and an exhaustion of my attentions; I did not seek to question her origins, and merely focused on our shared journey in the present.
“This feels—right,” I spoke again. “I will keep on. Will you join me?”
“Wherever you go, I will follow.”
“Then let us not waste another second.”
Without any moment’s hesitation, I compelled Periwinkle to march, and she obeyed. Thus we sunk deeper into the thicket, entirely unknowing of our destination, but plainly certain of our direction.

Chapter Text

“Your majesty, there has been an opening in the Veil.”
John stood breathless in my doorway, trembling from his hasty journey from the Soul Tribe to my cabin. Never before had I seen his temper so troubled.
“Please, come in,” I gestured hospitably. He turned wearily around, as if anticipating an intruder about.
Gingerly John entered my sitting room, but did not allow himself the pleasure to recline.
“Your majesty, I have sensed two entities crossing the Veil,” he repeated carefully.
“When did this occur?”
“Only about an hour ago. I figured I was dreaming, or I was imagining some red herring of sorts, but it is true—two new sorcerers have crossed into Syndor.”
“These are the new sorcerers you dreamt of a bit ago, I presume?” I questioned, my heart leaping in my chest.
“Yes, your majesty. I have no doubt about it.”
“When do you think they will find us?”
“No telling, your majesty. But new sorcerers’ instincts are strong, particularly when they are seeking us out unknowingly. I would wager to say that they should be here by sundown.”
“My—by sundown!” I exclaimed. “I must make the necessary preparations! John, are you aware of their abilities yet? What tribe they might belong to?”
“We won’t know until they have arrived, your majesty. It might be the case that they themselves aren’t aware of their powers yet.”
“Very well. I will delay creating their cabin arrangements then. In the meantime I will go through our records and see if there is anything I need to tend to before they show. Is there anything else I should be aware of?”
“No, your majesty.”
“Very good—very good. You are free to leave then, John. Thank you—truly.”
He nodded, and slipped quietly out of my home.
Immediately there manifested an evident responsibility upon my feeble shoulders. Directly I called for Lizzy, who came at once to my command.
“What is it, dear?” she inquired, hastily wiping her hands with a white cloth.
“I have good news,” I announced, pacing the sitting room with my hands folded. “John has just been here to inform me that the new sorcerers’ arrival could occur as early as the end of the present day. We must make haste—truth be told I do not know the first order of business when it comes to welcoming them. You must know—at least know more than I. Should we go to the Manor? I’m certain we have records of these things in the library.”
“Of course, your majesty. Should I prepare your horse?”
“Not at all. We will walk. It will do me good to slow down.”
Steadily we walked to the Manor, making each step as light-hearted as the last. My duty weighed upon me, but the conviction that some sorcerer had taken pains to keep record of each death and each addition to Syndor assured me that my preparations would not be so tiresome.
Truth be told, I was not one of the frequent visitors of the Manor’s library. Perhaps I ought to have been, given my position in the community, but there were sorcerers of Syndor who were naturally drawn to the vocation of keeping our archives current, as well as enlightening themselves on the intricacies and histories of the village whenever boredom happened to beset them. I had received a well-rounded education from my parents, as was customary for the royal bloodline, and thus I did not need to seek out intelligence as the other sorcerers required if they chose to do so.
The athenaeum was itself an impressive display of the wealth of knowledge that existed within the forest. Arched shelves lined the room, constructing numerous rows alphabetically arranged and divided into their appropriate subject matters. The spines of each book and the capses encasing each scroll ornamented the room in vibrant hues as the sun decorates dew drops in bands of color. An eternally crackling fireplace sat in the center of the space, filling the air with warm comfort. Wooden chairs with velveteen wrappings were placed throughout the vacant areas, and while on most days some seats were taken by curious visitors, today the library was utterly silent. I preferred the quietude; I would not feel suffocated by the presence of anybody else besides Lizzy.
“Where should we start? I’m afraid to confess I have not stepped foot into this place in such a long while,” Lizzy sighed.
“I haven’t either,” I assured her, “but there must be a specific shelf dedicated to the records we have kept over the years. Ones detailing who has come, who has died, how many each tribe has housed form year to year, et cetera.”
“Certainly dear. I will start my search on this side.”
Lizzy and I deviated from one another, beginning at opposite sides of the room. Through the windows the sunlight guided our way, illuminating each heading on the various shelves.
Myths and legends—advanced spells—forest creatures—trading guides—archive of inhabitants!
“Lizzy, I found where we keep a record of each person who has lived in Syndor,” I announced. “Most likely it won’t tell us much, but it might help me to see who the last person we invited into the village was.”
“I will keep looking, your majesty,” I heard Lizzy reply from behind the grand arrangement of findings.
My fingers delicately combed through each item upon the shelf. The ledges were organized by tribe, beginning with the royal family. With an intrigued yearning, I stole the book relating to my family from its sitting place, and opened it.
Each member, past and present, of the crowned bloodline possessed their own page. A multitude of identifying markers were written, and a miniature portrait was drawn in the uppermost corner. Keenly, I turned to the last page, of which my portraiture was composed. I could not recall the date of its creation, but from the youthful details of my countenance, and the slimed physique of my frame, I supposed it had been fashioned sometime in my adolescent years. Certainly I was due for a new depiction.
Nevertheless, I read on—

Skylar Derlock

Date of Birth: April 27, xxxx
Tribe: Nature
Rank: Empress of Syndor
Date of Arrival: birth
Date of Death:

Father: San Derlock of the Nature Tribe
Mother: Jennifer Derlock (formerly Jennifer Hemming) of the Weather Tribe
Spouse: betrothed to Trent Mona
Children:

The final line of information sickened me. To be aware of my betrothal was one thing, but the duty to bear Trent’s children was an entirely other ordeal that I could not tolerate to think of. At the very least there existed a year that barriered me from the boy, and I intended to make use of my freedom somehow.
I returned the book to its original position and continued on. There was no use in attempting to remember who had been the newest sorcerer to Syndor; surely the boy or girl had arrived at a time when I was merely a child, completely ignorant of my impending burdens and of the spell of grief that would infect me in the event of my parents’ deadly departure from the village. I had been raised properly, and had been taught of the intricacies of rule and servitude, but I had thought nothing of the reality of these things, nor of the minute likelihood that I would be thrust into my role at too young of an age to comprehend the severity of them. My chest grew heavy; such innocence could never be salvaged and therefore would never return to me, but perhaps I could save the childlike sincerity of those that were to succeed me.
A publication by the name of “Record of Arrivals and Deaths” arrested my attentions, and consequently I turned through the leaflets to find the final name on the list: Emily Loveline – Soul Tribe beside the sorcerer she had replaced, Hamilton Wright – Shadow Tribe. I could call his name to mind; at thirty years of age he had passed away. No sorcerer lived past that fated age. Precisely why was unknown, though many had speculated it was due to one’s body being unable to sustain their powers past a certain vibrancy, while others argued it was by the stars’ design, led by the hand of Saturn Himself.
I retained Emily’s nomenclature, and promptly found the volume dedicated to her tribe, discovering her name on its concluding page.

Emily Loveline

Date of Birth: September 9, xxxx
Tribe: Soul
Rank: General
Date of Arrival: February 15, xxxx
Date of Death:

As was customary for sorcerers outside the royal bloodline, Emily’s lineage was omitted. We did not concern ourselves with where somebody came from, nor with where they had been—all that mattered to Syndor was that they had arrived, and they had done so safely.
“Lizzy, have you found anything?” I called to my maid once more.
“I might have—” her voice rose doubtfully, indicating that her focus was occupied by some written work. I returned to her, requesting any information she might have found.
“I’ve only found this—‘Entitlements of Sorcerers’,” Lizzy explained, handing her book to me. “It describes only the basic privileges you all should receive—housing, knowledge of trade, security, community, leadership. It could perhaps help you in seeing what exactly these two sorcerers should know once they arrive.”
“It’s a good starting place,” I answered, reviewing the work’s contents. “If nothing else, I can inquire after Emily Loveline. She was the last sorcerer to be welcomed here.”
“If I may—your majesty, it is my own belief that your mother and father would have rightfully instructed you on this duty, should it exist. Given your unawareness of it, I do not think there are any established customs for the admittance of new talent. Perhaps one must simply be welcoming, and that is all.”
Such a notion had certainly crossed my mind, but I hoped it wouldn’t be the case. A lack of detailed direction on so paramount an event worried me. I did not want to fail the two unknown sorcerers. As was nature’s decision, they were at the mercy of my guiding order, and if I could not produce any sort of briefing successfully, I feared the two would not find their place in our society.
“What do you suggest I do?” I asked Lizzy defeatedly, returning the book to the shelf.
“Well! I am certainly in no position to advise you, dear,” she smiled. “But if I wore the crown, I would do my best to act as a friend to these new sorcerers. We never know where anybody hails from, what they have been through, what they perhaps have left behind. I know what it is like to be turned away from the community that raised you, but I also know what it is like to be accepted elsewhere. When I arrived here, I was treated as an equal, and that is something I have not forgotten. Surely I would provide them with the necessary information they must know of Syndor, for it is the responsibility of all to know why we are here, but all of that should not be pushed on them the moment they come. They will be frightened. They will be confused, certainly! I would only suggest you treat these two the same as if you were in their scared shoes.”
I only nodded in recognition of her counsel.
In the following hours the light in the room rusted with an orange glow, evidencing the beginning sunset. Lizzy and I continued browsing the elements of the library, but came to no avail. Finding nothing of aid to us, I took my maid’s words to heart, and sent her off to deliver messages to each of the tribe’s leaders. My scriptures detailed the preparations for the new sorcerers and how, upon their arrival and their given tribal assignment, whichever leader was to gain a new member for their territory would assist me in comforting the newcomers and providing them with lodging. In the days after their entrance, arrangements for their clothing and food for two weeks would be made, whereupon after this time period the novices would be instructed on the basics of trading, the control over their abilities, and the division of the forest where werewolves exist. They would be looked after for a set amount of time to ensure that their adjusting was adequate, and once they had assimilated into Syndor’s society befittingly, they could be pronounced as independent.
Once they have properly habituated themselves in our environment, I will have to send them to kill Mitch, I thought wearily. But I will not think of that right now.
After a lengthy day of effort, Lizzy and I retired to my cabin, our soles exhausted from carrying the weight of our walk. Lizzy readied a bath for me, filling my opal basin with steaming water from the fire. A soothing remedy was precisely what I required in the moment; perhaps I would be granted one more slumber before the two sorcerers were to show themselves in my village. I felt myself prepared for their coming, but entirely ready I would never be until I faced them directly.
“Come to the bath, dear,” Lizzy beckoned me. “I threw some salts in, and have laid out some soaps for you. Your robe will be hung upon the door.”
“Thank you, Lizzy. You may retire for the evening. You have been an extraordinary help today,” I embraced her lovingly.
“Are you quite sure, your majesty? I would be happy to tend to you until you are ready to retire yourself.”
“No matter—I will put myself to bed. You deserve rest.”
“As do you, your majesty.”
“Goodnight, Lizzy,” I bade her farewell as the moon winked outside the windowpanes of my washroom.
“Goodnight, Skylar.”
I unclothed myself unhurriedly, and slipped into the bathtub. The warm water softened my temperament; my eyes, likewise, shut themselves gently. Outside the delicate rustling of pine needles sung, and not a creature stirred as the night overwhelmed what little sunlight remained on the earth. The tranquility was definite, but it would not be everlasting. Only heaven knew when I would take pleasure in it once more; as empress, however, with new talent approaching quickly, and a sense of justice for my village infecting me, I accepted that the present peace would never again grace me so willingly. Thus I laid in appreciation of the rare placidity, and tasted its sweet sereneness.
Beside the hum of what faint movements sounded in the moonlight, my ears pricked to a discourse at my front door. I could not decipher words, but I was conscious of the staid tones of Lizzy and another sorcerer, and immediately my nerves stung with unease.
The door was shut, and suddenly I heard commotion below me before an anxious flight of footsteps ascended the staircase. I turned toward the door of my washroom, anticipating whoever came to disturb me.
“Your majesty, my apologies for intruding—but you must come, it is urgent,” Lizzy’s face was positively flushed.
“Well—what is it?” I sat upright, grasping the sides of the bathtub for support.
“The two sorcerers—your majesty, they have arrived.”

Chapter Text

Lit through the darkness the face of a girl glowed beside the flame of her torch, her eyes sparkling with fascinated interest. The shouts of other souls pervaded through the night air, exclaiming with excitement, and I discerned some boy dashing off into the distance, perhaps to convey the news of my and Miranda’s entry into their territory. I knew not who these people were, nor what the place was where we had found ourselves in, but as I rested my gaze on the girl who spoke nothing before me, each thread of my being ceased in its anxiety, and at once I felt entirely at home.
“Do not be alarmed, we are here to help,” the girl spoke tenderly, slowly approaching Miranda’s horse.
At the stranger’s movements Periwinkle rose on her hind legs, neighing viciously, and desperately I clung to the girl I had traveled beside, but the shock of the horse’s frenzy threw us from her back, and within seconds I found myself on the bed of the forest floor, my bones aching from the fall. In my vulnerability I rose quickly, keeping my eyes on the crowd gathering to look upon Miranda and I.
“Somebody send for Lily!” the girl shouted, running to Miranda, who had not sprung up as I had. She laid unconscious on the grass, deaf to the world around her.
Swiftly I flew to her side as the girl did. I would not allow such a foreign face to hurt Miranda.
“What are you doing? Who is Lily?” I demanded, guarding Miranda’s body. “What is this place?”
“Do not be frightened, please,” the girl insisted. “Lily is one of us, she is the village healer. She is going to help your friend. She will be alright.”
“And you—who are you?”
“Me? My name is Ann.”
“I don’t understand—I do not understand what’s going on,” I answered frantically, watching the other curious countenances behind her.
“I know, I know,” Ann said. “You are new—there’s much to enlighten you on. All will be explained shortly, just as soon as we help your friend—”
“Miranda,” I corrected her. “Her name is Miranda.”
“Alright then—as soon as we help Miranda.”
From the mass a second girl emerged, much younger than Ann, dressed in a plain white frock with her hair in two braids, as if she had just awakened from her midnight slumber.
“Allow me,” the girl bent toward Miranda, and laid her hands over the bloody marks on her head. She closed her eyes, and slowly the scars began to emit a faint light.
“Hey—what are you doing?” I screamed. “Get away from her! Don’t hurt her!”
Ann jumped toward me, restraining my mad movements.
“It’s okay! She’s not—Lily is trying to save Miranda!”
Wildly I searched Miranda’s injuries for confirmation of Ann’s assurances. Pushing Ann aside, I saw Lily’s mouth moving gently, whispering utterances to herself that I could not understand. With each finished spell, I witnessed Miranda’s wounds close, and fresh, unblemished skin took its place.
“What are you—what are you doing?” I asked her.
“Healing her,” Lily looked up at me, smiling.
“Is she going to wake up?”
“Certainly. I cannot disturb her, however. I can only reform the physical trauma that’s been done to her. She will awake refreshed and feeling just fine.”
“In the meantime we should get you two inside,” Ann joined. “We will take you both to Ellery Manor and—”
“I am here!” a voice called in the distance. “Disperse, please, let me see them.”
Ann and Lily turned sharply to face the girl who appeared in front of the gathering. Like Lily, she wore a simple dress, and her golden hair hung wildly about her ruddy face. The multitude yielded to her with a silenced regard.
“Your majesty,” Ann bowed her head, “thank goodness you’re here. They have just arrived a moment or so ago.”
“What has happened to her?” the girl gestured furiously to Miranda’s senseless frame. “Is she alright?”
“Yes, your majesty,” Lily stuttered. “She fell from her horse. I was called to heal her—she is perfectly well—but it will take time for her to awaken.”
“We were going to take the two to the Manor,” Ann interrupted.
“Very well,” the girl sighed. She turned suddenly toward me, her eyes positively aglow with beguilement. “Please, do not be frightened. You are safe now—this is your home. I am Skylar, empress of Syndor.”
My head spun with wonder. The bewilderment that racked my body implored to interrogate the girl who deemed herself empress of the village I had stepped a weary foot into, but I was at an utter loss for words. The madness of my mind flustered; however, the stark agitation that had tormented me for many weeks had entirely disappeared, and it was then I remarked the loss of its uneasy weight.
“You must surely be tired, and quite confused,” Skylar continued. “Let us help.”
She extended her hand, and nervously I accepted.
“Brett, Trevor,” she asserted, and at once two boys stepped forward. “Help Ann and Lily take—”
“Miranda,” I spoke for my fatigued friend.
“Of course—help them take Miranda to the Manor. They will both spend the night there until we learn more about them. Do not waste time! These two deserve some rest somewhere safe.”
The boys obeyed their leader, and effortlessly raised Miranda from where she laid. Ann and Lily followed Brett and Trevor’s footsteps closely, while I clung to Skylar’s arm. Two dazzling lines of lanterns brightened our path, and in the luminescent flood I observed each spectator. Some whispered excitingly; others observed fixedly with mouths agape in surprise. Skylar continued to give orders to her subjects for food, water, and clothing, and all heeded readily.
My feet, longing for relief, clung to their last fragments of strength as we approached the avenue of two perfectly planted groves of trees on either side of a road leading to a hidden estate. I did not ask of our whereabouts, nor what we would be required to do once our journey had been fulfilled. Up the passage we strode until we reached an unadorned flight of stone steps leading to a large wooden door. Skylar, still supporting me, paced into the doorway, and quickly our group congregated in the darkened foyer.
From within our private assembly Ann surfaced, and with a wave of her hand the oil lamps which hung from the wallpaper were alighted, filling the room with an amber warmth. A grand winder staircase sat on the leftmost wall, arching over a wide aperture that appeared to welcome its visitors into a great hall which split into various other distinct rooms. The waxy floorboards were cold upon my bare soles, and the air in the mansion itself tidy quite stale. I conjectured the house was void of any permanent residents, as it was certainly cleanly for those passing through, but not at all lively enough to satisfy those who might live inside.
Skylar escorted me and her other trailing followers up the stairs and through the passageway it connected to. The corridor was decorated with a magnificent glazed wall on the right side, affording us a charming view of a bounteous garden outdoors. I could not discern anything in the darkness, but I heard the soft tinkling of water rolling about the grounds, and the noble cry of an owl perched in some towering tree. The estate was ominously immense in its property, and the many rooms it housed were an utter mystery to my careworn awarenesses, but I was not frightened. Any hospitable establishment that was built at odds with the bitter forlornness of the madhouse my husband had shut me up in was satisfactory enough.
We were guided into one of the last doorways in the gallery, which opened up into a shadowy bedroom. Two four poster beds rested on either side of the room, and upon the middle wall was a glittering window, its curtains thrown open to look upon the orchards below. Ann ignited the logs in the fireplace, revealing more pieces of carved furniture and chateau damask decorating the walls with floral patterns.
“Will one of you please fetch these two girls something from the kitchen downstairs? There should be some food there. And another—find them something to wear to bed. They will not lift a finger,” Skylar urged. The two girls took off in varying directions, while the boys carefully laid Miranda on the bed nearest to the doorway. She looked at peace in her slumber, and I, conscious of her struggles, thought it best to leave her somnolent forever.
“Please, rest,” Skylar encouraged me, leading me to the other bed. The weight of my labors made the frame creak. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Frankly—Skylar—I cannot,” I sighed. She appeared startled by my address to her, and the boys standing alongside us looked at one another in confusion.
“With all due respect—” she began, as if to correct me for my improper consideration of her position, but she halted her forthcoming lecture. “I believe I did not catch your name.”
“Aviannah,” I answered. “But—Avi is fine.”
“Ah! Avi—well, it is nice to meet you—you and Miranda both.”
“Likewise,” I said with little enthusiasm. I was much too fatigued to feign gaiety when the only emotion I sensed still thrived within my heart was one of tired unconcern.
“We will not hound you,” she assured me. “Once Ann and Lily return with some food and some clothing for you we will leave you be. Sleep as long as you may like—God only knows how long you were out there searching for us.”
“Don’t you wish to know where we came from?” I asked mistrustfully.
“Not at all.”
“But you don’t know the first thing about us.”
“Avi, I know much more than you might think.”
Her proud deportment, one I could not understand, soured what little tolerance my weakness still gave. I was starved, severely exhausted, and terribly cold, and—
Cold? I asked myself. How can I be cold? When hours ago I was dreadfully sweating, my skin as torched as the surface of the sun?
I felt at my forehead, and whatever fever had infected me had entirely ceased its rage. Skylar focused on me concerningly, as if waiting for me to announce something dreadful.
“Please—I wish to be alone,” I snapped.
“Of course,” Skylar responded. Ann and Lily promptly rushed in at the empress’ surrender, carrying bowls of steaming broth and plates of fresh bread.
“You can leave the food on the hearth,” I directed the girls.
“I will see to it that somebody will be here before you both rise,” Skylar said, erecting herself from the seat she had taken beside me in comfort. “Do not worry yourself with what might happen tomorrow. One day at a time. Come—let us leave them in peace for tonight.”
I nodded in recognition of her care, and she quietly left the room with her four aiding volunteers.
I was not blessed with sleep so easily. My body refused to repose in the room I lay situated in, beside the girl who was the only familiar face in the sea of novelty I was drowning in. My luck had stolen from me this singular taste of support, and I was overwhelmed by the loss. With a frantic mind, I rose, and paced about the room incessantly, as if I had been transported back to the asylum. Certainly the place was much more habitable, and I possessed the freedom to move about the property if I pleased, but I felt myself forbidden to, and, what was more, I was disenchanted by the prospect of exploration after my many weeks in the forest.
After spending an hour or so maundering to and fro, I sat in front of the fireplace, vacantly staring into the flickering flames. The broth we had been served, in spite of its place upon the hearth, had turned cold, and I spat it out in disgust as I raised it to my lips, hoping it would provide me a slight satiation. In my vexation I could have tossed the pitiful fare out of doors, but I wavered in my recklessness, and turned back toward the fire.
I could recall how I had once looked at a blaze in fearful respect, acknowledging its danger and mechanically keeping a distance from its wrathful light. It seemed this human compulsion was no more; willingly I lifted the bowl and thrust my hands which held it into the fire, heedless of what catastrophic burns it might inflict on my delicate skin. But such injuries weren’t to be, and I sat in awe as I watched the sparks curl about my wrists, tickling me with no more than a soft caress. I waited a minute or two before removing my hands from inside the pit, and tasting the broth once more I was gratified by its enlivened temperature. Immediately I devoured the entire contents of the bowl, and drowsily I laid my head on the floorboards, keeping my eyes upon the embers until the last of them had faded into the blackness.
Upon waking my bones festered with irritation at my seeking rest on the hardened flooring as opposed to the doughy reprieve of cotton sheets. The room, now illuminated with the rays of a newborn sunrise, appeared the same as it had the previous night; however, my body, contrary to the few hours ago, felt rejuvenated, and thus the appreciation of my circumstances increased.
As if someone had predicted my arousal, a heard a knock at the door, and welcomed the stranger in before I had time to position myself in bed and pretend as if I had slept there peacefully. Skylar appeared before me, followed by a woman whose skin wore the glittering complexion of a diamond.
“We have brought breakfast,” Skylar said, gesturing to the woman who held a tray plated with berries, bread, and two cups of what looked to be tea. “If you need more we can happily arrange.”
The tray was placed on the table between my and Miranda’s beds, and I flocked to it, feeling more famished than the previous night.
“Has Miranda awakened at all yet?” Skylar asked worriedly.
“No,” I replied.
“I will have Lily look at her again today.”
“Should we be concerned?”
“No—I suppose that, given Lily’s healing, Miranda’s body is simply taking advantage of this comatose relief. Are you aware of anything she might have suffered from before you two met?”
“No, nothing—we hardly spoke to one another.”
“Well, that might be your first order of business once she comes back to the land of the living. You will be the only one she knows.”
“And she is the only one I know,” I retorted, suddenly struck by the empress’ casualness. Skylar recognized my hostility at once.
“Lizzy, can you please send for Lily to tend to Miranda? I am going to take Avi out.”
“Yes, your majesty,” the pearled woman bent with respect before quitting the room.
“Come, Avi,” Skylar threaded her arm with mine. “You know you are not confined to this room.”
Together we withdrew from the bedroom and Skylar led me to the nearest gateway to the gardens. The daytime breeze was saturated with the scent of fresh flowers which grew upon the hedges lining our walk. The assortment of colors embellished the park with resplendence, as if the place had been plucked from a painting fashioned from the most accomplished artist. Beneath us we followed a path of cobblestones which appeared to be mossy footsteps made by giants from the writings of some fairytale.
“How big is this place?” I questioned.
“It is quite large,” Skylar answered poetically. “These gardens stretch for some time, but eventually you will find yourself at their end.”
“Is there a wall enclosing it?”
“No. It only leads back into the forest. You can tell where it ends—where the oak trees meet these lush displays of nature.”
“Is this all natural?”
Skylar shook her head.
“The people of the Nature Tribe built these—for all of Syndor to enjoy. But you must excuse my haste in explaining—I’m aware you must have no idea what I speak of.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I muttered disappointingly.
“That is why I asked you to join me out here. I want to explain your situation—why you’re here, who you are, what this place is. I don’t wish to frighten you with so much information, however. So—what do you want to know first? And we can proceed from there.”
I paused, ceasing the two of us in our stride.
“What I honestly wish to know is—will I ever be found here?”
“I can promise you that you won’t be,” Skylar laughed.
“And how can you vow such a thing with so much surety?”
“Because,” she began, resuming our shared gait, “you now are under the protection of Syndor. Everybody who resides here possesses some type of magic, which the forest wishes to protect. It is because of this that no human can find us, and we aren’t inclined to leave these woodlands. It is an instinct—just as the humans are fearful of the depth of these lands, and don’t wish to explore it, we are unwilling to depart from the security of our home. Us sorcerers call this border that separates our life from the activity of human society ‘the Veil’. We do not leave the Veil because it, along with whatever abilities you might possess, is the entity that keeps you connected to this community. It can be dangerous—and we cannot guarantee safety—for both us or for them.”
“And what exactly is your kind of magic?” I interrogated. “If you’re empress, it must be quite important.”
“I am part of the Nature Tribe,” she continued. “Our tribe, as the name suggests, governs over the physical aspects of nature. Think the contents of this garden, the earth we stand on, the animals that reside here, things of that sort. I possess the very same abilities as anybody else in my tribe, though I am endowed with the unique power to give and take away human and supernatural life. It is my birthright to wield this talent, as it was my father’s, and anybody else born into the royal lineage that I hail from—but I am only to use it for the greater good of Syndor. To my knowledge this power has never before been utilized—but I digress—those that harbor the bloodline of the crown are also the sole individuals that are able to procreate. Therefore—it is quite easy to follow how the crown is passed on.
“For generations the Nature Tribe, with their royal bloodline, were the only people to exist in Syndor. That changed—and now we have many different tribes, all representing different elements. The mind, fire, weather, the spirit, water—they are our other territories, all equally important, and all equally prominent.”
“Where is the rest of your family?” I inquired, looking about as if I were to unearth one of them. “Have you no parents? You certainly cannot be that old—or no brothers? Sisters?”
Skylar took a long breath, and her lineaments sharpened.
“My parents were killed,” she spoke tersely. “And no—I have no siblings.”
“How were they killed?” I gasped. “It couldn’t have been anyone in Syndor—was it? Or was it some other mythical creature here? Are we not alone here—”
“We are not,” Skylar drew me to a bench, and bade me to sit with her. “There are many beautiful creatures that dwell in this forest beside us—harmoniously so. Perhaps you will meet them soon enough but—the one group we do not consort with are the werewolves.”
“Werewolves? Where are they?”
“They have their own territory, miles from here.”
“Have they always lived here?”
“No—we are quite certain they appeared some few generations after Syndor was first established, because that is when new tribes began to surface—the other elements I mentioned of our world, as you can recall. Our earliest reports of them date back to such time periods.”
“The werewolves—they are our enemies then?”
“Precisely,” Skylar replied, retaining her hardened expression. “For many, many years their kind has frightened our village. We do not know where they came from, but the Nature Tribe is wise enough to know that these creatures are not natural to our world. Though we do not know how they came to be, it certainly was in no ordinary way.”
“Do they have their own empress as well?”
“They do—we refer to him as the Grand Werewolf. He has only showed his face twice—once when he introduced himself as Mitch to our people, the alpha of his kind, so that we may know him, and fear him, for he vowed to hunt us—and a second time—when he slaughtered my parents.”
“Why did you not resurrect your mother and father?” I questioned, the words escaping my tongue before I reasoned it best to speak them to a daughter who was still cruelling mourning her loss.
“I was much too young to use that ability to bring back life into the world, particularly lives that were so incredibly powerful,” she mused gloomily. “Even if I had been mature enough—we are taught that death is the natural course of things, and the royal family line knows that interfering with life and death can lead to devastating consequences. While perhaps their resurrection would have been for the benefit of Syndor, and the world would not have punished us for giving breath back to my mother and father’s being, I do not believe it was a risk that should have been taken at any rate. I’m not sure I could have done it—no matter how desperate I was—it goes against what I believe. It is not natural—in the same way that the werewolves are not born of this earth as you and I. I took a vow to protect the sacred goodness of all things natural—we all have that duty—and I do not plan on breaking that vow.”
“I understand,” I whispered, attempting to follow Skylar’s exposé while striving to offer her comfort. “Why do you not simply kill their race?”
“Oh! We have tried—we have tried,” she answered. “Since their appearance we have stopped at nothing to bring about their extinction. We have executed many missions to kill the Grand Werewolf specifically, because we know him to be the instructor of his henchmen, and if he falls, it is quite clear they will, too. We have killed some of his own, but he always returns with more—we cut off one head, two more grow back—because his bite enables him to create more like him.”
“Could he turn us into a monster like him?”
“Fortunately no—he has attacked the sorcerers we have sent to assassinate him, but nothing comes of it. I suppose us supernatural beings cannot command the abilities of two distinct entities. All for the better, I dare say. Nevertheless—his subjects, from what we have seen, are not very violent—only when the Grand Werewolf is threatened. In their natural state they are merely invasive—though I’m sure they could be merciless if given the order to be. You might see one or two roaming about the forest seldom, but you are to never approach them.”
“How has Mitch not been killed yet? It seems as though you have stopped at nothing to see to his death.”
“We have reason to believe that he is immortal—another horrible consequence of his unnatural existence.”
“Ah—so at present the plan for his removal is—?”
Skylar focused on me with a judicious eye, and maintained an uneasy silence for some time.
“We are simply doing the best we can to get our forest back to the peace it once knew.”
“Very well, then.”
“I have a question for you, Avi,” she straightened, showing me back to the Manor where we had come from. “Do you have any idea of what powers you might possess?”
My cheeks reddened at her question. What gift I carried? Her question was one I supposed I should have known unthinkingly, but I stood before her, utterly dumbfounded, feeling her gaze become more critical the longer I remained quiet.
“Well—” I struggled to remedy the hush. “I—I’m not quite sure, but—”
At once I was thrust into the haze of recollection, and I saw myself as I observed Skylar standing in front of me—the scorching temperature of my skin that had since faded, the burn upon my husband’s hand, the force of fire that had exploded from me when I had encountered Miranda—even the prior night, when I had freely held my hands into the hearth, and had felt nothing…
Skylar grinned as she discerned the understanding that deepened in my faculties. She spoke nothing of her recognition, however, and offered patience instead.
“I dare say I do know,” I corrected myself. “Allow me to show you, your majesty.”
Humbly I presented myself before Skylar and, gently extracting one of the flowers from the thicket beside us, I held the plant in between my fingers, and glared at its glossy petals. I concentrated noiselessly, feeling a warm energy enchant me, and suddenly the stem burst under the weight of a spontaneous flame, eroding the beauty of the once vibrant blossom. In the aftermath of the fiery display there was left only a scattering of ashes that fluttered to the ground, whisked away by the summer wind.
“Please, Avi,” she said with a faint smile and an impressed inflection of voice, “do not set fire to the gardens.”
What I believed had only been half an hour or so had truly been a much longer interval of time that Skylar and I had spent in the garden. The empress informed me that there was still much for me to learn, but she would not take any measures for me to be assimilated into the Fire Tribe until Miranda was well again. Until such time of her recovery, I was to reside in the Manor, and be looked after and provided for by Lizzy. I was unburdened by the building’s walls, however; Skylar encouraged me to visit the Fire Tribe whenever I pleased, and to explore the boundaries of Syndor with general curiosity. She, too, would be a frequent visitor of my dwelling in the meantime. I thanked her for her generosity over supper before she departed the estate, leaving me to spend a second night with the soporous Miranda.
Pleasantly I succumbed to sleep after such a rousing day. I dreamt of mystical creatures and great grounds of greenery, dancing liberally upon the earth that spoke of safekeeping. Miranda, awakened from her ailed slumber, was beside me, rejoicing in our freedom, and delicately tip-toeing along the path of our mischievous play. The sky was clear, and the melodies of the earth’s creation sung to us marvelously, wishing to be worshiped, and finding appreciation in our insouciant temperaments.
Beyond the brushwood I espied a flash of white, and, calling out to Miranda, I bade her to follow me in pursuit of the strange sight. Each of my prior musings departed from the whimsical rambling of my contemplations as my eyes trailed its movement through the thicket. I must follow it!
I tore through the foliage, deep into the woods outlining the beautiful Syndor, dashing faster, faster, faster, combing miles in minutes—until I reached surmounting evidence of life unlike our own. The space was ridden with caverns dug underground and forged within cliffs, and soiled bones littered the dusty ground. My and Miranda’s movements echoed against the rocky chambers of the valley that stretched far past our line of sight.
We were not alone long enough to question the emptiness. A white wolf appeared from the copse, gazing at me with icicled eyes that speared my senses. Slowly, then all at once, the pale fur that coated its body began to fade, floating to the ground as if it were made of frost. The animalistic shape transformed, and a boy, possessing the same somber blue eyes, took the place of the former canine. His mouth moved in a protective manner before I uttered my surprise—
“Go.”
From behind him a much larger wolf lunged at the boy, digging its claws into his tarnished skin. The boy cried, and shifted once more as blood stained his clean coat.
Horrified, I turned to warn Miranda to flee, but I witnessed her limp frame on the ground behind me, utterly lifeless. The sight sickened me, and I sensed a feeling of betrayal upon seeing her perished. Miranda—how could anybody allow Miranda to die!
The beast that had attacked the boy smiled with its fangs, and began chasing me out of the territory I had been led to. Its howling shrieks infected me with a deadly fear as I sprinted in the direction from which I had come from, longing to find the boundaries of Syndor. My vision began to blur as all the light from the forest drained away, and I was entirely lost, surrounded by hideous sounds and iridescent wisps of light scattering my sanities. The way out—where was the escape?—I screamed for my family, for my husband, for safety—!
“Avi—wake up!”
My eyes snapped open, and I was once more in the bedroom I had gone to sleep in, helplessly sodden with sweat. Miranda knelt beside me, placing a cold rag upon my forehead, and tenderly clutching my hand to her chest.
“It was only a dream—you’re safe now,” she whispered. Her touch soothed me, and the shock of my nightmare scarcely allowed me to express my astonishment at her waking.
“Miranda—you’re—”
“Yes, I’m awake,” she smiled sweetly. “It was perhaps the best sleep I’ve ever received in my life.”
“And you feel alright? You’re not ill—?” I reached toward her face, to feel for any traitorous warmth.
“Not in the slightest. I feel quite reborn.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“Not long—your fidgeting woke me. I assumed you were having quite the interesting dream, so I allowed you your respite. But then you began to cry—then to scream—and I was so frightened—so I tried to shake you to break whatever vision was tormenting you. I’m glad you’re awake now. I had no idea where I would be when I finally woke up—and I’m glad it is here with you.”
I could not have felt more relief than I did then, with Miranda watching over me, freshly roused from her distressing coma. I was not alone anymore in the Manor, and I leapt up with delight, eager to show her all she had been unconscious to.
“I suppose it might be best to wait for Skylar to come this morning to see you well,” I said. “We will wait in the meantime. Lizzy, her servant, will be in soon to give us breakfast.”
“Oh! Food—that is good. I am absolutely starved,” Miranda laughed.
“Tell me, Miranda—how much do you remember from before your fall? I want to tell you all I know. I’m sure you must be very confused.”
“Not terribly,” she answered calmly. “I feel entirely at peace—in a strange way. But nevermind that—what I remember? Well, I remember most of everything. I know that we came here and Periwinkle was positively startled, and before that I met you, and, well, before even then I lost—”
Miranda’s countenance blackened suddenly, and she threw her weight upon her bedsheets as if all her strength had vanished.
“What is it? Miranda—please tell me,” I flew to her, clearing the curls from her face.
“Did I not tell you anything of myself when we met?” she asked, dumbstruck.
“No—not a thing. We did not question each other.”
“Oh—well I—my family—all of them—I had gone into town for my grandmother’s funeral and came back to—they were dead.”
“Oh my!” I gasped, my heart yearning to mend hers.
“I did not see anything—I hardly know—” she struggled to speak through her tears. “You were in those woods as well—did you ever see them?” Her eyes widened with desperation, furiously shining with a suffocating sadness. “Did you come across our home?”
“I don’t believe so, no—”
“There were three of them—my husband Richard, my mother-in-law, Joan, and—and—my little baby—my beautiful baby boy—Silas—!”
“Oh! Don’t cry! Don’t cry!” I wept with her, feeling the magnitude of her grief that had been subdued by her sleep, but was now monstrously roaring with a renewed forcefulness.
“Did you see—you must have seen—it was a fire! A terrible, terrible fire! I saw the house—it was burned completely—their bodies—oh!—all of them—all three of them—gone!”
Miranda, in her paroxysm of distress, buried her face into her pillow and wept madly, scarcely breathing through her storming shed of tears.
Perhaps I was devilishly lucky for her diverted focus, for at the mention of a fire, and of the three family members which had expired from its wrath, my face was stolen of its pallor, and I ascertained the severity of the crime. I had indeed encountered her family, had stolen their food, and had faced them in their own home, wretchedly fearful from my escape from the madhouse! And it was I who had set their cottage ablaze in my delirium—I who had unknowingly divested Miranda of her family before I had ever known the girl!
It had been a disturbing mistake—I had not meant to bring about any harm! Thus I could not pronounce myself as guilty—not then, when she was the only person in such a strange land who I felt I could depend upon and place my confidences in! Not this poor girl—who had suffered enough, who yearned for support, and who would find it within my bountiful charity that wished to compose my conscience! But I would not utter any proclamation of blame, would not admit any of the faults I had committed against her deceased family, because to do so would be to have gained an enemy in unfamiliar territory, and I was not fond of receiving such a thing.
“Miranda, I am so terribly sorry,” I consoled her and, as wicked as it might have been to veil from her my sins, each word I uttered as counsel to her anguish was true, and perhaps I could convince myself of my innocence in time.
She remained silent for some time, helplessly sobbing with hitched breath. I thought it best to continue speaking, so that she did not have to bear the quietude of her all-consuming heartache.
“You’re here now—and you have me. In this new place, with these new people we know nothing about—you know me, and you can trust me. On my life you can! We must stick together.”
“Yes—yes,” she agreed woefully. “By your side you have me as well. I will be of any aid.”
“Then let us not be so afraid,” I responded bravely. “We cannot change what has been done. We will live here now—untethered to our past.”
“Untethered—yes.”
“Miranda, look at me.”
She turned her eyes toward me—those melancholic eyes, severed with scarlet streaks from her suffering.
“Come what may, it’s you and I—I swear it.”
I pulled her in to embrace me, and she again fell into mourning.

Chapter Text

The days following my wake were dismally overwhelming. I hardly knew how to conduct myself under the ponderosity of my pain, nor how to properly comprehend the place and the position I had found myself in the village of Syndor. Each day the empress was instructing me on something new, something entirely foreign, and I suffered to appreciate her attentiveness. The task would have been indeed exciting if I had not been cursed by such an affliction of the heart, a loss that I could not recover from. I failed to eat some days, and wished to remain tangled in my bed sheets longer than permitted. A dinner Skylar hosted in my and Avi’s honor was the worst of all to bear; I had remained utterly quiet throughout the celebratory ordeal, and had retired early on account of fatigue which I had not had to feign.
After meeting with Skylar personally and engaging in an intimate discussion concerning my particular abilities, she elected it best for me and Avi to move out of the Manor and into our respective tribes. Such a change nauseated me. I had scarcely been outside the Manor, refusing to leave the bubble of its comfort, and suddenly I was being directed to dispel myself from its sanctuary.
“Have you been to your tribe yet?” I asked Avi as we moved to pack our belongings.
“No,” she answered as she folded one of her dresses. “In truth I was waiting for you to be assigned to a tribe, and figured we could explore together. But the past few days have been terribly busy, and I have not had the true inclination to go elsewhere but here.”
“Nor I.”
“But you have been confirmed to be part of a tribe, yes?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “Water—I will be part of the Water Tribe.”
“Ah! It seems we are opposites then,” Avi jested. Her laughter sparked my own. “It does me good to see you laugh, Miranda. I know things have not been easy.” Her eyes directed themselves to the floorboards.
“No—they haven’t. This burden—it will follow me till death. But life persists, does it not?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
Skylar was punctual with her arrival. Lizzy graciously handled our compact trunks while her empress guided us downstairs to the foyer. At the base of the stairs stood a boy and a girl, their focus bound to me and Avi as we descended toward them.
“Ladies—I would like to introduce two of my leaders to you,” Skylar announced. “Avi, this is Savanna, leader of the Fire Tribe. And Miranda—this is Peter, leader of the Water Tribe. Each tribe has their own governor, and these two hold that proud position. They will assist you in showing you to your tribe. I think you will find your housing quite agreeable.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miranda,” Peter took my hand in his, and held it for a moment, humbled by hospitality. He was a young man of about twenty-two, with sandy hair and a moustache of the same shade growing about his upper lip. “I’ve heard so much—I introduced myself at Skylar’s dinner, but you were so engaged that evening I doubt you remember.”
He was correct—I could not recall any encounter with the boy. Frankly, it was a difficulty to remember the events of that night at all, as everything since my arrival had blurred together in a grey, misty haze.
“I apologize,” I lowered my head, shamefully unable to face him and his kindness. “I have not been myself recently.”
“It is of no consequence,” he smiled. “I understand how challenging the transition can be. I am only honored to help show you to the Water Tribe, and assisting you with moving in.”
Without any further delays, the five of us exited the Manor and walked eastward, beyond the picturesque line of foliage that defined the passageway from the estate to the rest of the village.
As we advanced, the trees gradually increased in their size, and the sky was much more perceivable through the canopies. A soft, midday breeze lifted through the air, and the hubbub of a buzzing community rang clear. Horses whined, bluebirds serenaded, and, somewhere in the distance, the sound of a streaming brook running through the heart of the village fabricated a calming presence in the midst of the astir forest. A poignant aroma of burning pine needles and damp earth beneath my feet saturated my senses, overwhelming me with solace and security.
In time we reached the first tribe of Syndor, of which Skylar happily showed us to.
“This is the Nature Tribe,” she announced, gesturing to her people. “It is by far our most populous tribe.”
Carved neatly into one of the trunks was a symbol of a tree, drawn with a multitude of branches and roots, extending far from the column. Our group walked forward, and the sorcerers that inhabited the tribe beheld us curiously, gawking at us as if we were otherworldly. They appeared almost frightened of our presence, and did not say a word to either of us. I disregarded their coldness; perhaps they had not been required to be so welcoming to newcomers for quite some time.
I admired the twelve or so massive trees that clustered within the space; they appeared to be habitable from inside, with many windows being constructed on the outside of the trunk and vines hanging from the plentiful branches. Some cabins were forged with stall structures outside of their front door, while others, I assumed, were built with interior counters, though for what reason I could not deduce. Those who stood outside underneath the wooden roofs of their booths called to those passing by, advertising a variety of products to trade. To my right I observed a distinct walking trail that stretched far beyond the Nature Tribe, leading its travelers to the many other covens in Syndor. As far as my naked eyes could allow me, I perceived the trail winding through the entirety of the village, which was filled with soft conversation and journeying persons going from here to there, going about their day in the blooming forest that brimmed with colorful life.
There was one cabin in particular that stood out among the rest; one that stood at three stories tall with a balcony that stretched along the topmost floor, and appeared to preside over the others.
“This is my cabin,” Skylar showed us as we approached her ornamented front door. “It is always welcome for visitors, and you can always find me here if you please. The rest of these—each sorcerer owns their own home. Every one of these cabins was created by a member of the Nature Tribe. They might seem small on the outside, but they provide more than enough room on the inside. Customarily there are always one or two that are vacant, but, if needed, we can always fashion more.
“It is here I must leave you—I have some business to tend to. But Savanna and Peter will show you to your tribe and help you get situated in your cabin. Enjoy it! There is much more to see than just the Nature Tribe. Farewell in the meantime, Avi and Miranda.”
Skylar’s departure inspired Peter and Savanna to acquaint themselves with me and Avi once again, and it was there where we split from one another, announcing a goodbye that perhaps would be short-lived.
“I’m sure Skylar was wise enough to inform you of the intricacies of Syndor,” Peter began. “As you well know, you are part of the Water Tribe now, which we’ll enter into shortly. But there are many other covens, as you can tell—Fire, Shadow, Weather, Soul, Nature.”
I was overly reserved in my bearing, and simply nodded along to Peter’s exposition. He did not seem to mind my timidity, and allowed me my silence.
Peter led the way into the small world of Syndor. Passing over a timbered bridge that floated above the river, my eyes lifted from the ground and shone at the sight of the tribes that ran along the waterway. My guide named them for me—Shadow, Weather, and finally, our coven. The Water Tribe lay situated in the backmost corner of the village, and a crested wave branded upon the first tree upon entering designated it as such.
I had supposed that any prospect of happiness for my being had been stolen with the terrible death of my family; but I strolled leisurely into the tribe, and at once felt a joy unlike any other. The sorcerers who passed by flashed bright, white smiles at me, and their clothes sparkled with hues of blue and sapphire. I did not feel judged, nor did I feel wrongly placed. I could have wept from the merriment that flooded my sensitivities, but I did not wish to frighten the boy who escorted me about, speaking passionately of the other inhabitations of our coven.
“Before you showed up, there was only four of us—Charlotte, Lindsey, Nicholas, and myself,” he explained. “We all share your power. We have six cabins in total, but two have been vacant for quite some time. It’s not so now that you’ve come.”
Peter showed me to the rear, past the coven’s stables and a large bonfire pit in the center of the space, and as we approached the corner cabin, he introduced the empty establishment as my home. The cabin was covered in ipomeas that grew however they so pleased, surrounding the windows that faced the tribe and wrapped around the back of the building, reflecting the golden rays of sunshine that struck its panes. Unlike most of the other cabins in the Water Tribe, there was no enclosure that covered the front door; instead, once we found ourselves inside, I was met with a trading counter that was the first piece of furniture one laid eyes on upon the interior.
The first floor was a quaint, circular room that, among the trading table with its various shelves behind the counter, housed a sitting nook and a small, thin staircase that led to a basement. Peter escorted me downward into a cool, dirt room, contrasting the pale oak interior of the ground floor. A small stone fireplace occupied the far side, and an old trunk sat on the opposite end, leaving the rest of the room bare with potential.
“Once you get more settled in, you can begin trading for furniture to spruce this place up a bit to your liking,” Peter explained. “Luckily, all of our village carpenters live in our coven, and can make anything you like—chairs, couches, tables. That’s what the trading counter on your first floor is for, and why you might see other cabins with stalls on the exterior. You are free to trade whatever you like—as long as people will see it worth buying. I’ll give you some advice—it might be best to invest in a rug down here to keep your feet from getting too dusty and cold.”
We returned to the first story, and Peter drew my attention to an attic ladder that would’ve remained utterly concealed to me if he had not shown me the thin string which hung from the left-part of the ceiling. By pulling on it, a square opening unveiling the second story of the cabin revealed itself, and Peter and I clung to the ladder which aided in our ascent. A floor designed to be the primary bedroom was evident from the fundamental display of furniture. The room itself was simple: a wooden bed lay beside a white wool rug, and a tall, golden-rimmed mirror stood beside an antique dresser. A small writing desk and chair completed the set, and on the surface of the table a quill and a bottle of ink looked as though it were in use, and whoever had been occupied with the task of recording had left in a hurry.
“Did somebody live in this place before me?” I asked Peter as he rummaged through the drawers of the dresser, preparing to explain the customary village attire.
“Yes,” he answered. “Her name was Eleanor—she was quite fond of writing, as you can tell. She was one of Syndor’s chief library archivists, in fact. She died of natural causes. But this cabin has not been in use for many years—I was only a boy when she was still alive.”
“How nice,” I remarked, taking in the contents of the room, with eyes bewildered.
“At any rate—each sorcerer is given the bare necessities of clothing when they first arrive. We don’t necessarily dress for the color associated with our tribe in our day-to-day wear, but for events it is custom for you, for example, to be ornamented in some shade of blue.”
“Is it best for the women here to wear dresses?”
“Oh! Not at all,” Peter laughed. “You live as one with nature now—dresses can certainly be worn, but for most activities we partake in, I doubt that would be the most appropriate. You will be riding, walking about, hunting—you can wear whatever you like, for there is no expectation. You may also trade for new clothes as well—what we’ve given you here is certainly not all you can own.”
“What do you trade?”
“I build things. I would be happy to give you a free piece of furniture—if you’d like. Consider it a welcome gift.”
“I might have to accept,” I said. “Once I get more comfortable here I’ll—I just—I’m not sure I know the first thing about trading—or hunting—or anything of that nature.”
“I’d be happy to show you how to hunt,” Peter smiled. “I can’t let you starve on your first day. Besides—some of our sorcerers here don’t know how to hunt, either, or who choose not to. There are people who trade in our village for food, so if it isn’t something you’re fond of, we can accommodate for that.”
“What was it like when you came to Syndor?” I changed the course of our conversation, imploring to know Peter's perspective.
“I came nearly a decade ago,” he spoke thoughtfully. “I was scared—and alone. It was all incredibly overwhelming. I understand how you might feel in that regard. It is not easy leaving your home and being told that this is the place you must stay now, because it is your place of belonging. With time your spirits will improve—acceptance takes time. We might possess magic, but we are still human.”
“Did you have a family?”
“I did—my parents and my younger sister, Adeline. I hardly know what became of them. On my last day in society I was out hunting with my father. I had been quite ill for some time, and he believed some exposure outdoors was necessary. We diverged in our path and I lost him—some voice took hold of me, beckoning me here. At once when I entered Syndor my illness left me and I thought nothing of my father and how we had become separated. Surely they must believe I perished out here—but they will never know the truth. It would be impossible for them to.”
Peter related his account with courage, though an evident solemnity pierced his speech, and I discerned his longing for they he had left behind unwillingly. He and I differed in our familial circumstances, but our desiring for their connection was shared.
“Do you ever miss them—if I may ask?” I thought it best to question him only lightly, for I did not wish to offend or hurt him.
“I do, to be sure,” he replied. “I might have discovered my place here, and prefer it infinitely to the life I once led, but the love I have for them will live for as long as I do. Just because I have found better, and have accepted my fate, does not mean I do not wish seldom that I could be with them again. That sentiment does not leave a person; it only changes with our situation.”
“I do hope they have found peace,” I consoled him. “To lose a son—I know well of it.”
“I offer you my deepest condolences, Miranda. Skylar informed me of it—you have endured much more than anybody I know of, and it takes great strength to be standing where you are in spite of it.”
“Do you think I will ever move forward from it—from them?” Uncertain tears began to pool about my eyes, and I endeavored to blink them away viciously.
“No—I don’t think you will,” Peter said, and his words caused a miserable change in my countenance. “They who were once part of you remain a part of you. But it is all for the better, you will see—it is best that you once enjoyed that love, because it is a love you will remember and carry with you forever. Your sadness is a testament to it if you ever doubt it. It is better to have loved and been divested of that love than to have never done so at all.”
Our heartfelt exchange was suddenly broken by the song of my stomach, aching for satiation. The hardiness that had left me as a consequence from my fall was then returning, and it was quite demanding.
“Let’s find some dinner,” Peter said. “We will go hunting in the outskirts of the tribe. I have to admit we have the best wild turkeys around here.”
I was guided outdoors, and ploddingly we entered the backwoods that stretched for miles beyond the Water Tribe. A green vastness was all one could see. We trudged for quite a bit of time in silence, breaking twigs with our stride and brushing past branches of glistening leaflets. The early evening beneath the canopies was silent and sure, and I found myself grateful for Peter’s companionship. The boy was still a stranger to me undoubtedly, but he and I were unified by our lost loves, and such comfort birthed a trust in him I had not expected to find.
“It’s usually quiet in the forest like this,” he broke the silence as we continued on. “I like to hunt alone out here in the Clearing—that’s what we call all this wooded land.”
“I remember Skylar talking about some boundary—the Veil I think she called it,” I contemplated. “Where does it end? How far does it go?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve never felt it, and I’ve walked for hours out here. I’d assume you’d know if you got close. We have this instinct to stay within the confines of its influence, and I’m sure you’d feel its power if you strayed too far. I’d be bold enough to say the Veil is the least of our concern, though.”
“How do you mean?”
“Did Skylar speak to you of the werewolves?”
“She did—briefly,” I responded, recalling the empress’ warnings of the creatures. “All I know is that we are to stay away from them because they are dangerous. We must not affiliate with them, if given the chance.”
“Correct.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“I have. For many generations we have sent sorcerers to the Werewolf Territory to assassinate their alpha, the Grand Werewolf, because he is a threat to our land. I was once part of that mission.”
“What are they like?” The forbiddingness of those we spoke of piqued my interest, and I wished to know more of the fascinatingly cruel creatures.
“They are what you would expect—savage, dedicated to their alpha, helpless without him. In truth, I pity them.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they did not ask to be what they are,” Peter detailed. “They were once human—the Grand Werewolf stole their lives from them by luring them into our land and turning them into his slaves. You might ask why they don’t leave him—well, if it were that easy—they are indebted to him. It is written into their bones now that the Grand Werewolf transformed them into what they are. Even so, if they were not bonded to him, they could not leave if they willed it, because they, too, like us, are repulsed by the thought of leaving the Veil. All creatures here have no desire to. Our instinct won’t allow it.”
“Do they ever come into Syndor? Should I fear an attack? I hardly know how to defend myself.”
“They might stalk the area, but they have never come near us in that regard. You should not live in fear—you will be perfectly alright. So long as you ignore them, they will not harm you. I would advise you to stay out of the Clearing if you’re alone, however, for your own peace of mind.”
“That seems so peculiar to me,” I frowned. “If they are as barbaric as I have been told, wouldn’t they be more violent toward us?”
“I stopped questioning their kind long ago.”
At Peter’s abrupt answer I ceased in my continuing questions. He knew much more than I did, and I held confidence in his replies. My morbid interest was not quelled, however, but I refused any further voice to it.
He drew a sharpened spear from the scabbard attached to his back and beckoned me to silence, ordering for me to keep my footsteps still and noiseless. I obeyed his paternal tone. Peter’s observant eyes examined the tree line for any game that could emerge from our path, trudging through the deadened grass and rock-ridden passage. A display of auburn innocently strode forth, and before I could gesture to the boy of what it was he wished to sever, a rapid gurgling sound erupted from the poor animal’s throat in anguish, and its body was struck by Peter’s unforgiving blade. He approached the lifeless turkey, lifting it by its neck, and held it out for me to carry back to the coven.
“Why didn’t you use your powers to kill it?” I questioned, recoiling from the perished bird.
“It makes it far too easy,” Peter smiled. “I favor a bit of a challenge sometimes. Here—you can take it back, and take the pride of the kill.”
“Nobody would believe that I did this.”
“Not with that attitude,” he remarked, handing me his silver spear, which shimmered with a blue stain, suggesting I keep it as my own. “Consider it a gift, along with the turkey.”
By the time Peter and I departed from the Clearing, the sun had begun its descent into the horizon. A deep crimson wave engulfed the lower sky and pink clouds soared overhead. With the disappearance of the day’s light, the lanterns which hung from the tribe’s small cluster of cabins were lit meticulously, and the three other sorcerers which Peter had mentioned but had not yet introduced me to gathered around the bonfire pit in the center of our home. Each of them enjoyed their own hunting success, and conversed merrily with one another over their abundant supper.
I approached the long, wooden table that stretched to accommodate several members and set the freshly butchered turkey down on its surface. Nicholas appeared impressed, though he did not speak any words of encouragement. He only smiled, and took the turkey to skin before impaling the dead creature and setting it above the hot fire to roast.
“Did she kill that thing herself?” one of the girls needled. “I’m surprised.”
“She’s quite the young woman,” Peter defended me. “Everybody—I would like you to meet Miranda. She’s new to Syndor, and new to our tribe. I expect you will treat her with respect as you would anybody else in our coven.”
I blushed at Peter’s support of my novel arrival. I did not wish for his tribe to feel as though I were imposing on their home. To them, I was an outsider, one who was not well-versed in their community, nor had been present for the formation of their intimate friendships. There was indeed an evident surmise that Peter’s peers would bend to my entrance with cordiality, but what they truly thought of me I would not know.
“Come, sit,” the second girl invited me beside her. “You must be incredibly tired. The first day is never easy.”
“Well—I’ve actually been here for a few days already. I was staying in the Manor with Avi—she is new as well,” I clarified.
“Ah—I see,” she responded. “Two new sorcerers! I never—at any rate—my name is Charlotte. And this is Lindsey, and Nicholas. And Peter—of course you’ve met him. We’re a small coven, no doubt, but we’re as close as can be.”
“When did you come to Syndor?” I strove to make idle conversation with Charlotte, who seemed the most lively out of the group.
“Seven years ago, when I was nine.”
“Did you leave anybody behind?”
“Yes—my father and my three brothers.”
“I left nobody,” Lindsey interrupted sharply, as if our discussion detailing our previous families had irked her.
“Surely there must have been somebody,” I turned toward her, willing to console.
“There was—my husband—and his mistress,” Lindsey retorted. “If my memory serves—his mistress almost resembled you.”
Her comment mortified me. Had I said something to offend her beyond repair? I fell entirely silent, looking down toward my meal to secrete the humiliation which contorted my face.
“Oh, Lindsey! Do not tease her in that way,” Charlotte spat. “It isn’t nice.”
“I was only kidding,” my assailant teased.
“Miranda—how are you enjoying Syndor so far?” Nicholas asked.
“It is—pleasant,” I gulped down a piece of meat. “I have much to learn.”
“Peter will do a grand job showing you about, I’m sure,” the boy persuaded me.
“He is the best leader any tribe could have,” Charlotte grinned with pride. Peter only nodded at her appraisal, and the four of us began our meal.
In the aftermath of our fine course, I requested to be alone for the remainder of the night. The group surrendered to my desire, and I retreated to my bedroom, shrouding myself in cotton covers. Outside my window I watched the flickering of candlelight from Peter’s cabin until it was extinguished, and each illumination in the coven followed in obedient succession.
I cannot go back to once was, where I lie is where I belong now, I thought ruefully, gazing at the ceiling of the room that was shadowed in creeping vines. My head ached, but its soreness was incomparable to the despair that my heart bore. I had been occupied the entirety of the day, and thus had not had the pitiful pleasure of calling to mind all the misery that hung itself in my chest. The mourning malady had eased in its torment upon my arrival to Syndor, as if it had been somewhat of a cure, but the death of those I loved dearest would not be so easily forgotten, not when their memory, their laughter, their company resounded in my fragile mind, and I wept into my pillow, still gripped with shock at all my delicacy had been threatened with in so short a time.
I felt myself being bade—though the request was never spoken—to dismiss all that society had raised me to hold for eighteen years, and pretend as if I had been erased of every blighting memory that stained my thoughts. It seemed as though each sorcerer had been divested of their former life, but their expressions spoke of unbounded acceptance toward this loss, a much dissimilar attitude than what I possessed. How had they so quickly yielded to such change? I could not fathom it; if I were to refuse the memory of my beloved departed family, it would suggest that I had never loved them, and such a notion could not have been more dishonest. Is this to be my new life? I questioned quietly. To feign a sound mind to these new people, and bend to their will, all while being coated in an invisible sadness that will not allow me to forget everything I once adored?
The weight of my forlorn contemplations compelled me to sleep. My eyes grew heavier by the minute, and I felt my body drift toward blackness, when suddenly—
Knock knock knock!
A rap at my front door woke me from my premature daze. I swathed myself in a blanket and anxiously took to the first floor, peering through the doorhole to inspect who was calling upon me at the late hour. An ease relaxed my bones once I observed Avi standing at the door, looking about and awaiting my kind reception.
“I was wondering if you’d like to take a quick walk,” Avi whispered in the darkness. “I know it’s quite late—but I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you most of the day. Truth be told, I thought it would be nice to end the hectic day with a familiar face.”
“Of course,” I answered, scarcely thinking of the trouble of a lightless stroll about the forest.
We sauntered beyond my cabin, walking along the pebbles which lined the side of the river that divided the tribe. Weather and Shadow rested on the westward bank, while Fire and Dream sat eastward; looking north we perceived the Nature Tribe, and behind us was my coven. Syndor was perfectly sundered; perhaps it was nature’s sole purpose to display its magical peoples as harmoniously in unison with one another. If our village resembled such beautiful balance, I wondered how the Werewolf Territory looked. I presumed I would never be introduced to the environment, however, and supposed it was for the best considering the creatures’ dangerous repertoire.
Avi and I marched along, keeping our voices low as to not disturb a soul.
“What was your day like?” I asked.
“Standard, I suppose,” she responded, shrugging. “I was shown my lodging, instructed on the basics, and Savanna—my tribe’s leader—even introduced me to a few other leaders.”
“I met my whole tribe—all four of them,” I jested. “One girl was quite nasty. I think perhaps she suffered greatly before coming here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh—no matter,” I continued. “I still had a wonderful day. Peter, my coven’s leader, showed me about the Clearing—it’s the forest that surrounds us. He took me hunting, though I don’t believe I enjoy it much.”
“Quite unladylike,” Avi smirked.
“That’s precisely what I told him!” I laughed, and acknowledged that it was the first time I had felt amusement all day.
“The Clearing you say? Should we venture to it? Savanna showed me nothing beyond Syndor.”
I faltered, remembering Peter’s words of caution against my trekking independently. However, he had commented on the doubtful chance of stumbling upon a werewolf, and, what was more, had never advised against exploring with a friend. Avi’s proposal was frightening to imagine, but our togetherness would surely shield us from any harm.
“We could,” I muttered discreetly. “But let us not go far. It is late, and I do not want anybody to see. We have only just arrived—I don’t want the village to think ill of us.”
“Of course. We won’t be gone long.”
Our agreement led us behind my cabin, where I accompanied Avi to the entrance to the Clearing that Peter had introduced me to. Quietly we stole to the shadows, our figures becoming silhouettes beneath the silvery moonlight. Syndor had fallen quiet once night had approached, but the Clearing took on a different silence, one that suggested little life and unbounded opportunity.
“I’m realizing—Avi, I never asked you about your former life,” I said, gazing up at the inky sky that at once became decorated with a starry mist. “I apologize—I should have shown interest before.”
“Your apology is hardly necessary,” the brazen girl assured me. “You have dealt with enough. It wasn’t essential to know anything of me.”
“I would like to know now, if you wish to share.”
“I fear there isn’t much to speak of,” Avi began. “I had a husband—but he was a wicked man. I would hardly call him a man. He married me for my money. He knew my daddy left everything for me, so when he died my husband locked me in a madhouse to steal it all for himself. I never had any children—never wished for any with that scathing creature. As you can see I didn’t leave much behind. Not like you—at least.”
“Still—you had a life,” I encouraged her. “It is alright if you can’t help but mourn it.”
“The only thing I’ll ever mourn is if I permit myself to again be chained to any sort of sick soul again. I do best on my lonesome—expecting you, of course.”
“I swear to you I will not send you to an asylum,” I smiled.
“I would pray not!”
Our quick drollery was suddenly interrupted by a crackling sound that rose from behind us, startling us from where we stood. Avi spun around straightaway, lighting a fire from her palms to illuminate the twilight.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered. I nodded, fearing that any further commotion from us would coax whatever appeared to be watching us. “Let’s go follow it?”
“Are you mad?” I stuttered, ascertaining the irony in my speech. “It’s likely only a rabbit. I know well the forest never sleeps.”
Avi neglected my prudence and began to approach the brushwood that concealed the creature. My heart thrashed in my chest, and I felt my palms grow wet, but not from perspiration. I looked downward and noticed a floating stream of water circling my arms, suspended in the air and awaiting command. I gawked at the miracle, nearly forgetting our present danger, when Avi shouted in surprise, and from the dark foliage a large figure, shrouded in fur as white as a specter, its humanistic eyes glowing at our frozen frames, leapt up and raced far into the forest away from us. Its four feet swiftly carried the wolf out of our sight in the blink of an eye.
“Avi, it’s a werewolf!” I gasped. “There’s a werewolf in Syndor! We must tell Skylar!”
“Miranda, keep quiet!” Avi urged, combing the area as if she wished to receive a final glimpse of the creature. “We cannot tell the empress—we hardly know what she’ll say—and she’ll certainly scourge us for being out here so late! Perhaps it was merely a regular wolf, or nothing at all. Perhaps we dreamt it.”
She spieled dishonestly, but certainly for the benefit of our shared sanities. I took her hand and quickly we fled from the scene, reaching the lights of Syndor before either of us spoke again.
“Miranda I must tell you something—before you leave,” Avi interjected before departing from my tribe.
“What is it?” My breath was still volatile, though I strove to calm it.
“It is because I trust you—the night before you woke from your sleep I dreamt of that—of that wolf.”
“How do you mean?”
“A white wolf was in my dreams. It’s as if I predicted our encounter.”
My head swarmed with perplexity. I had never believed in prophets, and still did not consider them existent, but Avi’s temperament proved to me how shaken she had become, and how mystified our encounter had made her.
“Perhaps—perhaps you can ask Skylar about your dream,” I suggested wildly. “There are sorcerers who deal with magic of the mind here, are there not? You can go to one of them for counsel. We can understand what we might’ve seen without anyone knowing of what we saw tonight.”
“Brilliant,” Avi sighed. “I will see to that tomorrow. I must know what the dream meant.”
“But if it meant nothing—”
“It was not nothing. It felt too real to be nothing.”
“Very well,” I assented. “You will let me know tomorrow then?”
“I will. We will meet for supper here come evening. But still say nothing of what occurred tonight. We are hardly new to Syndor. It will not deliver well. I will find out what we need to know.”
“Certainly.”
Still my thoughts festered, and my conscience gained a new heaviness. I reflected anxiously on it, and asked myself privately—for how long could I stifle a secret?

Chapter Text

I had not yet been acquainted with the new sorcerers, but I had heard of their arrival. My indifferent detachment from their presence was not intended to be done out of malice; rather, I declined the opportunity to become familiar with the two because I knew their lives in Syndor to soon be horribly brief.
I had scarcely spoken to Skylar since the meeting she had called for each of the village’s leaders. Her refusal to consult or warn me before her announcement to send the new sorcerers to kill Mitch had vexed me entirely, and I knew not why she had decided to veil the paramount decision from me. Perhaps she understood I would never reasonably agree to it; nonetheless, she was our empress, and whatever she willed would become an order.
Given our aloofness toward one another, it came as an extraordinary surprise to find her outside of my cabin door days after the new sorcerers’ entry.
“Noelle, I need to speak with you,” she announced anxiously.
“I require the same of you,” I gestured her indoors. “Come—I fear we have much to discuss.”
My dear friend took no liberties with being patient in bringing to light the pressing issues that had forged themselves in her troubled head.
“The new sorcerers have arrived, and are settling in well,” she began in an unnerving manner. “And with that we must now think of their purpose and what I have designed for them.”
Her eyes were void of any feeling, as if all the empathy she could feel had been drained from her entirely. She thought nothing of the newcomers’ lives. If she did care for them, her compassion was evidently weaker than her blinding desire for justice.
“Skylar—your majesty—I have to confess I do not support of this plan of yours,” I argued. My pulse quickened, for never before had I been opposed to the girl before. “You did not give me—or any leader, for that matter—time to refute your decision if they wished to do so. That is what I want to do now.”
My resistance attracted her interest, and at once her countenance alighted to defend herself. The fierceness beneath her skin sprung up, and I readied myself for disagreement.
“Noelle, we do not have time to discuss the particulars of what you do not agree with,” she frowned. “My mind has been made up—it is the only way.”
“With all due respect, your majesty, there are many other alternatives we can pursue. I have dedicated my life’s work to demands such as this. I can talk with you now of some strategies I’ve devised that are much better—it will be no inconvenience.”
“Inconveniencing you is not something I have troubled myself over. You do not understand—their potential sacrifice is our only option.”
“How do you mean? I’m sure that cannot be true.”
“We have exhausted our other options,” Skylar pursued, pacing the floor and playing with her cuticles in a fit of anxiety. “We have tried each tribe, we have tried multiple at once, we have tried experienced sorcerers, we have tried spells—we have done everything to eradicate Mitch. Everything has been tried and thwarted—everything except using the fresh sorcerers given to us by nature. We have always been afraid, and have always sent our eldest to aid in this fight, because they are immature to our land—but why would they arrive if not to be used?
The empress’ flagrant disregard for the new sorcerers’ humanity horrified me. Skylar had seemingly done away with her benevolence, and the sole thief attributable to such a disaster was desperation.
“How lowly you speak of them!” I exclaimed, unable to subdue my frustration. “Your majesty—I beg you—I implore you—you must change your course of action! We can send some of the leaders, we can think of a much safer plan.”
“Fate does not concern itself with the dealings of safety, that I know of,” Skylar snapped. “It is fate that these two sorcerers are now here, and they have arrived solely to help our cause.”
“And what makes you so sure of that?”
“My conviction should not be questioned.”
“Perhaps not—but it is my responsibility to see that whatever you choose should be in the best interest of our community, and especially to those in it that have only just arrived.”
“You claim it would not be in the best interest of Syndor to send them to fight Mitch, and to bring about his demise?”
“It is in the village’s best interest to have him defeated, yes, but not in this way. What makes you so sure that they are the answer, that they can execute the impossible?” I interrogated her obstinacy. “You heard them at the meeting—Mitch is immortal. I dare to say I believe it, because I have seen it with my own eyes as well as any of the others when we have fought him, and with this in mind it is imperative we think of something that can rectify such a difficult situation!”
Skylar clenched her teeth and said nothing.
“That is precisely why you elected me to fill this position beside you—to guide our village to do what is good and protect our people.”
“Perhaps it was a mistake on my part to do so, then,” she spoke bitterly, “if you do not trust my judgment when it comes to upholding the security of our land.”
Her stern criticism stung my pride. My lip quivered with hurt, and I turned my cheek to shield my sorrow from being noticed by the empress’ critical gaze. She could not have meant what she said—it was much too severe to come from her tongue! Skylar and I had matured together, and had witnessed a coming of age as one, and for her to doubt my power and my intellect conjointly was a catastrophic opinion. Her fierce acknowledgment that our alliance had perhaps been a misstep shamed me entirely, and I let a quietude hang between us, unable to speak through the dishonor done unto me.
“I apologize,” Skylar’s speech weakened, as if she had been dispelled from the rigid hex that had inspired her abrasiveness. “I should not have said such a thing.” She anticipated my sympathetic correction, but I did not wish to give it. “Noelle, you are an invaluable asset to this village, but more so you are irreplaceable to me. More than ever I require you to help me.”
She needed me! Such a recognizing plea warmed my heart and put my misgivings to rest. Skylar’s approval was a blessing of the rarest kind, and I longed for nothing more than to possess it for my own so long as I remained her second-in-command. The favor she bestowed in the moment softened my countenance, and upon seeing the beneficent change in my expression, she continued—
“I would not be doing such a thing to Miranda and Avi—bless their souls—if I felt myself to have no other option,” she sighed. “We will do our best to save their lives. It is not impossible to do so, contrary to what so many others might believe. We have magic on our side, and I will ensure that they are perfectly suitable for the task before I give it. So, please—I am asking for your assistance in this assignment.”
“You have thought of this extensively, then?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And you truly believe this is the best course of action—for everybody?”
“I do.”
“Will you be joining the two?”
It seemed a question Skylar had never before considered, let alone been presented with.
“No—because if something were to happen to me, the Derlock line would perish for eternity.”
“Very well,” I surrendered. There was no fight I could propose, nor sustain, that would alter her opinion on the matter. Thus I yielded to her indomitability, a trait of hers that perhaps would be the cause of the poor new sorcerers’ fatality, and recommended I retrieve a set of battle plans from upstairs to consider with her.
Before Skylar could release me from our pensive conference, my front door burst open, slamming against the wall viciously. A girl with untamed copper locks and a rosy complexion stood in the door frame, appearing feverish and clutching a glass bottle in her hands.
“Your majesty—I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” the girl exclaimed, rushing to Skylar’s side.
“Avi—what are you doing here? What has happened?” Skylar urged her to speak.
“I had the most fantastical dream,” Avi began, catching her breath. “I figured I would speak to John about it, because he is the leader of the Soul Tribe and would know much more of my mind than perhaps I do. Well—I visited him this very morning, and he extracted the dream from my mind and bottled it up for me to show to you. He advised you should be aware of it.” She set the glistening glass on my countertop.
“Noelle, fetch a mirror of some sort,” the empress instructed me. “Give it here, Avi.”
I slipped behind my trading table and sifted through the variety of items placed on the shelves. I stole a small looking glass, framed in gold, from the display and laid the transparent sheet on the wooden surface of the counter. Skylar unscrewed the cork and poured the sparkling lavender mixture over the mirror, causing the glassy surface to become fogged. Swirling toward the edges of the sheet, the mist came into focus, magnifying Avi’s dream for us to view. Wonderstruck, I leant in, never before having seen the workings of somebody’s personal dreamscape before.
The vision unfolded swiftly, detailing an encounter with a strange white wolf, and concluding with a dreadful scene of its attack and another girl’s death. The Grand Werewolf was the chief assailant, and I grimaced as I witnessed the terror of Avi’s flight from the grim affair. I glanced at Avi as we watched attentively; her cheeks were of a blooming hue, and a slight smile crept across her lineaments. How could she exhibit such an eager disposition as she paid witness to the terrifying ordeal, particularly when she had lived it within her own head not a night before? Her reaction was unusual indeed!
“What does this mean?” Skylar questioned tersely. “Avi, what did John say to you of this? Did he warn that it was an epiphany of sorts? A foretelling of something to come?”
“No, your majesty,” Avi answered. “He could not tell me what it meant. He only offered me the dream to keep for my own, and perhaps come to my own conclusion.”
“Very well,” the empress sighed. “John is particularly gifted—if he believed it were a premonition, it would be clear to him."
“What do you advise I do, your majesty?” Avi asked.
“Nothing at all. You have seen nothing of the white wolf in Syndor, have you?”
“No,” the girl’s eyes darted from Skylar to me. “Is it a werewolf?”
“I would imagine so, but if this a merely a dream and nothing more—if these dreams persist, please let me know. You are free to leave in the meantime.”
Avi nodded, and exited without another word.
“Why did you not tell her who that white werewolf is?” I questioned Skylar wildly. She turned to me, entirely perplexed, as if I had spoken a different language.
“Why the devil would I tell her?” she demanded. “She should only be concerned with Mitch—not his son. Ben is scarcely a threat to our village anyhow. We know Mitch cannot control him because he wields no bond with him. He was bound to the woman who birthed him, and so his father exiled him. He does not consort with the Grand Werewolf, or with any werewolf in their territory for that matter.”
“A fair point,” I conceded. “However—how could she have dreamt of these two wolves if she has never before seen them?”
“I am not particularly surprised. Being so new here she perhaps picked up on the energy of the forest. I myself have had many dreams of certain creatures or events that I knew nothing of until later. It is the way of the woods, as they say,” Skylar said. “What is much more remarkable to me is the depiction of Miranda’s death in her dream. It worries me greatly. I beg you to draw up a handful of plans to present to me as soon as possible. The two sorcerers will require time to prepare, to be sure, but when they are ready to face Mitch, I want everything to be in order.”
“Of course, your majesty.”
“In that case I will be on my way. Thank you for your help—truly,” the girl kissed my cheek, and with a final embrace withdrew from my cabin.
An agitation captivated me at Skylar’s leaving. Her hardheaded determination, virulently complemented by Avi’s strange gleefulness at seeing her dream a second time in spite of its distresses, utterly disconcerted me. The latter’s queer character enthralled me, and with a childlike curiosity I stepped out of my cabin with the intention of following the girl to unearth an answer for her strangeness.
I exited the Shadow Tribe and looked about for her figure. Surely she must have directed herself homeward to the coven of the Fire people, but such was not the case! I descried her distinctive bearing ahead, marching proudly south, which would have been no matter of concern; but, bizarrely, instead of entering a tribe, she swayed dubiously about, as if indecisive, and suddenly disappeared into the thicket between the Water and Weather covens.
Where the devil is she going? I asked as an uneasiness settled in my stomach. No new sorcerer should be parading about the Clearing. Hurriedly I flew to the stables of my tribe and mounted Dusk, my faithful stallion, before cloaking myself and the horse in an invisible aura. I retrieved the pack of arrows and bow fastened to her saddle, swinging the weapon and its accessories over my shoulder. A constellation of clouds overhead began to darken in a haunting grey, and gusting winds swept through the teetering canopies. A rainfall was approaching; this was no favorable weather for a novel sorcerer to be wandering about in.
I cautiously traced Avi’s path, slipping into the coppice that bordered the Water and Weather Tribes, and which led into the Clearing as a river opens toward the sea. Unlike my own, which were confidently masked by my spell, her footsteps were clearly distinguishable in the soft earth, and thus I followed them as the crept further into the forest. Certainly I was traveling much quicker than her, because in a short time I discovered her walking freely in the open woodlands. She appeared as apprehensive as prey, glancing behind her to observe if anybody or anything might be tracking her movements.
She was much too vulnerable in her present position, but a boldness marked her poise. I had been pursuing her for quite some time, enough for sundown to take precedent over the light of day, and enough for the impending storm to have taken root and expel its delicate downpour. Avi was not affected by the drizzle; each raindrop that plummeted toward her frame was transformed into small puffs of steam before it had the chance to graze her skin, and from her hand a small ball of fire flickered in the growing dimness. Her comfort allowed her to persist in her spirit of inquiry, though what she sought I knew nothing of.
Dusk and I rode on, and I recognized the darkening surroundings as being dangerously close to the Werewolf Territory. Perhaps her dream had inspired her to seek out the aberrant existence of the werewolves—in such a circumstance I would be bade to put an end to her foolish adventure!
Before I gathered the muster to call her name, a white figure rose in the distance, appearing only about thirty yards from Avi. The wolf stood still as she approached it, its pale fur making a pronounced impression in the blackening expanse, and its glacial gaze watching the girl from the Fire Tribe. It was Ben, Mitch’s singular heir, the boy who had been cast out of the only home he had ever been acquainted with. Avi was not possessed by shock as I was, as if she had been expecting the wolf whose identity she was entirely ignorant of, but had introduced itself in her dreams.
I was entirely stupefied by the boy’s appearance. I had encountered the werewolf kind a handful of times, but each time was no less significant than the last. Their very presence was something to be in awe of; the shine of their coat, the strength of their frame, the enigmatic feeling of their company. One would never think them unnatural to the land, nor would one reckon how perilous the werewolves were to those of us with skin that could be easily torn asunder, whose bones could be viciously severed in an instant underneath the weight of their muscle—
Avi!
Ben was hardly known to be injurious, but I would not dare to take the risk, not when Skylar was depending upon Avi and Miranda’s good health! I would not be the one found guilty of permitting either of her prized sorcerers to be condemned to disgrace or endangerment. Upon my life the empress would never censure me with the judgment of being incompetent!
“Avi!” I shouted sharply from the endless shrubbery separating us.
Ben’s ears perked instantly, and as I unveiled myself to the two, he bolted off into the grove, vanishing as swiftly as he had emerged. Avi turned around abruptly to face me, the color on her face long faded. She opened her lips as if to address me, but as she searched for a name to deem me with, it appeared to dawn upon her that she had never had the bitter pleasure of meeting me formally.
“Noelle—Skylar’s right-hand,” I introduced myself sternly. “What are you doing out here? It is not safe.”
“You saw it too, I presume,” Avi riposted with neither fear nor respect in her tone.
“Excuse me?” I snapped. “I very well did, and I recognize you have half a mind to know that we do not associate ourselves with the werewolf kind.”
“It’s not as you believe it was.”
“It is precisely what it looks like—make no mistake of whatever ignorance you believe I possess.”
“Perhaps I was looking for the wolf from my dream, then!” she submitted to my conjectures. “What harm would it bring? John did not know the significance of it, nor your empress—perhaps the werewolf does.”
“The werewolf? Knowing the reason for your silly dreams? Don’t be a fool!” I spoke much acuter than I anticipated, but the girl bore it well, as if she was accustomed to being scolded before, and knew how to attack likewise.
“Why are you taking liberties to survey me? No sorcerer has the right to follow my whereabouts.”
“My actions are well within reason. You understand well the orders we have in place to keep away from the werewolves. They are meant to protect you. I advise you to follow those directives and stay out of the Clearing. We don’t need a new sorcerer such as yourself causing any trouble with those creatures.”
“And what, pray tell, are you going to do if I do just that? Who are you to spy on each movement of mine?” the girl retorted with a brazenness that enflamed me. She was uncivil, entirely improper! “I know you have no ounce of authority over me.”
“Perhaps not,” I answered stoically, recalling my composure. “But I know precisely who does.” My answer seemed to silence her. “Now come—we will ride back to Syndor together. It is downright frigid out here—I will not have you freeze in spite of how impolite you have been.”
“I am quite warm, thank you,” she scowled as she accepted my extended reach and climbed onto Dusk. In the next instant my stallion kicked up the dust coating the earth and took off toward the village, abandoning the timberland behind us.

Chapter Text

“Your majesty, I would advise you to summon Avi and Miranda and speak to them of the werewolves. I fear that the former has not considered your warnings in the slightest,” Noelle glowered as she entered my cabin, freshly dismounted from her stallion.
“What has happened?” I questioned feverishly, aghast by the girl’s mention of the wolves. “It’s not Mitch, is it?”
“No, only his son,” she responded defeatedly.
“What of Ben?” My interest flared.
“You recall Avi had a dream about him—well, I followed her after she came here to speak to you of it, and I witnessed her going into the Clearing and attempting to seek the boy out.”
“She went to see Ben?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head, as if to dispel the confusion from my faculties. I could not make sense of the affair, and attempting to do so seemed futile.
“I do not understand—has she ever spoken to him before?” I asked. “Was he awaiting her company?”
“To my understanding the two have never met,” Noelle answered. “I believe she was only led by her curiosity. Still it concerns me, and thankfully I was present to stand between them.”
“Did you see him? Did she see him?”
“Yes. The three of us were in the Clearing together, but before either spoke to each other I intervened, and Ben fled. Avi did not seem pleased at my being there.”
“She can be quite quarrelsome, I admit,” I confessed. “Ben’s presence here isn’t necessary a cause for concern. We know he is harmless.”
“We don’t know that of Avi,” she retorted. “You must set her straight.”
A pang of anxiety rattled my conscience at Noelle’s instruction. I did not wish to confront the girl, but it was evidently necessary. I was the empress of Syndor, and thus the duty of rule fell upon me, whether I favored it or not. Oftentimes I cursed my luck for thrusting such a position onto my meek character, but I had no other choice in the matter. I was called to maintain order in the forest, as painful as it seldom was.
“Very well. I will see to it today,” I asserted. “In the meantime I think it best to ask something of you on this matter as well.”
“Anything, your majesty.”
“I would like you to find Ben and dissuade him from crossing into our village. With our new sorcerers I do not want any harm to befall them. He must know this.”
“Find Ben?” Noelle huffed, amazed. “You wish me to speak to a werewolf?”
“Well it certainly isn’t the first time one of our sorcerers has dealt with him,” I eased her astonishment. “He is hardly dangerous because he does not affiliate with the rest of his kind, but he is a meddlesome creature nonetheless. He is certainly drawn to these newcomers of ours, but he needs to be remonstrated with. I do not care if he despises his father—he is, and will forever be, an enemy.”
“If you wish it,” she conceded. “I will bring Christopher for support. He knows the Clearing better than anyone else.”
“That will do.”
I dismissed Noelle from our discussion, and journeyed to the Fire Tribe, seeking Avi. Brimming with consternation, I rode to her cabin, cutting through the cool air swiftly. What if the girl did not heed my warnings, and again sought comfort in the arms of our adversaries? For what reason did she act in such a way, anyhow? Did she not understand the weight of her choices? She did not know Ben; yet she knew Syndor, and she, at the very least, was aware of its comradery if it was solicitude she truly coveted. If her rebellion was born from mere wonder, however, that was an entirely different contention. Be that as it was, I could not lose a sorcerer to the hands of the werewolves again, whether it was their breath that was taken, or their will.
I dismounted Clover once I arrived at Avi’s lodgings. I took a weighted breath and knocked at her door. A while passed before the girl answered my call.
“Your majesty—to what do I owe the pleasure?” she sputtered.
“I wish to speak to you and Miranda both,” I said. “Do you know where I might find her?”
“I am here, your majesty,” Miranda showed herself, emerging into my line of sight as if she had been hiding. The two girls appeared startled as if I had interrupted a clandestine meeting between them.
“Wonderful—I invite you both to accompany me to the Manor. There is something I wish to share with you two.”
“What might it be concerning, your majesty?” Miranda asked.
“The werewolves.”
The proposed subject alighted a whiteness in Avi’s expression. Her composure was marked by a grimace, evidently displeased by my intrusion and the audacity of my forthrightness. Miranda’s observations quickly focused on her friend, as if I had suddenly revealed a terrible secret to the room. The gingery girl nodded weakly at the words that escaped her tongue, while Miranda stayed silent. My chest burned with a sympathy for Avi, who understood that her encounter with Ben had been transmitted to myself, and who would now be punished for the brief meeting, but I was compelled to dismiss my pity and assume the air of one who was capable of discipline.
“Is there something either of you would like to tell me?” I questioned the two, recognizing their mutual apprehension.
“No, your majesty,” Avi spoke at once.
Not one of us needed to address the topic at hand. Certainly Avi had told Miranda of her rendezvous with Ben and Noelle’s consequent interruption of it, and surely knew that I had come to her cabin to chastise her for it. She was quite masterful over her anxieties, however, as there existed no suggestion of fear about her face. Instead, Miranda appeared to adopt them as her own, for she did not know to what extent Avi would be punished, nor was she aware if she would be reprimanded the same by association.
“Very well then,” I said, moving to withdraw from the cabin. “I understand that you both are still adjusting to our customs and our order. I will do my best to recognize those efforts and the difficulties of such a transition. Be that as it may—I would like to emphasize the law we have concerning relations with the werewolves on the other side of the forest. These orders have been properly set in place for generations with the intention of safeguarding the well-being of our kind given the hostility of their race. We do not interact with the werewolves, do you both understand this?”
“Yes, your majesty,” both girls bowed.
“I do not intend to be so tediously repetitive, but I am having you both join me at the Manor so we can discuss this further. It is something I perhaps should have brought up to you when you first arrived, but no matter—I will do my duty now to make sure you are more informed.”
Avi and Miranda mounted the latter’s mare and followed me northward to the estate they had called home not long ago. We approached the carriageway lined with flora and ascended the steps that sat beneath the entering portico. Hanging planters bloomed with bushels of pink and yellow flowers, and bees nestled themselves between the leaves that extended toward the earth.
Upon entering I directed the girls toward the library, which seemed to be a room they had not yet acquainted themselves with. Their awe was apparent as we strode between the many shelves that stretched as tall as the room itself. In the corner was a spiral staircase we were bid to climb; it led to the second story that was visible from the ground floor, and which housed the archive I was evidently searching for.
“This library holds many written accounts of various different topics pertaining to Syndor and the forest at large,” I mused to Avi and Miranda. “It is always open for your amusement.”
“What are we looking for?” Miranda asked.
“A specific record,” I began, “that details a particular legend—or, perhaps, a prophecy. Normally us sorcerers do not entertain such fanciful fairytales, but when they concern a situation of this gravity, we do like to be aware of it and educate the village accordingly. As you may know—all mythical tales have some hint of truth, after all.”
I perused the shelves carefully, keeping my eye out for the volume I nearly knew by heart. The forest folklore had always been a particularly intriguing subject for an inquisitive girl as me. My mother had unfailingly enjoyed telling me tales that had been passed down from many generations, ones detailing extraordinary fables and daring adventures. Such ones had always been optimistic, and had dazzled me so; yet the one I searched for then hardly mirrored the heartening stories I was accustomed to, and I dreaded being entreated to narrate it.
It did not take long to find the book, and accordingly I stole it from its ledge and invited the girls to sit beside me at one of the reading tables. They moved in utter silence, awaiting each movement of mine. I was fixed in my task, sifting through the many contents of the publication, until I identified the chapter I had desired to reveal.
“Listen closely,” I commanded the two, and thus I read aloud to them—

The Legend of the Betrayed

Upon the light of the full moon the sorcerers dance—
A forest blooms in accordance with the harmony of their duties and the laws they command to the land. The crown boasts good health, and its subjects smile with gaiety and pleasure. The moon sets, the sun rises—nature knows no greater concord than when beneath the protection of those it granted its gifts upon!
Life, death—
Hailing from the shadows they perish, and the lone sorcerer’s heart becomes serrated, seeking comfort, seeking justice. To choose the creature’s life over his own—it is his will. A surrender to the other side, a betrayal to his kind—done in earnest, but wanting in malice.
Nature does not see sympathy; it sees the design of discord. Syndor is shattered, the land altered irrevocably. A surrender to the unnatural, a war against the earth.
Death, life—
The light vanishes.

“I hardly know what it means,” Avi drawled, crossing her arms.
“I dare say I do not understand it either,” Miranda agreed.
“This prognostication foretells—in a queer manner, nonetheless—the choice one of our sorcerers makes to betray our village for ‘the other side’,” I expounded upon the damning narration. “It is something nature punishes our kind for, because it is not customary. The decision to choose another entity over one’s destiny fashions utter chaos and turmoil. Us sorcerers are not meant to live in fear and furore, nor are we meant to perish from such disarray—peace is our natural state.”
“Who wrote this myth?” Avi asked. The motive of her inquiry appeared to complement her desire to deface the believability of the tale.
“We are not certain, but we are quite sure it was composed about the time of Mitch’s conception,” I answered. “Us sorcerers have known of this legend for some time now, and have always done our duty to be cautious of any one of our people who might possess the urge to carry it out. Habitually the people of Syndor have a natural revulsion for these creatures, just as your flesh is repulsed by illness and disease, because they threaten us and the harmony of nature. It is thus the collective wish for the werewolves to be exterminated—not coddled or shown mercy.”
“I can assure you, your majesty, I have no intentions of associating with their kind,” Miranda spoke prudently.
“I would oblige you to do so even without pronouncing your desire to deny them.”
“We appreciate your sharing this wisdom with us,” Avi rose from her seat. “I understand why you have such an order in place.”
“I speak in good faith, as I only intend to protect you both, particularly given how new you are still to Syndor,” I erected myself beside Avi, who seemed in a strange hurry. I lowered my voice so as to become sterner—“Remember that you are part of a larger community now, and every action of yours affects us, whether it be favorable or not.”
The two girls nodded, though only one wore an expression of complete obedience. The other met my eyes with her own, a gaze that blazed with resentment at being controlled. I did not shrink from her stare, and instead allowed my inspection to review her look and remind her of my reign. It was I who was the fateful empress of our village—not her. I would not permit her to think, nor act, differently.
“You are both free to leave,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
Again Avi and Miranda nodded collectively, and promptly withdrew from the library while I placed the book back on the self where it belonged. As they stepped away I heard them whisper, and suddenly detected a pair of footsteps returning back to me. It was Miranda, with her head held humbly low, and shuffling across the floorboards.
“Your majesty, you said this library is open to all, correct?”
“That’s right, Miranda,” I answered. “You are free to come whenever you please. The Manor is always open.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” a timid smile graced her countenance.
“And if it suits you,” I added before she quitted the room once more, “you are welcome to add to our collection. I admit I am not quite sure what might need to be revised, or updated, or what have you, but some sorcerers find it is their calling to commit themselves to the penning and keeping of our records. Perhaps you might be one of those archivists.”
“Perhaps,” again she grinned and expressed her demure gratitude, and quietly departed.
I returned home satisfied with my responsibility, though afflicted with a troubled temper. The crown of my bloodline was one that warranted respect, and had received such appropriate regard for many years, but what was I to do if one sorcerer elected it best to defy me? As empress I understood my duties, and had done my best to perform them with the utmost dignity and attention, but my father nor my mother had instructed me on the nuances connected to the governing of many diverse peoples. I had lived beneath the assumption that following what was decreed was what was righteous and just, but what was I to do if someone did not think the same? I had been blessed with the moral goodness of my subjects as long as I had ruled, and could not think of one acting against such principles. They had been endowed with the magic of nature itself, and to still wish to betray the very earth that granted them their asylum and abilities alike—it was inconceivable.
Descending from Clover, I hung her saddle in the stables and guided her to feed. From across the trough Trent stood, brushing Alder’s coat studiously. I was in no humor to receive him, but before I could remove myself from the establishment without notice, he turned, and addressed me.
“Why so glum?” he inquired, approaching my dejected frame.
“I have been obliged to tend to many things as of late,” I dismissed his concern, sighing.
“Being empress is no trivial thing then?”
“You know well it is not.”
“Now tell me,” his lineaments hardened, “what is going on?”
I would have unburdened my headaches on him in an instant if it were not for my pride. I hesitated in answering, for I did not know what I deemed proper to reveal to him. Would I dare to mention Avi and her curiously dangerous interests? Perhaps doing so would suggest I was unfit to discipline her, and therefore grossly negligent in my role as empress.
“It’s Avi,” I related after a moment of silence. “She is one of our new sorcerers, and Noelle witnessed her attempting to follow a werewolf the other night.”
Although the situation I spoke of possessed the greatest gravity, Trent gave no hint of judgment. I did not fear his criticism. He was never a boy that I felt inclined to lie to of my distresses, because he provided a comfort that never sought to condemn. He would be honest in his opinions, that much was sure, but I considered whatever sentiments he counseled me with with unwavering respect, because if the boy was one thing besides persistent in our forced love affair, he was undoubtedly a wise soul, and that was a quality I could never loathe him for possessing.
“Do you know the werewolf she saw?” he asked, as if unruffled by the prospect of one of our own being so brazen about the werewolves.
“Ben—Mitch’s son.”
“Ah—no harm done then, I suppose.”
“That is not the point, Trent,” I snapped. “She seems to have this strange fascination with the werewolves, and wishes to become acquainted with them.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No—but she didn’t need to. You can plainly see it written on her face.”
“She knows of Syndor’s order? And the perils associated with their kind?”
“Of course—why do you question me so?” My breath quickened at his seemly offense. “I informed her and Miranda both of all they need to know of the werewolf race. Today even—I spoke to them of the legend that warns of a betrayal in Syndor, of the sorcerer who chooses the wolves over their own community.”
“A proper warning, no doubt,” he said.
“How can you be so indifferent about this ordeal?” I gasped, my face becoming painted with rage. “Do you not understand what this might mean for our village if Avi does not cease her mad rendezvous?”
“I believe you intend to tell me—”
“She will place our entire community in jeopardy! She will care for the werewolves as if they saved her, and will think nothing of us—and it will be the very ruin of Syndor!”
“Skylar—” Trent began, his eyes widening at my tantrum. “Avi merely saw Ben. There are much worse things she could have done. Do not hurry so quickly to such devastating conclusions.”
“I cannot help it, because I do not know how to rectify it.”
“Perhaps that is what’s upsetting you most of all,” he observed unashamedly.
Trent ascertained it strikingly; buried beneath the disturbing wretchedness at having one of my sorcerers rebelling against my name in favor of the werewolves existed the true pain: that of my fear of impotence. My vulnerability in his presence made me shiver; the boy only understood me too well, and it was not a notice I wished to exist in then.
“It was nice speaking to you, Trent,” I said curtly.
I took to my cabin and closed the door hurriedly, hoping that the boy did not follow my departure to impart more of his judiciousness onto my weary mind. A desperation pricked me, and sent rivers of sorrow bleeding down my cheeks. Outside the window Trent continued to polish his stallion, and I watched his hands move conscientiously about the horse’s body, leaving no patch of its coat untamed. He had not handled me with such care, not even in the midst of my outburst—but was an embrace for him what I desired?
From beyond my curtains Trent turned back toward my lodging and his eyes met mine through the windowpanes. I drew the drapery at once, refusing him a second glimpse of my rue.

Chapter Text

There was an unusual feeling that haunted me in the aftermath of my meeting with Skylar. Our discussion had suddenly cast an uncertain haze on Syndor and its future, and my mind, heavy with the challenges imposed upon me, wandered meaninglessly. Skylar had commanded me to not only draw up plans for Miranda and Avi’s ensuing fight with Mitch, but had obliged me to speak to a werewolf! In what universe these two directives were customary was positively beyond me; it certainly was not the habitual requests of a community at peace. As if a tempest was gathering force, I could sense a threatening tension building, electrifying the thoughts of each sorcerer who called the village home.
Mechanically I slunk to Christopher’s cabin. I intended to embroil him into the abrasive responsibility thrust onto me to find and berate Ben, not because I wished for my friend to suffer my burden equally, but because I knew him capable of addressing it sensibly. It was not Avi I wished to save from punishment for her defiance—no! Far from it, at any rate, because I had adopted a wrathful resentment against her for the pains her opposition had unsolicitedly affected me with. How wickedly brutal! Rather, it was my own accomplished reputation I longed to preserve. Avi’s safety would merely be a pestering byproduct of such an ambition.
“Oh my—you look—would you find it offensive if I spoke about how being irate makes you appear much older than you really are?” Christopher laughed madly as I entered his cabin. His comical comments did nothing for my vexation.
“Chris, can we talk somewhere private? I don’t wish for anyone to hear us,” I said. At once his demeanor changed, recognizing my frustration.
“Of course, we can talk in my cellar.”
Consequently we moved to his brisk basement, and took a seat by his bare hearth.
“What could possibly be antagonizing the empress’ right-hand?” Christopher asked gently.
“Plenty,” I grumbled. “I must tell you of all the requests Skylar has been making of me.”
“Does it not please you to be of service to her? I know you well enough to know that is precisely where you draw your satisfaction from.”
“Certainly it is,” I explained, “but as of late she has asked of me things that I find quite worrisome.”
“Oh—do tell,” he grinned, adjusting his glasses. The boy was always fond of gossip.
“You recall she wishes to use the new sorcerers to assassinate Mitch. She has asked me to draft a number of battle strategies to do so.”
“Customary, I suppose.”
“Correct—but awfully against my principles, and doubtlessly against the wishes of all our tribe’s leaders as well.”
“You assumed this position understanding that its caveat would be to defend Syndor by any means necessary, perhaps in spite of what you deem appropriate.”
“Perhaps,” I mused. “But that is not all.”
“Please—continue.”
“It’s about Avi, one of the new sorcerers.”
“Ah! That funny girl from the Fire Tribe,” Christopher jested. “Go on.”
“As a matter of fact, that ‘funny girl’ passed by your territory the other night to enter the Clearing—alone.”
“And this concerns me—how?”
“It doesn’t,” I stammered, “but I followed her, and witnessed her on the precipice of speaking to Ben. She had had a dream about the werewolf boy a few nights before and had gone to look for him in hopes that he might help her interpret her vision. I informed Skylar of this perfidy, and she tasked me with finding Ben to put a stop to any future encounters between the two. She dealt with Avi herself.”
“I see,” Christopher rose from his seat and began to pace about the room thoughtfully. “She sounds like a curious soul. You should thank your lucky stars it was only Ben she met with.”
“Only Ben?”
“Of course—he wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s a queer sort of fellow, to be sure, but hardly a werewolf that should raise your concerns. You know he was exiled from his territory long ago. The most harm he could do would be to bore us with his wistful wishes of being accepted.”
“You sound as if you are acquainted with the boy.”
“I have met him on a few occasions, that may be true,” Christopher smirked. “You know I am an avid devotee to the Clearing. It’s only natural I have run into him once or twice.”
“And how am I just now hearing of this?”
“You never asked.”
I rolled my eyes in amusement.
“I should expose you to our empress for your treachery,” I said.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he smiled with a teasing spirit. “At any rate—why does it matter if Avi sees him occasionally? What makes you think she has ill intentions?”
“Frankly it is of no significance to me what the girl’s intentions are. If she is consorting with Ben, what is stopping her from sympathizing with the rest of the werewolf race? It is much too precarious for a new sorcerer, or for any sorcerer for that matter. It is a slippery slope.”
“You don’t believe me at risk in spite of my behavior.”
“Of course not—because you can be trusted. You have established yourself as honorable—you are the damned leader of the Weather Tribe! And you have no desire to do anything more than perhaps encounter a werewolf by chance and be on your way.”
“So what, pray tell, compels you to accuse Avi—in her seeing Ben once, might I add—of acting despitefully toward Syndor?”
His question was reasonable enough, though it vexed me to hear him vocalize such misgivings. To my judgment, there was no trial that Avi deserved to play her part in; she was guilty, though of what I did not quite know. There was an air to her that spoke of a calculated and ill-bred will to do as she pleased, regardless of who it might torment. The devil!—she had already committed such a crime unto me by holding me responsible for her own likely treachery she disguised as a quest to find the meaning of a silly dream!
“Christopher, I believe you vastly underestimate the morbid fascinations of a woman when she suddenly becomes enchanted with something that is utterly forbidden to her,” I pronounced.
“If you believe her to be somewhat duplicitous, so be it,” he remarked. “You were there, not I. Still—I am patiently waiting to hear how exactly this concerns me.”
“Well, I told Skylar I would have you join me to find Ben,” I answered. “We must speak to him about this ordeal so that it does not happen again, and so he understands he is not welcome here.”
“’We’? This is no affair of mine, to be sure,” he appeared insulted by my appeal. “You were the one who saw Avi that night, not I. And you are the one who wields these suspicions, not I.”
“This undertaking concerns you so much as it concerns me. Hell—it concerns all who reside in this forest! Avi is—tiresomely novel to our relationship with the werewolves, and does not seem to be interested in coming to understand the peril of associating with them. If we do not take the precautions to shun them from one another, it could inspire some sort of uprising or dishevel. Syndor would question Skylar’s ability to keep order altogether.”
Christopher’s brows knitted together in contemplation of Avi’s passionately-driven inquisitiveness. I could see his mind wandering, his facilities weighing what options we had to rectify the situation at hand. After a moment’s quiet he returned to his seat and leaned toward me, his elbows resting upon his knees.
“Why do you insist on dragging me into your tedious quests?” he sighed, assenting to be my companion.
“Because you adore me so,” I declared, lending my hand upon his strong shoulder.
“I will accompany you—on one condition!”
“And what might that be?”
“You must be Ben’s inquirer.”
“Ah—but interrogating is what I do best!”
I sojourned at Christopher’s cabin through the night until dawn. As the golden morning showed its face through the forest brush, Christopher and I found ourselves far into the Clearing, entirely isolated from Syndor and from the labor of a new day. We trudged through the woods that hummed with animalistic activity, cloaked in an invisibility spell bound from my magic that masked our appearance and our movements, keeping a keen eye out for the ghostly figure that had appeared in Avi’s dream moons ago. Ben was a recluse; thus he could be sighted anywhere, and our efforts could very well have been in vain.
Christopher extended his arm suddenly, leaving a slight pressure against my chest. He pointed sharply ahead of us, gesturing to a figure with its back turned toward us and a fanged mouth dripping with blood. The creature’s white coat was painted in a grisly blend of smeared remains and dew, making it glisten eerily in the sunrise. Indeed it was Ben, focused attentively on his first kill of the morning.
“Are you quite sure this is going to work?” I whispered to my steady ally.
“Don’t fret,” he assured me. “It won’t hurt him one bit.”
Christopher resumed his staunch observation of Ben. Enlivened by a thirst for knowledge of the werewolf’s schemes, he raised his arms to the sky, and, channeling the currents within his very bones, brought a spark of lightning toward the ground inches from the werewolf’s position. The electric display stunned the poor boy, sending cries through the buzzing forest air.
Quickly Christopher and I rushed to Ben, who lay momentarily incapacitated from the flash and once more human, and I unveiled our figures to him. Before Ben could transform himself again and flee, I fashioned a field of stillness across his body, freezing his frame into place beside the blades of grass which became arrested in space likewise.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Ben’s guttural voice rose deep from his throat, snarling menacingly. He scowled with such ferocity that, for a moment, I feared my abilities would not be able to detain him for long.
“We are sorcerers from Syndor,” Christopher introduced us. “We have come to speak with you about something of the utmost importance.”
“How charming—I have been imprisoned by nature’s most gifted souls,” he insulted. “And what of your people concerns me?”
“We wish to speak of Avi Smith, one of our new sorcerers,” I continued.
Ben turned toward me and examined my profile searchingly.
“I recognize you,” he spoke, spurning my request.
“I do not believe we have ever met,” I corrected him.
“Perhaps not, but—yes—you were the girl who scared me away the other night when one of your sorcerers came in search of me.”
“I was. And what of it?”
“Nothing. I presume this Avi is the one who appeared to be following me.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have you know I did not will her to meet me,” Ben shook his head. “I gave no call for it.”
“And yet you act with such invitation,” I retorted.
“I have done nothing wrong. It is your own kind that has pursued me in this case.”
“While that may be true, we have come to give you a warning regardless,” Christopher interrupted.
“Ah—as if I have not heard that before,” Ben scoffed. “Please—give it and let me alone.”
“We only desire to demand you to stay far from Syndor,” I instructed. “And in particular to keep clear of our new sorcerers. They should have nothing to do with your kind, and at the very least you, with your wanting connection with the Werewolf Territory, should respect our wishes without resistance.”
“Perhaps you should endeavor to control your own kind before you reprimand me for merely existing in these woods freely, troubling nobody at all,” Ben said. “Why would I listen to you, much less take orders from you?
“Because we will spare your life if you do,” I hissed.
“How bold of you to presume my life holds any meaning to me.”
Mitch’s son was indeed untoward, but I was prudent enough to recognize that beneath every unyielding façade there did in fact exist some vulnerability worth playing upon. What his was I did not know, but I was determined to unearth it for my and Christopher’s collective benefit.
“Perhaps it doesn’t,” I considered. “But it would be a damn shame if your dissent led us to mete out punishment to Avi instead.”
At the second mention of Avi Ben’s expression softened, and though it was a fleeting change on his countenance he strove to conceal, I noted it at once.
“You wouldn’t dare hurt a sorcerer of yours,” he countered.
“You know nothing of the customs of Syndor,” I argued back.
“It would be a betrayal to your own kind—and for what?”
Already I had detected the tender weakness he unknowingly bore. Thus I recanted my position—
“Very well—it might be true. We could not hurt Avi, because Skylar requires her and our other newcomer for something critical.”
“And what might that be?”
“They will be used to kill your father.”
As soon as I uttered my response I felt Christopher’s eyes look upon me in astonishment. My face paled, and at once I realized the tragic error of my ways. Possessed by a quarrelsome spirit I had not thought twice of my answer, and in such a failure had revealed Skylar’s covert plans! If I was not damned to disappoint Syndor before, I certainly was then, in all my foolish gall!
“Kill my father?” Ben laughed, entirely unflustered by my confession. “You sorcerers are witless if you believe you can do such a thing.”
“We have the means to do so,” Christopher interjected, refusing me the chance to respond again with my thoughtlessness.
“Sure you do. As if I have not already wrought to do so, and have not watched all your fruitless attempts as well.”
“And what do you suggest by this?” my comrade posed.
“I suggest nothing,” Ben snapped. “Whatever plans you sorcerers think of—I do not care a lick for them. I desire him dead as much as you, but he cannot be killed. If he could, I would have been successful in doing so long ago.”
“You believe him to be immortal?”
“I know him to be immortal.”
With indifference Ben spoke aloud the collective fear of Syndor, and I could have fainted from its magnitude. For generations we had fought against the Grand Werewolf, and had only conjectured the possibility of his life being eternal, but this—! It was a conviction from his own son, the very soul who despised him the most, who would have stopped at nothing to erase his father’s essence from the earth it tormented! I did not doubt Ben’s belief for a second, and I felt Christopher claimed no hesitations of his own, either, from the way he gripped my arm at once in a paralyzing shock.
“Very well,” I swallowed. “We are finished here.” Before I released the boy from my spell, however, I approached him and held his throat in my hand, looing deeply into his troubled gaze. “But if we ever find you in Syndor again, or with Avi, we will kill you as your father wished to do.”
The deliverance from my choking grip liberated Ben from my hex, and quickly I shrouded Christopher and myself as we withdrew from his company so that he could not follow us.
“I cannot believe you said that to Mitch’s son of all people,” Christopher mumbled as we approached our village. We had walked many miles in silence, and I had been thrown into a state of distress that his reserve was due in part to my carelessness.
“You’re right—I should not have let it slip,” I admitted. “But I am confident he will not tell his father. He wishes Mitch dead—the two do not have a relationship in the slightest.”
“It would have been better if we had killed him there.”
“Oh, don’t say such things.”
“But you heard him, no?”
“About—?”
“How he thinks his father immortal,” Christopher answered nervously.
“I did,” I said. “I believe that revelation is leagues more important than me expressing our desire to kill Mitch.”
“Do you suppose he was lying?”
“He has no good reason to be false with us.”
“What do you suppose Skylar will think of this?”
“I—I don’t know,” I replied, lost as to what the empress’ return would be to the information we had secured.
“Do you think she’ll call off the hunt with Avi and Miranda?”
“I will not endeavor to assume what goes on her head these days. Our empress is evidently overwhelmed by everything happening in our village at the moment. I do not wish to cause her any further anxiety.”
“You must tell her,” Christopher’s voice hardened.
“I will—I just—I do not want to know how this news will affect her. Suppose it will derail her sanity more so than it has already been upset.”
“She will be able to handle it. She is our empress.”
“A mere title does not designate one as inherently invincible.”
“Perhaps not,” Christopher agreed, “but when one knows it is their will to be so, they will rise to the task—always.”

Chapter Text

Spending time in solitude was a pastime I favored rightfully so. The duties of being a wife and a mother were burdensome, doubtlessly, and any second spent deservedly idle was tenderly sweet because of its brevity. At most I was accustomed to receiving this silent time beneath the bed sheets as I anticipated sunrise, shrinking from the responsibilities the day’s light would impose upon me. It was hardly a luxury then to concern myself over the well-being of my husband and my dear son; but hindsight was a curious thing, one that led me to regret being so vexed by their needs, because it was only my own that was of concern then, and it felt utterly empty.
The Water Tribe was an affable group, and I did not mind being included in their soirees, but it was my seclusion that brought me peace in the midst of such anarchic change to my life. It was only by my lonesome that I could comb through my grief to muster the courage to rise the next morning, and it was in the candlelit library of the Manor, watching shadows dance upon the walls as I read through Syndor’s various volumes and tales, that I found serenity.
My soul had always been fond of more creative pursuits, particularly those pertaining to literature, and in the event of my life at once becoming my own, I found my time spent in leisure to be in favor of poetic engagements. The athenaeum’s records detailing each sorcerer was a particular interest of mine, as I was evidently curious as to what each sorcerer’s life was before Syndor claimed it for its own. The accounts, however, were unfortunately sparing, with each tribe member only receiving a few bits of identifying material—name, date of birth, tribe affiliation, village rank, date of arrival, and a date of death.
What kind of life did each sorcerer live before their name appeared in the Manor’s library? What was their history? Had they any family? Any companions? From what part of the world had they come from? What had they left behind? Who had they been? No publication in the library could provide me with a single answer to any question I posed within. My peers were supposed to be my new family, but I knew not a thing of them. Certainly it was worth asking, but, be that as it was, I was in no particular mood to inquire. The dusty books upon their towering shelves were the only company I could tolerate in length for the time being.
There was, in fact, a needed and necessary record plainly missing from the library. My and Avi’s arrival had not yet been documented, and I thought it fitting for myself to fill in the blanks. Thus I retrieved a quill and ink, and wrote in the appropriate book—

Miranda Kinden

Date of Birth: July 9, xxxx
Tribe: Water
Rank: General
Date of Arrival: May 2, xxxx
Date of Death:

And I could not forget my dear friend—

Aviannah Smith

Date of Birth: December 30, xxxx
Tribe: Fire
Rank: General
Date of Arrival: May 2, xxxx
Date of Death:

How sparse our imprint on the village was! It matched the meagerness of each prior sorcerer’s study, and I could not bear it! There was more, much more, to our characters than the dated details of our being. We had lived many years before our coming, and I did not wish for those years to be erased without thought. One’s history indeed possessed equal importance to one’s present. Yet if I was the only one who was enlightened with the knowledge of those years that had passed, who would publish my previous life’s account, if not myself?
A teardrop sunk from my cheek to the page as I lifted the quill and began to pen—

I, Miranda Kinden, descendant of Gerald and Samantha Ply, hailed from xxxx, born into a family of eight—two parents, two sons, four daughters. I was married to Richard Kinden at seventeen, and from our bond was born a baby boy, Silas Kinden. Both perished in a house fire prior to my arriving in Syndor. They are remembered fondly by me, always & forever.

What else was to be said of my circumstances? I sat and stared vacantly at what I had written, reviewing its contents with an air of emptiness. It amazed me how eighteen years of my existence had been reduced to four simple sentences, all void of emotion, all barren of animation. Those that would read it would be struck with an indifference customary of studying something that does not relate to themselves, such as leafing through a recipe or a news article. But it was I who had lived it; I had breathed for years to bring about the very existence of those words, and thus I survived in its phrasing and recitation and the mental conceptions those who would review it would conceive in their minds of my situation. They were not mere lines of text to me; they were an entire beinghood, all of which had been effaced in the twinkling of an eye.
I had been a blissful piece of a good family—would it be a position I would ever occupy again? There was only one family that enjoyed Syndor, that of the royal bloodline, which was in and of itself in disorder due to Skylar’s parents’ death. I perused the volumes that related to the esteemed lineage, yearning to know more, desiring to understand why each tribe did not boast their own lines of descent. A particular scroll detailed the royal family, reading—

Since Syndor’s inception, the royal family has been connected to the Nature Tribe and has presided over the village for generations. They possess the ability to control the earth and its many properties, and they have a duty to protect the well-being of their subjects as well as the responsibility to maintain peace and harmony within the forest.
Those who belong to the royal bloodline are the only sorcerers who are able to bear or give children. Children from the royal family are betrothed at birth to a select sorcerer from another tribe, chosen specially with a variety of factors in mind, including but not limited to: magical ability, intelligence, strength, loyalty, etc. Sorcerers these children are promised to are married into the royal family, and consequently are able to provide children to or bear children with their betrothed. For example, a daughter from the royal bloodline may be betrothed to a boy from the Fire Tribe, and although he cannot give children to another sorcerer, he is able to, through the magic of the royal family, give children to his betrothed due to the daughter’s ability to be with child. All other sorcerers, once they receive their powers, are made infertile by Nature.

Unfruitful! Why—it was something I had not considered, nor was it a circumstance I had been told of! My heart collapsed in the cage of my chest, and I wept mercilessly, not only for what I had lost, but for all I would never take pleasure in again. I had been a viciously unfulfilled wife and mother, coveting a liberal life, and such a life was before me then, entirely divergent from what I had known, and yet I longed for it to return as Nature longs for sun in a wintry wonderland, but at once will desire it to be gone as the heat grows!
I had been a fool to wish for an amendment to my tediously dull existence. I had not cherished the monotony, nor had I taken the time to delight in the unfailing constancy of my husband and my son. They were now gone, long dearly departed from the earth, leaving me entirely alone and rueful for my thinking too little of them. They survived in heaven now, surely being treasured by the angels much more than I had ever regarded them. It was a thought that compelled me to wish that I could join them, that I could erase myself as I had erased them. Yet there still ached in me a passion to live, against all varying odds, and as I cried out in the echoing chamber, I recognized my amazing affairs in the present day, and elected that I could not divest myself of them. I believed that I had failed my family, in spite of heaven’s protests that I had done right by them, and I ascertained that I could not fail the new community that had given me a second chance.
I wanted to close the book shut for each frustration it had shown me, but as I cast my eyes over the many following chapters of the installment, one in particular arrested my ardent attentions—

The Lost Heir

Mark Derlock—aged nineteen at time of vanishing—survived by his wife, Madison Derlock, and unborn child. No cause for disappearance—no body ever found—

The report was hastily written, as if it had been carelessly thrown into the collection by one with a thoughtless manner or one haunted by a mind with a lamentably excessive amount of sentiments. How strange, I thought. How could a sorcerer disappear without a trace? Surely he was not led outside the Veil—his royal family would have forbidden it, and his own body would have been repulsed to do so. Perhaps he was killed by some creature—a werewolf?
If such a catastrophe would have been true, certainly it would have been discovered. Yet the record seemed archaic in the totality of Syndor’s history, and consequently I wondered if the Grand Werewolf and his subjects had even existed at the same time of Mark’s disappearance.
Hastily I threw away the book describing the royal bloodline and its tales, and flew to the shelf that hosted each record of each sorcerer. It took scarcely any time to find the lost heir’s profile—

Mark Derlock

Date of Birth: March 12, xxxx
Tribe: Nature
Rank: Prince, heir to the throne
Date of Arrival: birth
Date of Death:

Father: Thomas Derlock of the Nature Tribe
Mother: Katerina Derlock (formerly Katerina Sphinx)
Spouse: Madison Derlock (formerly Madison Jove)
Children: Olivia Derlock

But when had the Grand Werewolf come into being? There was certainly a record of it—I would put my life on it!
Accordingly I buried my head in the tomes that lined the shelves, studying each work’s title and vigorously laboring to find what my curiosity yearned to be enlightened on. There was a particular portfolio of papers dedicated to the werewolf race and what Syndor knew of them, and I strove to find the earliest account of their creation. I scribbled notable dates on a blank page and flipped through the copious sheets until I discovered the first record of Mitch’s existence—
The dates appeared nearly aligned, but not so: the advent of Olivia’s rise to the throne, Mark Derlock’s daughter, was defined by Mitch’s earliest appearance. Therefore it could not have been true; Mitch, or any of his werewolf brethren, could not have been responsible for Mark’s death. The royal bloodline’s lost heir truly had vanished, at any rate, and there was no explanation given, nor imagined, for it. A bizarre record, to be sure, but I supposed it was natural at the time; I was aware of many tales of those who had gone missing quite unprompted, and it never suggested anything more than a quirk of carelessness. I, for one, would soon become to my town a woman vanished into thin air, and never would I have a say in it. Frankly, I found the detail of Syndor’s history fascinating, and continued to haunt the library searching for similar lore.
So absorbed in my studies I was I did not detect the stir from one corner of the library, betraying the presence of another peruser. The glow from a handful of new candles becoming ablaze illuminated the place, and curiously I advanced toward my fellow bookworm.
“Hi there,” I introduced myself, startling the newcomer. “I—I’m sorry! Oh—I did not mean to scare you.”
“My apologies,” the flustered boy composed himself, rising to meet me. “I get frightened quite easily.”
“I’m Miranda, I’m new here,” I greeted him.
“I’m John,” the boy took my hand. “Leader of the Soul Tribe—I have heard of your arrival.”
“I did not realize how quickly word gets around here.”
“You would be surprised,” he chuckled. “How are you enjoying yourself so far?”
“It’s been—it’s been quite the transition,” I sighed. “Frankly I have found this place to be more of a comfort than my coven.”
“Are they cruel to you?” a look of genuine, heartfelt concern crossed his face.
“No—not in the slightest—I am just—I am not particularly gifted in the talent of making new acquaintances.”
“Ah! Well that is something you and I can agree upon. I, too, prefer to spend my time in the library. There is something comforting about it.”
“Indeed,” I smiled. “What brought you here today—or this night, perhaps I should say.” I had not been aware of the considerable lapse in time that had overtaken the sun’s influence.
“Only my studies,” John answered. “I like to read about my tribe and the abilities we possess. I find it awfully fascinating, even after all this time. The Shadow Tribe might govern the being, but the Soul coven yields power over the mind. But I do not wish to bore you—how have you got along with your own abilities?”
“Truth be told I have not done much with them,” I confessed. “I do not know where to begin.”
“That can be fixed. Your abilities are now as attached to you as your conscience is. Understanding them will come with time, but it will be entirely natural, like moving your very limbs.”
“Are we meant to study our powers? Or practice them? I have not been given much guidance on the subject.”
“Only rising leaders must go through some sort of training. All other sorcerers come into their powers in their own time, though they can of course request to be instructed on the matter if they choose. Each sorcerer’s path is somewhat different.”
“Well—what was yours like?” I inquired.
“Mine?” John raised his complexion in thought. “Quite simple, really. My abilities grew as my time here did. I understood them instinctively—that is what happens. However, as leader of my tribe I was required to refine them in order to have a mastery over them. In addition to physical practice I read all I could about them, and that is how my passion for literature was born.”
“So—you’re saying it’ll come naturally to me?”
“Most certainly. You only need to be patient.”
“What do you suggest I do in the meantime?”
“You can read of them if you’d like. I would seek to grow close to your coven, too. I can assure you they are not as intimidating as they might seem now,” he promised.
“I appreciate your insight, truly,” I said. “In the meantime I’ve been adding to this collection of records. Our empress permitted it, of course.”
“Oh! Yes—anyone is free to build upon the works already published here. It is necessary, in my opinion, to do so. Our history is extremely valuable.”
“I thought it wise to detail my life before I arrived here,” I explained dutifully. “No other sorcerer’s records discuss it.”
“Well—that is something I never thought of,” John contemplated aloud. “It is a fine idea. One must not forget where they came from, of course.”
“At any rate—I did not mean to disturb you,” I began to withdraw from his company. “I only wanted to see who else was here.”
“No need to beg your pardon. A curious mind is something one should not apologize for.”
“Forgive me for asking,” I hesitated, my interest at once being inspired, “but Avi visited you the other day for a dream she had I believe. She told me you thought nothing of it.”
“Indeed, I remember,” John responded. “She dreamt of a werewolf—Ben to be precise.”
“Ben? How do you know his name?”
“He’s the Grand Werewolf’s son. Estranged from his pack because his father denied him. Hardly a werewolf we would consider a danger to our community. You may read of him here—we do have accounts written of him.”
“Have you met him?”
“Not personally—but I know of some sorcerers here who have crossed paths with him.”
“And they have been allowed to speak to him?”
“Not necessarily. It is still forbidden to do so, given that he still is, in fact, related to our enemy. But nobody has ever suffered punishment for it because we don’t recognize him as a threat. No sorcerer is interested in becoming intimate with a werewolf, anyway. It isn’t something we desire, and so the law prohibiting it feels natural enough.”
“So you know of no sorcerer who has ever gotten close to a werewolf?”
This particular question of mine appeared to concern John.
“Why do you ask?” he looked askance.
“I only wish to know the relationship between us and them,” I stammered. “You can rest easy knowing I am not inquiring out of a private wish to be intimate with the werewolves. I could never—I would never do such a thing. I am only eager to know.”
“In that case—no, I have not,” he answered. “Surely we were created with a curiosity toward them that may lead us to observe them or whatnot, but we were not fashioned with a desire to totally satisfy such interest because they exist in opposition to all we stand for and all we have vowed to protect. It is akin to asking if any flower has survived the winter—it is entirely out of the question.”
“Some flowers bloom best in the cold,” I countered, scarcely wondering if he would take offense to my correction.
“Of course—you know full well what I meant by giving such a comparison.”
“Yes.”
“I was readying myself to quit this place before you came to introduce yourself,” John continued. “If you intend to retire for the night, too, I would be much obliged to escort you home.”
“I would like that very much.”
John and I strolled beside one another beneath the moonless sky, conversating and kicking rocks aside from our chosen path. He was soft-spoken, but undeniably clever from having spent so much of his idle time in a contemplative state between shelves of vast knowledge. Each question I posed he answered honestly and plainly, and there seemed no end to the education he possessed. It was no wonder he was made leader of his tribe, no less the coven that governed the mind. He was perfectly fit for the position.
“I apologize for the lengthy walk,” I professed as we approached my cabin. “Of course they had to place me in the farthest cabin in Syndor.”
“It’s no pain at all,” John assured me. “I only wished for you to get home safely.”
“I do appreciate it.”
“Well—goodnight then.”
“Goodnight. Perhaps I’ll see you in the library again?” I wondered.
“Certainly,” he smiled. “Sleep well.”
I nodded in recognition of his wish, and retired for the night.

Chapter Text

A damned prophecy—she wishes me to concern myself over a damned prophecy! I thought tempestuously. A prophecy that has been written for generations, nonetheless—and to have her right-hand follow me whenever she pleases—this village speaks of freedom, and yet it hinders the very liberty it prides itself on gifting its inhabitants!
I seethed between the walls of my cabin for many days. My rebellious spirit stirred and refused to speak to any member of my coven, nor present myself to the larger society of Syndor. I was certain nobody in particular regretted my absence; indeed it was perhaps Noelle of all the sorcerers who preferred it, to see me locked away in my housing, away from the community and certainly out of trouble. I had not seen her since our last encounter, nor the empress, but I did not wish to change that.
Surely I was intrigued by the white werewolf, and desired to descry his situation, but what sparked my willfulness above this wish was my determination to contest each sorcerer who dared to instruct me on my own living. What say did they have in my independence? I had valiantly escaped from the stern hands of a horrid husband, who had sent me away to rot in an asylum that was beginning to mirror my present circumstances. I had fled to protect myself then, and if the same course of action was suitable again, I would not hesitate to run likewise.
In the interim, however, I cautiously weighed my options. There was no resting place for me besides Syndor, and at length I would consign myself to a considerable amount of guilt if I abandoned Miranda. There seemed no soundness in a decision to quit Syndor and live by my lonesome, though I knew it was a feat I could execute successfully, particularly given my new abilities. I allowed the prospect to float about my mind, but in no manner did I consider it seriously.
On the fourth day of my self-imprisonment I was struck with a distinct agitation which foretold that if I continued to shut myself in solitude, I would be rendered hysterical. My motionlessness implored to find its resolution, and I was at once willing to submit to whatever commitment it decided upon.
As the night began, I set fire to the lanterns in my cabin, illuminating the space completely. I lighted the hearth, likewise, and dressed myself for an impending journey. To any onlookers, my lodgings would appear inhabited and active, and no concern over my whereabouts would be posed; but, in truth, I would be far removed from the Fire Tribe, shrouded in the woodland’s darkness, hopelessly searching for the white werewolf. I could not fight the determination any longer—though it amused me to see such a trivial thing bewitch my thoughts—and thus I concluded that a desire unable to be shaken must be surrendered to. The premonition I had dreamed, the strange encounter I had experienced, the calling into the woods for answers—it was paramount, and to hell if what was significant to me was deemed improper by Syndor! Any of their forbidding commands or cautions were inferior to my inquisitiveness.
I gathered a few essential items into a woven pack, filling the bag with a small bear skin blanket and a few fruits that I had purchased earlier in the week. I was becoming accustomed to the trading practices of Syndor. While I did not own any possessions yet to partake in the village’s exchanges, Skylar’s generosity had extended to me and Miranda to assist in our adjustment. She had provided us with a few objects of value to pass along. My supply, however, was dwindling; although my objective to venture to the Clearing a second time was largely influenced by my wishing to see the white werewolf, I also elected it best to search for some precious commodities the forest might have to offer. At any rate, it would be best if I returned with something in hand so that I did not draw further suspicion. How could I be condemned for treason if I had ample evidence of the contrary?
I ran into the dark woods without a soul seeing me. There was no use in my calling out to the beast; I did not know its name, nor did I wish to draw any attention to my being in the Clearing in the dead of the night. Thus I was obliged to walk along, guided by the light fashioned from my own magic, with my eyes keen on discerning any movement in the web of brush about me.
I was not one to be disturbed by the eeriness of the thicket in the twilight. The land was unfamiliar, certainly, and though I felt myself to be watched by thousands of eyes in the blackness, I did not see myself as prey for any creature. Perhaps I was much too confident in my abilities, or too dependent on my luck. Nevertheless I persisted for quite a long while, pressing forward, entirely unknowing of my whereabouts, but being possessed by an exciting passion that knew no reservations.
Trekking further into the inky abyss of the forest, I stumbled upon a grotto that sat in the center of a fold of trees. Damp rocks sprung up beside the formation, and drops of water trickled downward, creating ripples in the pond. The descending drops and their shattering the stillness of the water were the only sounds to be heard so far from any signs of civilization.
In spite of this, my ears pricked with disquietude. I did not believe myself to be entirely alone.
“Avi—”
The soft pronunciation of my name rung through the leaves, and my awarenesses were at once startled completely.
“Who’s there?” I could not withhold myself from exclaiming. There was, however, no answer.
I am going mad, I surmised. Hearing disembodied voices—perhaps I should sleep to ward them off.
How long I had been awake I knew not, but I determined my sanities would be better suited for my journey if they were well rested. I yielded to my humanity; the fevered elation that had sustained me was beginning to wither, unveiling the hunger and exhaustion, that lay beneath the thrill of the chase. Consequently I laid out my bear skin blanket near the edge of a lining of trees, shrouding myself in the warm material. Until my last breath awake I listened attentively for any voice the brush might have been hiding, but the foliage gave me nothing for my strained efforts.
The moon was at its apex when I revived. Its ghostly white light reflected off the grotto I laid beside, looking as if it were breathing its own air as it fluttered and stirred. The water’s movement was peculiar, however; its palpitations flowed from the trilling of the grotto’s ceiling, but the pulsations existed elsewhere, too. At the lip of the pond a wolf stood, bending forward to drink. Each lap of its tongue reverberated in the clear spring. Breathlessly I did not move an inch; the wolf was wholly unaware of my presence. Exhilaration ascended into my throat. Even in the ebony hour the wolf’s appearance was distinct: it was the white werewolf.
I moved slightly, and the broken branches upon the ground betrayed my presence to the renegade. Immediately the wolf jumped, fixing its eyes on me. I conjured a flame in my palm to present myself, to show that I was not armed, nor that I was dangerous. The flickering fire raised in my hand was the only thing that moved between us.
The werewolf did not blink. My heart raced wildly as we remarked one another; sharing in the wolf’s stare felt as if I were witnessing a streak of light amidst the darkness, or an object in total color surrounded by grey. The glacial glow of its gaze was hauntingly beautiful, and I recognized it as the same naked look I had beheld in my dream and when Noelle had intruded on my first meeting with the creature. I supposed I had sat there for hours observing the animal; we become the sole center of our collective attention while the terrain became a hazy blur. I would not have noticed if the earth split open and consumed me, unless it stole him away at the very same moment.
Cautiously the magnetic creature advanced toward me. It did not bare its teeth, nor did it snarl. Its penetrating gaze softened, announcing that it was not looking to kill as much as I was not looking to flee. In its step I saw the werewolf’s fur vanish, its bones transformed, and suddenly where there was once a wild animal there stood a boy of about twenty-two, with bronzed skin and hazel locks that were ruffled from the being’s evolution.
“Avi?” the boy inquired. I nodded without thought.
My confirmation painted a smile across his face, and chivalrously he extended his hand to me. I accepted it, and rose to meet him.
“What are you doing out here? Did anybody follow you?” his questions continued, marked by a concerned tone.
“I was looking for you—the white werewolf,” I answered. “Nobody saw me. I’m alone.”
“The white werewolf?” he laughed. “My name is Ben.”
“Ben,” I repeated fondly. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Please believe—the pleasure is all mine.” Ben raised my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “Though I cannot guess why you have traveled all the way out here. You are dangerously close to the Werewolf Territory. It is no place for a lady such as yourself.”
“I had to find you,” I confessed. The grace he spoke with blinded my judgment, compelling me to voice each thought that passed wildly about through my head.
“Find me?”
“Yes—and you have seen me do so before.”
“Yes. Your face is quite familiar. I was poised to confront you the last time we met, but one of your friends interrupted us.”
“She is no friend of mine,” I scoffed. “She was only trying to deny me the chance to speak with you.”
“For good reason, I presume?”
“Hardly.”
“I am aware of the sorcerers’ order to keep your village away from us. Though I might oppose it in this circumstance—I can’t say the law is entirely illogical. My kind are—particularly disagreeable.”
“But you are not?” I asked delicately. He sighed, grinning, surely thinking of many things to profess.
“You do not know me?”
“Not a thing.”
“In that case—allow me to introduce myself,” Ben said. “I am the Grand Werewolf’s son.”
A spell of shock briefly paralyzed me. How could it be—the Grand Werewolf’s own blood! Why was he not relishing in the comfort of his lineage? Why was he stalking the woodlands so late in the night, away from his pack, entirely by his lonesome? I could not speak; I was much too amazed by his admission to inquire further. The boy ascertained my genuine disbelief and continued—
“I beg you to not be afraid. My father and I have not spoken in over a decade.”
“Why?”
“He exiled me from the territory when I was very young,” Ben explained. “Naturally each werewolf of our kind follows his command, the very person who transformed them into the beasts they are, because their abilities were induced by him when he bit them as humans. But he did not turn me, because I was born a werewolf, and therefore obeyed the command of the woman who gave birth to me. When my father realized that I did not submit to him, and never would, he killed my mother and banished me from the pack. He could not control me, and therefore wanted nothing to do with me.”
His jarring story further accentuated my speechlessness. He paused, however, to allow me the space to comprehend his narrative and ask what I pleased.
“Your mother—” I uttered with remorse. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Ah—you do not need to offer any condolences,” he dismissed. “I was hardly intimate with her, though it was a cruel thing for my father to do. He wished to have a royal bloodline of his very own, but if the very children he brought into the world did not do his bidding blindly, without question, like his subjects, he supposed he was better off alone.”
“How peculiar,” I mused. “There is strength in family. I would not know, but—I would believe so.”
“I will never claim to understand my father’s actions.”
“And so you have roamed this forest ever since?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you not leave?”
“Well, Avi,” he laughed. “Surely you know we cannot leave.”
“How do you mean?”
“You were enchanted by some instinct beyond your comprehension to come here, yes?”
“I suppose.”
“Well—you are now possessed by the same instinct, though this time it instructs you to remain in this forest. It is for your own safety that your very bones reject you quitting this domain.”
“Oh—the Veil, yes?”
“Correct.”
“Why did your father not kill you when he took your mother’s life?” My questions began to tumble down my tongue, unable to be halted.
“Perhaps he believed I would be of use at some point,” Ben reflected. “But as I said—I know nothing of my father’s ways.”
“Do you speak to any of the other werewolves?”
“No. I am a lone wolf—forgive my witticism.”
“That must be awfully lonely.”
“I do not think so,” he said. “Why would I desire to consort with those beasts who think not for themselves, but for their master? I would not be able to tolerate their unceasing loyalty to him. They could never be a friend to me so long as they serve him.”
“Where do your loyalties lie, in that case?”
“To myself.”
It was as if I were gazing into a looking glass. Each attestation Ben put forth pierced the frame of my ego and grew my sympathies for him. He was entirely alone in the world, cast out by his own kind, and yet still he survived in spite of the adversities that had sought to ruin him.
“But enough of me,” Ben remarked. “Why the devil have you ventured so far from the safety of Syndor to seek me out? You scarcely know me. I could have killed you the moment I saw you, and your people would have never known.”
“You would have never even thought to do such a thing, I can be sure,” I argued.
“Perhaps.”
“I wished to find you because you were in my dream some time ago.”
“Oh?”
“Of course I had never seen you, so I looked to find you myself.”
“You wished—to find me?”
Ben’s question suggested that never before had a single soul yearned to identify with his own. It upset me to see the lineaments of his profile soften at my declaration. The boy was strong, to be sure, but it was evident that he had never before been intimate with even the very idea of closeness to another.
“Yes—you,” I confirmed without a singular reservation.
“And, pray tell, what did this dream detail?”
“I saw you—you instructed me to flee,” I conveyed, playing the dream in my head as I spoke. “Another wolf came out of the brush and attacked you, and my friend, Miranda—she’s new to Syndor like me—was lying on the ground, dead. I ran and ran—and the wolf that attacked you chased me until I awoke.”
“There is only one person who would dare to fight me, even if in a mere dream,” Ben contested.
“And who might that be?”
“My father.”
“In that case—I dreamt of you and the Grand Werewolf.”
“Is this dream of any consequence to you?”
“How should I know? I only just arrived in Syndor, and was intrigued by its message. Have you any idea of its significance?”
“I will not deem myself fit to be the judge of such a fantastical vision,” he said. “You dreamt of my father attacking me, and, I presume, of killing your friend. Then pursuing your own death as well. I cannot think of a situation where this fate would befall either you or your friend.”
“I have come in vain to seek answers, then,” I muttered.
“I apologize—my specialties do not lie in prophesying,” he regretted. “But I can inform you of what I do know.”
“What you know? What could you know?” I begged.
“The girl who stood between us a few nights ago—she visited me with another sorcerer.”
“Noelle? What did she say?”
“She and her companion warned me to stay far from you.”
“I suppose that’s natural, given Syndor’s law forbidding us to even be in company with one another.”
“You surprise me,” Ben bantered. “Certainly I have seen my fair share of sorcerers out here, and have spoken to them briefly in spite of their village’s protests, but you are the first who has seemed to honestly hold a true desire to be acquainted with me. Forgive me for presuming but—I would go so far as to say that you are not indifferent to the werewolf kind as your people are born to be.”
“You are correct,” I conceded. “Perhaps it is because I cannot be restrained when one disallows me to do something—or perhaps it is because I longed to know you.” Again my considerate opinion inspired a look of appreciation upon Ben’s face.
“Well then—you certainly are risking a great deal to be standing here.”
“My curiosity would have never permitted me to live with myself if I denied it the privilege of this moment,” I remarked. “What else did Noelle speak to you of?”
“Only of the importance of our estrangement,” he answered. “She did not wish for you to be harmed by your own folly, or by any of the werewolves’ mischief.”
“That is humorous coming from her. She has been nothing but uncivil to me.”
“Perhaps she has something to gain from your being safe.”
As soon as the words escaped Ben’s mouth, we both looked at one another in recognition, as if we had stumbled upon a secret meant to be shielded from both of us. I opened my lips to inquire further, but movement in the foliage from beyond our tête-à-tête forced silence upon us. We drew a shared breath of relief when we ascertained there was no danger, and it was merely a rabbit that had leapt from the bushes and bolted past us.
“I would advise you to leave,” Ben turned to me sharply. “The sun will be up soon and I do not wish your village to be cross with you—because I would like to see you again. We have more to discuss, that is, if you wish to do so.”
“I—yes—I would like that very much,” I stuttered.
“I do hope you can forgive me for not being able to walk you back to Syndor,” he apologized. “The risk is too great but—I can assure you I am a gentleman.”
“I will try to give you mercy,” I jested.
“I am obliged to you.”
“When may I see you again?”
“Tomorrow, in the Clearing,” he answered. “At this place near the grotto. It’s far enough from Syndor, and well removed from the Werewolf Territory. You will be safe, and most importantly, hidden.”
“I will do just that.”
Ben flashed another smile at my reply, and swiftly transformed at my feet again, running into the woodlands in the next instant. I followed his ghostly figure until I could see no more of it, and without lingering a minute longer, I packed what meager belongings I had brought and turned back toward Syndor.

Chapter Text

“Pray—remind me why this breakfasting together is necessary?” I asked Lizzy sharply. I could not tame the vitriolic cadence that rose in my throat and coated my words in cynicism.
“It is tradition, your majesty,” my noble servant humbly responded. “You and Trent are to wed within the year, and it is customary for the heir to the throne and their betrothed to spend quality time as one as their wedding nears. I supposed a shared meal might be the most painless way for the both of you to enjoy one another’s company.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but at once Lizzy tightened the lacing on my corset, leaving me bereft of speech. My knuckles paled as I gripped the posts of my bed, anticipating another constriction. Fortunately, another did not transpire.
“You look positively magnificent, your majesty,” Lizzy complimented. “Trent will not be able to keep his eyes off you!”
“Unfortunately,” I grumbled. She dismissed my pessimistic remark.
“It is only for two hours. You will be agreeable for such a brief period.”
“I may as well act the part, certainly. I implore you—let us get this over with.”
Lizzy and I rode to the Manor in tandem, arriving earlier than Trent. I was led into the formal dining room, which had been embellished for the occasion. A lace-trimmed cloth covered the wooden table, falling about the sides in a colorless cascade. Several silver platters were placed meticulously in the middle of the tabletop. Steaming broth, buttered biscuits, bouquets of fruit, sugary appetizers, roasted beef—there seemed no type of fare left unattended for. The lavish display filled the room with a pleasant aroma that compelled my stomach to beseech for the consumption of its contents. Perhaps this is a suitable compensation for the pain of having to converse with Trent for the next two hours, I thought.
“Is it all to your liking, your majesty?” Lizzy inquired, softening the creases that had grown on the cloth in our absence.
“Yes, yes,” I assured her. Surely my frowning countenance had worried her, but I encouraged my maid that my bad spirits were scarcely connected to the effort she had exerted to make the morning as seamless as could be.
“If there is anything your majesty wishes, I will only be a room away,” Lizzy guaranteed.
“You will not stay here—with us?”
“No, your majesty. This is sacred time you must spend alone together.”
“Oh—perhaps you are right,” I sighed.
“I would entreat you to make the most of it. Trent is family.”
As much as I wished to contend with Lizzy’s claim, she was truthful in all she spoke, and that I could not doubt. Perhaps Trent was not married to my bloodline yet, but he had witnessed my upbringing, and had played a meaningful part in my earlier days. Indeed it was an honest assertion that Trent was the closest thing I had to my kin that still walked the earth.
“I will leave you in the meantime,” Lizzy said. “Trent should be here shortly. Please—sit and recline. Make yourself at home.”
I nodded and took my seat at the far head of the table, facing the entryway, watching as Lizzy quitted the room. My corset pierced my ribcage, and I shifted about in my seat uncomfortably, gazing up at the ceiling I wished would collapse upon me. Each breath I took seemed more strained than the last. Uneasily I anticipated the swinging of the door that would announce Trent’s arrival. The dining room at once felt smaller, and there seemed less air in the space, and as I rose to allow myself the privilege to pace to clear my head, the boy entered, visibly flustered.
“Am I late?” Trent stammered, cuffing the links about his wrists. “My sincerest apologies Skylar—I know you much you loathe those who are unpunctual.”
“Do not apologize,” I said. “Please—have a seat.”
The boy bowed, and consequently sat opposite of me. Overwhelmed with anxiety, I rang for some wine. Trent consented to a glass of his own.
“You look beautiful,” he admired me.
“I assure you I do not normally begin my days with spirits,” I tittered, ignoring his praise as I swallowed a mouthful of my drink.
“I would not endeavor to judge you if you did,” Trent returned, mimicking my movements.
“Of course—you who see no wrong in me.”
“That I never said.”
“But it is what you think.”
“You are free to come to your own conclusions.”
“Oh! Do not seek to vex me so early in the day!” I tugged at the dreadful confines of my dress before taking another hasty swallow of wine.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, his eyes fixed upon me. Though I knew he spoke truthfully, I could not help assuming he retorted with a contemptuous tone. Perhaps he was teasing me, or perhaps the wine had been much stronger than I believed it to be.
“Let us begin again,” Trent added. “I wish for this morning to be pleasant—for the both of us. I do not see why we can’t be civil. We lived alongside one another harmoniously for years—one breakfast should not divide us so.”
His nostalgic remark smote my aggression. At once I saw myself transported back to our days of adolescence, when we had shared hospitable, hearty meals without strife, and had been as carefree in our temperament as could be socially agreeable between a young girl and a boy who was not yet tied to her bloodline. Never did we exchange such biting words as we did then; even in our most defenseless circumstances, where we bore our souls to one another in secret, it would have been entirely out of the question to address one another so unkindly. But it was something that could not be helped in my behavior as I had grown in age and had been informed of our fated future as one. The revelation had altered my perception of him irrevocably, and such was a change Trent had noted the second it manifested, yet had never once scorned.
“If it is civility you beg for, I will give it,” I assented, finishing my chalice. I tapped a sharpened pewter knife against the glass, beckoning for it to be filled. Lizzy entered, timorously obeying my silent command, and crossed the room to replenish Trent’s drinking glass, which had been drained as well. His apparent mirroring of my conduct embittered me.
“Very well then,” he smiled, raising his chalice toward the air and consuming half the liquor in one breath. I followed in succession.
“If we must be here for some time, I see it fair to request some sort of amusement from you,” I commanded.
“May we eat first? Lizzy has prepared a fine spread for us to enjoy,” Trent motioned to the many dishes that were untouched.
“I am not hungry.”
“Suit yourself.”
Before rising to fill his plate, Trent finished his second glass of wine. Staring sullenly at him, I did the same. In silence the boy gingerly plucked one morsel from each tray, decorating his saucer with the many delicacies afforded to us. My mouth watered at the sight of him savoring the generous breakfast, but my irritation refused me the right to indulge the very same. I clenched my jaw, scarcely breathing to keep my stomach from betraying its aching emptiness. The effects of the wine only elevated each emotion that swam through my veins, and I felt myself to be on the precipice of a pitiful swoon!
I watched each bite Trent took, and while my focus was fixed on the steam that erupted from his appetizing plate, he gazed at me with a concerned brow, observing the growing bloodlessness of my complexion and the waning of my breathing.
“Skylar,” he addressed me warmly. Our eyes met, and the blankness of my attention roused a pronounced feeling of care in his.
Without hesitation he rose again, this time neglecting the banquet and instead coming to stand beside me. In his hand he held a powdered blueberry pastry, but he did not raise it to his own lips; rather, he placed the tartlet on my bare plate and touched my wrist, whispering coolly—
“Do not faint merely because you are too proud to eat with me.”
Hardly had he turned to resume his position opposite of me that I rose abruptly, nearly collapsing from my sudden movement. My heart longed to cry out in his arms, to shed the many tears I refused to release, but instead my eyes burned with passion, storming with a vehemence my inebriated mind could not tame!
“Do not mock me!” I screamed, taking possession of the pastry and flinging it at him. The uneaten delectable erupted in a flurry of sugar snow as it struck his fine suit, slumping to the floor in the next instant, utterly wasted as his generous efforts had been.
“Skylar! What are you—”
“You mock me! You do!” I cried, dragging myself to stand before him.
“I was not mocking you—”
“You are too considerate of me—much too—even when I am cruel to you. How can you be—why are you so charitable? Can you not see I am a mess?”
“That is precisely why I am amiable,” Trent said sternly.
“Oh! So you pity me then!”
“No. I do not pity you.”
“Then speak—what do you think of me? What do you think of when you look at me the way you look at me now?”
“I—”
“You were once my friend,” I interrupted him carelessly. “My dearest, dearest friend, and it was your choice to be. Now you have no say in being my betrothed, my husband to come. You are forced to stand by me in spite of your contempt for how I have changed—and you resent it! You resent it!”
“I do not!” Trent exclaimed fervently.
“Oh—do not tell me lies! You cannot bear to be tied to be for eternity now!” I shouted. “You yearn for the girl I once was—the innocent, benevolent, hopeful girl who lived under your roof for years. You wonder what must have happened to her, where she has vanished—but she is gone! She disappeared the minute she was reminded that she must lead this village, that she must be married, that she cannot be young forever! She died the minute such harrowing responsibility fell onto her—when she realized she must do it all alone!”
Trent’s fists clenched together. Slowly he stepped closer to me, nigh enough for me to hear the rattling of his rib cage. He drew a sharp breath and glared at me, though without a hint of animosity. He seemed to search my features for some distinguishing redemption or some telling feeling to answer to. I could not detect whether he observed what he wished to see or not.
“Alone, of course,” he reviled. “Skylar, I may have deemed you improper at times—but I have never been one to regard you as utterly blind.”
“Our marriage is no union. It is an obligation—yet another one I must fulfill in order to be as I was born to be.”
“You see it as a mere annoyance, not an advantage?”
“Yes.”
“And you see no beauty in it whatsoever?”
I had been unwavering in my confidence until Trent began his interrogation. My heart failed; something within me begged me not to answer, not because it feared what I would say, but because it feared that my arrogance would not be honest. I could contest fire with fire quite spectacularly, but not when my fire was only an illusion, and there was no brush to burn.
“I do not know,” I lied.
“You must answer,” Trent commanded. His eyes flickered with a concealed anguish. “Tell me you see no beauty in it. I must hear you say it.”
“I do not wish to hurt you,” I withdrew from his gaze and began to walk away from him.
“I believe we are far past that,” he said. “You cannot push me away for the very reason I do not want to be pushed.”
My departure from his company was suddenly halted. Creeping vines sprouted from the floorboards, wrapping themselves about my ankles and anchoring me to the ground. I looked at Trent, dumbfounded, as he approached me once more.
“Speak freely,” he ordered.
“I will not.”
He raised his hand to my cheek, tenderly brushing my ringlets aside. The warmth of his fingertips upon my cold skin made me shiver, and I looked up at him longingly, as if he were to deliver me from my present agony. The wine made my head spin, and my thoughts became a frenzied bedlam of perplexing ardor. Again I was struck with a flush of fervor as I felt his breath on my lips as he spoke—
“At least you are wise enough to not answer when you know you will only speak falsely,” he muttered slowly. We stared at one another for a moment, drawing closer, until Lizzy burst through the door, startling both of us, and releasing one another from our brazen intimacy.
“Your majesty—my apologies for the intrusion,” she stuttered. “But Noelle has just arrived with news she thinks is of the utmost importance for your majesty to hear.”
“Please—send her in,” I said, gathering my stolen senses.
Noelle anxiously entered the dining hall. Her disturbed manner sobered me; she looked positively aghast, and I was impatient to know what I owed her interruption to.
“Speak, Noelle,” I instructed my second in command.
“Your majesty, do you wish for Trent to hear as well?” Noelle asked.
My focus turned back toward the boy, who had been watching me since Noelle had arrived. I nearly, as if by instinct, desired to cast him out, so that he could not hear of the many troubles that I would perhaps be newly burdened with; but strangely my wish for him to depart had vanished the very same, and I could not bring myself to bade him to leave.
“Whatever you must say to me, you can say to him. He merits that much.”
Trent did not smile, but he nodded in such devoted recognition that I could not help my chest from swelling with gratitude.
“Very well then,” Noelle continued. “I have come from news of my meeting with Ben.”
“Please, do tell.”
“I spoke to him of Avi, and he was amicable, for the most part,” she detailed. “But it was not what he said of her that concerned me. Rather, it was what he said of his father that is the reason I have come to you today.”
“Well—get on with it.”
“He asserted that his father was immortal—that it was nothing of speculation as we have been debating. It was fact.”
I felt my cheeks grow pallid. The effects of my earlier irritation, the abundantly consumed wine, the inflamed closeness between Trent and I—it was all too much to bear for my frame. Consequently my eyes were forced shut, and I descended to the floor as violently as a late monsoon rain.

Chapter Text

“Skylar!” Trent and I called out in concert, rushing to her aid. Her collapse startled us collectively, and hurriedly we comforted she who gained consciousness after a few breathless minutes.
“Lizzy—please fetch Skylar some broth,” Trent ordered the empress’ maid, who blushed in return. “Noelle—get her some water. She drank too much wine and I—I upset her greatly this morning.”
I did not seek to ask for an elucidation of their breakfast together and of all the circumstances that had amounted to Skylar’s swooning. I had vastly more pressing matters at hand, which had terrified me to introduce to the evidently withering empress. She was in no sound mind to receive such information concerning the Grand Werewolf, but there was no time to be spared in keeping the conviction from her.
Skylar was promptly given a bowl of broth and a glass of water, both of which she consumed slowly. Her eyes seemed vacant of any awareness; she only leaned into Trent’s arms, struggling to recover from her fall. Trent’s chivalry glowed as he supported her. If one did not know the indignation Skylar acted with toward the boy, one would believe them already married, already dutifully affectionate, by the manner they sat closely with one another upon the floor.
“Please—somebody—open a window,” Skylar mumbled. Trent shot a glance toward Lizzy, who obeyed at once. She threw open the casement, filling the room with forestry scents, which appeared to revive the poor empress.
“I apologize, your majesty,” I spoke falteringly. “I did not mean to alarm you so.”
“No, no,” she shook her head, shutting her eyes. “You are forgiven. I was only caught in a frenzy—I am myself again.”
“Are you sure your majesty? I can return at another time. You appeared quite engaged and I—”
“Stay, Noelle.”
Skylar was sure in her request. Accordingly Trent and I moved her into her chair at the dining table, and sat on either side of her. She ingested a few more mouthfuls of broth before she gestured for me to continue.
“Oh! Well, as I said previously—I was able to speak to Ben, and he confirmed his father’s immortality.”
“And how was he able to assert this so indisputably?”
“He did not say—but it was implied that he had taken it into his own hands, on many occasions, to kill his father himself. And by merely recounting our own struggles in battle with Mitch—I believe him doubtlessly.”
Skylar sighed deeply and pushed away her restorative meal. Her countenance spoke of being entirely defeated, as if my intelligence had not surprised her in the slightest.
“Then our wickedest fears are come to life,” she said. “And I—I don’t—I am unsure of what we are to do.”
“You do not need to know,” Trent answered, taking her hand in his. “We will think of something—there must be a way.”
“We can still use the new sorcerers in the way you originally intended,” I added. “Perhaps their novelty will bring about something of merit, as it is not something we have tried, nor Ben, for that matter. But it is wise for us to think of another strategy in the event that Miranda and Avi’s powers are not sufficient.”
Our empress said nothing, but her eyes flickered with serious thought. I examined her inward contemplations, hoping for her to enlighten us on the subject of them, but she remained quiet, gazing absently at the wall.
“I will conduct research,” I declared. “As your right-hand it is my duty to do so. I will devise some options, I will—”
My assertiveness was hardly acknowledged. Trent did not face me; instead, his attentions remained fixed on Skylar, who still was mute. Her lips parted after a long silence, and in a tone scarcely audible she spoke—
“There is another way.”
“Another way?” I gasped, amazed. “How can there be another way? How have we not thought of it before?”
“I have thought of it.”
“Pray tell!”
“The royal bloodline—it possesses the power to give and take away the life of the supernatural,” Skylar explained warily. “You may be aware of this, you may not be.”
“I was not,” I insisted.
“It has never been used before,” Trent interjected. “No sorcerer alive would necessarily know of it unless they read extensively of the family’s abilities.”
“Go on,” I said.
“It is a powerful ability—but it is dangerous,” Skylar went on. “It is unearthly to take away a being’s life so unnaturally, much less resurrect an entity through the same means. I have read that using this ability can wreak havoc on the land if not done in accordance with the will of nature. And it is quite impossible to determine what nature deems appropriate.”
“Surely divesting Mitch of his life force is entirely appropriate!” I contested. “He is the most unnatural specimen to walk this earth, the very creature that has disrupted the harmony of our land. In what other circumstance would this ability be exercised fittingly, if not in our present situation?”
“A sound argument,” Skylar replied. “Only I hesitate upon knowing that none of my former family used this ability against him before. If they refused to do so, they must have been terrified the very same of what consequences may arise from it. I am not certain it is a risk worth taking.”
“Would you be able to properly perform this spell?” Trent inquired.
“Yes—I would need to study it, of course, and would require time to strengthen my body and my mind to prepare. But the force of such a power runs in my blood, and I would be the only sorcerer who could execute it, assuming, for whatever reason, it has not already been used on Mitch. You can only give someone life once, or take away their life once.”
“Is it something you think wise to do?” he asked.
“I do not see what other alternatives we have.”
“What consequences would come of it, if you used improperly?” I asked, meditating on the particular concern.
“Nothing written details anything specific,” Skylar answered. “But judging from its caution—perhaps it would only strengthen the werewolf race, or render us weak. There are numerous ways our repercussions could manifest. I would venture to presume using it erroneously could perhaps strip me of my powers, or kill me altogether.”
The sudden, indifferent recognition of Skylar’s death disturbed both me and Trent. We glanced at one another, attempting to dismiss her comment, but it pierced the room with its unpleasantness, refusing to go unnoticed.
“If something were to happen to you—what would become of Syndor? Who would lead us?” I asked desperately. “We cannot bet on it—we cannot enact this spell—you are the very last of your bloodline. Losing you would mark the end of Syndor entirely.”
“I know,” Skylar said. “I can assure you I have thought this matter over exhaustively. I cannot guarantee that I would survive the spell—whether because Mitch kills me first, or because I bring about my own end.”
“Perhaps we have to judge what is worth more to this land,” Trent interpolated. “Is it peace without a leader, or a leader with peace.”
“Peace over all else,” Skylar stated directly. “We—I—simply cannot allow you all to exist in this world that continuously plots against us. Living in fear of what our enemies are capable of is no way to exist. My parents—each blood of mine that came before me—strove and worked to obtain that peace. It brought my mother and father nothing. I cannot let my reign end the same. This forest is purposed to be a haven and it is far from it—purely because of Mitch and his pack. I must set out to accomplish what generations of my family failed to do for the sake of all the sorcerers who live here today. The werewolves must be eradicated—Mitch must be killed.”
The empress’ conviction stung the room. She had arrived at her own decision, heedless of either my or Trent’s likely objections. Still it would have been unwise for me to challenge her, particularly when it was apparent that her resolution was the single feasible solution. What argument could I possibly raise in opposition? It would have been foolish to do so.
“You have made your mind up then, I suppose?” I asked.
“I have had no other choice but to do so,” Skylar responded, “now that Mitch’s eternal condition has been confirmed.”
“You must begin at once, then, to prepare for the use of this spell. How long do you reckon it will take you?”
“I am not sure. At the very least many months, but not more than a year.”
“Do you still wish Miranda and Avi to confront the Grand Werewolf?”
“I do. If nothing else, it will be a strategic move as I prepare. It will serve as a sort of distraction, and, perhaps if we are lucky, it will prove successful somehow. Though, I must admit, I have lost confidence in the approach.”
“What if they perish in the process?” Trent asked.
“We will not think of that,” Skylar responded tartly. “But—please—neither of you will speak of this to any of the other sorcerers, do you understand?”
“Yes, your majesty,” Trent and I answered.
“Your majesty, if I may,” Lizzy emerged from beyond the doorway. Unbeknownst to us, she had been listening to our strained discussion for some time.
“You may speak freely, Lizzy,” Skylar instructed her maid.
“I apologize for my forwardness but—it seems none of you are concerned with the possibility of our dear empress’ possible death,” Lizzy remarked, her voice brimming with grief. “We cannot allow her to sacrifice herself.”
“It is my duty, Lizzy,” Skylar said. “If a leader is not meant to sacrifice for the greater good of those they serve, then what good are they?”
“I agree, your majesty. But I simply cannot allow you to execute such a sacrifice without first thinking of what you may leave behind—should you pass.”
“What I may leave behind? How do you mean?”
“Well, your majesty,” Lizzy continued cautiously. “You are to be wed soon, are you not?”
“Assumedly.”
“The bloodline must continue—whether you are alive or not.”
Skylar’s cheeks flushed, but she did not reply. Lizzy awaited her empress’ acknowledgment, but none was given.
“For heaven’s sakes!” the maid erupted. “You must provide Syndor with an heir!”
The knuckles upon the hand Trent took in his suddenly turned white. The boy’s face, too, became ruddy with disconcertment, sharing in Skylar’s stupefaction. I felt as though I were trespassing on a most intimate affair; the couple was positively awestricken.
“Oh! You cannot tell me you have been ignorant of what your being wed means for this village, and what it means for the royal family in particular.”
“No. I can assure you we have not,” Trent answered for his betrothed.
“Very well then,” Lizzy said. “Since you two are conscious of your duties—is it not wise, then, to wed as soon as possible?”
“Can such a thing be rushed? She is not yet eighteen,” I posed.
“My dear, there are no such formalities when it is life and death,” the maid laughed. “She will need to conceive before she is forced to contend with the Grand Werewolf. The considerable amount of time she will require to prepare for the battle will perfectly align with a pregnancy. She will be sheltered, well rested—it is purely out of the question that she should risk her life without giving Syndor one to take her place!”
“I feel—I feel as though I may faint again—” Skylar stammered feebly.
“Oh dear! We will not have any more of that today!” Lizzy cried, rushing to her empress’ side. “You look frightfully ill. We must get you back to your cabin. You are due for some rest after this morning’s events.”
“I can assist,” Trent said, erecting himself to prepare for the task.
“Oh no, it is quite alright,” the maid replied humbly. “I will escort our empress back to her lodgings. She requires solitude.”
“Very well,” he answered concernedly, as if he was not altogether convinced of Skylar’s needing isolation.
“I will return to clean the dining hall. In the meantime, you two are welcome to enjoy what is left. It looks scarcely touched—oh my!”
Without another word from either Lizzy or Skylar, the two withdrew from the room, bound for Skylar’s private dwelling. Trent’s brows knitted together; he appeared entirely cross. I elected it best to not disturb him with my company.
“I will leave you,” I said, moving toward the doorway. “It was your breakfast with the empress, after all.”
“No, please,” Trent said. “Stay.” His plea surprised me, but I did not rebuke it.
“Is there something you wish to discuss?” I asked as I stole Skylar’s seat, gathering a plate of refreshments to satisfy my sudden hunger.
“You are the friend she is most fond of, I presume?”
“I feel quite at liberty to say that I am.”
“Then you must tell me—do you believe the fulfillment of our betrothal to be what is best?”
“Certainly. Syndor depends upon it.”
“I do not speak of what is best for Syndor,” Trent laughed. “I ask out of concern of what is best for Skylar.”
It was quite unheard of for one’s promised to doubt the virtue of their engagement! His consideration for Skylar was queer indeed; he, who was betrothal to the pure, selfless soul who led us—it would be more natural for him to bound himself to her unquestionably, regardless of what she felt in return. He would take pride in his possession of her, and would scarcely think twice of it. It was his duty to satisfy the union of their fate as much as it was Skylar’s. There was no room for that to be disputed.
“I fear I cannot speak for the empress,” I attested.
“But you must—you know her well,” he encouraged. “You have seen her temper as of late. You have witnessed her treatment of—of me.”
“She will marry you. There is no question about it.”
“Perhaps she will—but is that in accordance with what she truly desires?”
“It does not matter!” I threw up my arms in vexation. “You love her, do you not?”
“I do,” he said without thinking. “I do not know what would be a greater folly for me to commit!—if I loved her as I do now, in spite of her indifference; or if I did not love her at all.”
“Does she know this?”
“She must.”
“But have you pronounced it?”
“I have not had the chance, no.”
“She will come around—she will,” I insisted. “Even if she does not you must—”
“I will not force myself upon her,” Trent spoke grimly.
“It is my hope that—”
“I will not,” he repeated. “I would rather perish with this village than add to her reasons for suffering presently.”
“I see.”
“Does she love me?” he hesitated in asking. I discerned the pain beneath his gaze; it was the despair particular to a lover in distress, who only wished to know what his treasured truly felt.
“As I said before, Trent,” I sighed, “I cannot speak for the empress. I would advise you to ask her yourself—for the betterment of the both of you.”
“Very well,” he mustered the poise to speak after a moment’s stillness. “In that case—I will see myself out.”
Trent acted in agreement with his assurance. Behind him he left an air of anxiety, which floated about the room irresolutely for a spell before driving its claws into my nerves and clinging tightly on.

Chapter Text

I laid in bed, staring vacantly up at the ceiling, noticing each crevice and cleave in the wood and endeavoring to fashion a story, a design, a name for each one. For many days I had not left my lodgings, not because the weather was poor, or because there was not anything to amuse myself with beyond its walls, but because I could not gather the strength to remove myself from my hiding and present myself to society with a joyful composure. I had always believed myself to be a person of strong fortitude, one that could not be melted by the searing hand of misery, but this was a despair unlike any other I had known, and it was not one but many despondencies that afflicted me, ones that I could not shake as effortlessly as my former self could have.
A soft knock at my front door broke my musings, though I swore it was a mere hallucination. Surely nobody concerned themselves over my company, or lack thereof, and thus I could not reason as I reclined motionless that anybody was calling to see me.
“Miranda? Are you in there?”
A voice broke through my contemplations again, and my eyes grew sharp. Who was at the door? I could not summon the spirit to throw open my curtains and look downward at my peaceful intruder; rather, my bones stiffened again, and I continued to listen so as to ascertain who stood beneath me.
“Miranda—it’s me, John.”
John—visiting me? A will stirred within me, roused at the pronouncement of his name. With might I rose, and, moving too slowly for my tastes, returned his announcement—
“Give me a moment.”
“Oh! You’re home—I—I will wait here,” John spoke, his tone certainly conveying the astonishment he felt.
My cold feet sunk to the floor and I erected myself, shuddering at the movements I made that had not been accomplished in some time. Longingly I glanced at my withering appearance, attempting to rectify my dreary look by tying my hair back and composing a smile across my face. Yet my eyes, hollow and passionless, betrayed any futile endeavor to appear merry. So, I erased the falsehood from my countenance and continued downstairs, struggling to take a deep breath before greeting John.
“Is there something I can help with?” I asked, desiring to be left by my lonesome and not wishing to conversate for more time than was necessary.
“No—no I have not come to ask for your help with anything. All is well,” John answered, studying my lineaments closely. “I only meant to pay you a visit. You have not been to the library—I have not seen you there for quite some time—I only wished to confirm you were alright.”
“I am—alright—thank you,” I said, staring at his feet. He continued to examine me, and in doing so offended my dishonesty. “You may go, if you please.”
“I—I do not,” he stuttered. His sudden confidence penetrated me, and for the first time during our discourse, I met his eyes with my own.
“Excuse me?”
“My apologies—but I do not wish to leave you so soon. May I come in?”
His request upset me, but a small voice from within did not wish him to depart as I had expressed. My melancholy ached for company, but not because it desired to paint him blue in the same manner; rather, it longed for fellowship, for it knew such amity would be a relief to the troubles that had beset me for many woeful weeks.
“You may,” I assented softly. Graciously John stepped inside.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he began. “I would have been well on my way, but I could not leave you alone when you appear so—”
“So what?” I asked, frowning.
“Excuse my forwardness, but—so sorrowful.”
John’s forthrightness stung a nerve, and I at once was eager to combat his claim. But what weapon would I wield against his assertion? Pure insincerity? I could only feign soundness for so long.
“And what, pray tell, made me appear so?”
“Why—everything about you. I assure you that you do not need to glance into a looking glass to perceive it.”
“Perhaps.”
“You also have not been to the library in a long while,” he persisted. “I have not seen you anywhere, for that matter.”
“I have been busy.”
“And what obligations occupy you at present?”
“That is of no concern to you,” I dismissed.
“It does when I have cause to believe you to be suffering from a fit of depression.”
“Depression? Ha!” I struggled to laugh. “A woman like me does not succumb to such a feeble emotion.”
“I would not think you weak if you did.”
The contours of my face lightened, and I felt myself to be weak. An unsteady wave of distress rattled about my chest, hesitating to break, but strengthening to a crest as our conversation strode along.
“Well then—it appears there is nothing to trouble yourself over,” I replied.
I spoke with courage, but swiftly my lip began to quiver, and a gloom crept into the emptiness my eyes overflowed with. I had not convinced the boy of anything; he was resolute in his concern, and implored to be confirmed as correct in his conjectures.
Swiftly John crossed the room and, without adding anything else to his sympathetic obstinacy, took me into his arms wholly, leaving me wordless and unmoving. Such an embrace was one I had not experienced in many moons, and, enveloped in its sudden compassion, I surrendered to my anguish, and allowed myself to weep soundlessly. I stifled my cries, but there was no way to smother the manner in which I trembled against his skin with a terrible bereavement, entirely possessed by my grief. How humiliating it was to reveal it to him then—to let it show itself so mercilessly to anybody, for that matter!
“I’m sorry—I am—I—” Hardly a word I could articulate, but he encouraged my silence so as to quell the torrent that appeared upon my face. It was in this way I remained in the position he had embraced me in for some long minutes, shutting my eyes tightly and liberating my mournfulness with little restraint. I had not been able to cry for many days, but I did then, and each forgotten tear was forgotten no longer.
“Please—you do not have to excuse yourself,” John said. “I only wish to know what is causing you such distress.”
“I—I do not know if I can put words to it,” I pulled away from him, erasing the sadness from my cheeks.
“I only ask that you try.”
“I may take up much of your time.”
“I have nothing else that requires my attention. I wish to be your friend in the present—nothing more.”
“A friend?” I repeated. The word flustered my faculties, as if I had not thought of it in ages.
“Of course. You are not alone. Now—speak freely. I can offer my counsel—if you wish that.”
“I do not know—I do not know if I do or not.”
John said nothing. He only gestured for me to continue, and to speak with as much patience as was required.
“Perhaps I have been feeling a little discouraged,” I confessed. “But that is all.”
Again he exercised a considerate coolness, and wordlessly bid me to expound upon my sufferings further.
“I do not know what you wish for me to say,” I answered, vexed.
“Miranda, I understand you have withstood a great deal in a very brief period of time,” John said. “You do not have to shoulder it by your lonesome.”
“Then you know—my family—my past—everything is gone.”
“Tell me more.”
“Well I—” again an unwelcome tear shed broke, but I did not allow it to silence me. “I feel so—alone. Everything is painfully novel to me and—I do not understand how everybody here adjusted so well. I fear I cannot do the same! I long for what once was—I have always been a nostalgic soul—and I particularly ache for it now because it used to be something I could run back to no matter what circumstance fell upon me—but—but not anymore. I do not understand how one is supposed to mourn their former life, particularly amidst all the other lives lost. It is—they are—gone—forever. I cannot go anywhere but here.”
“That isn’t true.”
“But it is! There is nowhere for me to be except here, and there is nobody to weather such a storm with. I mean—there is—but—it is not my family. It is not the love I knew for the entirety of my life till now.”
“You are not alone in your heartache, I can assure you,” John attested, raising his hand to his heart.
“I cannot help feeling so.”
“I am terribly sorry for all the losses you have encountered. It is no easy feat. Surely the devastations you have experienced would cause even the sturdiest soul to be vanquished.”
“Time will tell.”
“But you will not perish from this,” he encouraged with a conviction that touched me. “No—because you understand that the trees do not weep when they are divested of their fair leaves come wintertime, because they know they will grow anew.”
“Your words are quite touching, I will admit,” I conceded. “But I do not wish for you to worry yourself with the duty of mending me. That is my cross to bear.”
“You are entirely correct—it is solely yours,” his agreement startled me. “The singular responsibility I see fit for myself to inherit in this circumstance is to merely support you in such mending.” I smiled, and he continued—
“Tell me—have you ever suffered from melancholia before?”
“Once, I believe,” I explained. “After I gave birth to my son, Silas.”
“Ah—I have heard of that melancholy particular to new mothers. How did you overcome it then?”
“If I recall correctly, I traveled to the seaside with my son and my grandmother. Many doctors suggested the sea air as a remedy.”
“And did it help?”
“I would say it did.”
“Well—it seems I know what might cure you.”
“How do you mean?” I asked. “I know we are far from any ocean. Even if we happened to be close, we could not leave the Veil.”
“Right you are,” John answered. “I cannot advise you to take to the sea again. But I can suggest a sabbatical to the Clearing.”
“It is allowed?”
“In this circumstance, yes. At any rate, it is recommended for new sorcerers to take a respite from the village in order to strengthen their abilities and focus one’s talents away from the eyes of Syndor.”
“Oh,” I sighed. “I was not informed of such an event.”
“It is entirely optional,” he said. “However, I see that it would do you some good, for your physical prowess and mental faculties alike.”
“Am I to be accompanied?”
“If you please.”
“Would you like to join me?”
He appeared contented by my request.
“I would be greatly obliged to,” he replied. “But if you would wish to train with someone from your own coven—”
“I do not think so,” I interjected. “I believe I would be much too distracted by my own inadequacy in comparison to somebody who wields the same powers as I. It would be beneficial to be in the company of somebody who is entirely unlike me.”
“Consider the affair settled then.”
“When should we begin?”
“I can meet you here, tomorrow morning,” John said. “I can bring some books from the library as well that might be of aid.”
“What should I pack?”
“Clothes, items to sleep with, food,” he instructed. “The bare necessities. We are withdrawing to the forest—only bring what is necessary. Nature will provide the rest.”
“I will do just that.”
“Very well then,” he appeared vibrantly pleased. “I would suggest sleeping well. You will need your strength and a sober mind.”
“I will try my best to bring both.”
“I will leave you in the meantime, then. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, John.”
“Goodnight, Miranda.” Without another farewell, he quitted my cabin, and again the walls settled heavily around me.
What had I agreed to so frivolously? My soul ached to be sentenced to a self-induced isolation, not frolicking about the woods, tied to another’s society! The very thought of spending time with another, and expending energy to tolerate their company, seemed insurmountable. Still I had consented, and though I hesitated to confess it as true, it had certainly been an allowance that was vital to my sanity. I could not remain locked in my wooden tower forever and expect to be cast to the oblivion of everybody’s memory, though it was what my fatigue wished for most. John had been correct in all his counsel: the earth continued its orbit in spite of whatever its poor inhabitants suffered, and I was no pitiful exception.
If I were to be admitted to John’s company for the foreseeable future, in the thick of the Clearing away from our village, I supposed it was best for my nature to cherish my last fleeting moments of untouched seclusion before daybreak. I have not bathed in days, I thought with disgust. Certainly it will be worthwhile to tame my appearance before the morning.
Quietly I stole outside, and beneath the silvery moon I descended into the Clearing, though not far from the Water Tribe. My timidity did not allow me to venture into its depths by my lonesome. Rather, I sought the nearest creek besides the one that ran through Syndor, one I had washed myself in before. It did not take long to find it, and within no time I had removed my clothes and entered the cool water in my thin, laced undergarments.
I meditated silently beneath the pastel moonlight, gazing upward at the inky ceiling beyond the pine canopies, bathed in glittering balls of lustrous energy that alighted the forest floor. The trees themselves bore the appearance of shadowed statues beside the palette of wintry colors that illuminated the land. The babbling brook was untainted; it was a looking glass that reflected the lights which hung from above. I peered into its ripples, noticing my reflection devoid of any deformity from the furrow. The woodland was empty, frozen, still. There were scarcely any signs of life—no chirruping of birds, no rustle of fresh leaves sifting through flowers, no voices floating through the breeze. Everything was at rest, and what an exquisite sight it was to behold!
At once I adopted a fluidity to my movements, passing the time by fashioning shapes from the water, suspending them in the air, and watching them absorb the light from the moon above. I empowered the bubbling orbs of dew to spin and stir in a quintessentially rhythmic motion, admiring their dance in the darkness. I sensed the growing power within my strange abilities as its force awakened each bone and each fiber of my being. It seemed ingrained within me how to exercise it, and thus how to control it.
After a thorough cleansing, I carefully rose from the creek and wrung the water from my saturated clothes, dressing again into the attire I had discarded before. Without cause, I felt my skin raise in a shivering concern, and the crown of my head buzzed with disturbance. I turned sharply about, feeling as if I were being observed from beyond the thicket.
“John?” I muttered, keeping my voice low so as to not disturb the night. No answer was made.
Rather, a pair of dull, green eyes shone in the distance, watching my figure attentively. I froze in place, studying the ghostly silhouette as it emerged and moved toward the opposite side of the river, bathed in the nightly luminescence. My heart slowed; it was the outline of a boy, one who stood nearly a foot taller than I. His blond hair curled in waves atop his head, and his eyes shimmered against a fair complexion. In his hand he clutched a dagger with white knuckles, clean of any blood on its metallic blade. The advent of an unfamiliar face inspired a restless in me that yearned to run, but my intrigue increased, and I was not frightened enough to flee. Perhaps he, in turn, ascertained my acceptance, and thus he crossed the river gracefully, assessing my frame from head to foot, hardly hindering the natural flow of the creek’s course. In a few moments he stood brazenly in front of me, and the only sound that pervaded the space was our shared breath.
“It would be wise for you to consider carefully your surroundings before bathing out in the open about here,” the boy spoke with scarcely any emotion. He raised his weapon, placing the tip of its blade in the center of my chest, nearly piercing my thin garments.
“I meant no harm,” I stuttered, fearing my thrashing pulse could be felt from his knife to his fingertips. “I was just leaving.”
“Of course—I was obliged to arrest you on your way out.”
“I do not understand—am I trespassing upon another coven’s territory? Who are you?”
“Chiller—my name is Chiller.”
“And to what tribe do you belong?”
“Ah! I am not of your kind. Was that not obvious?” he chuckled, removing the blade from my skin.
Not of my kind? Chiller’s confession startled me, for I could not grasp his full meaning.
“How do you mean?”
“The only thing—or rather, person—I belong to is Mitch, my master.”
“A werewolf—you’re a werewolf!” I exclaimed, impulsively stepping away from the boy. “You should not be here—you are trespassing!”
“Trespassing?” again Chiller laughed, as if my sense of rightness was futile, and it amused him so.
“This is Syndor—the sorcerers’ village. You must not come close. I must go, I cannot be around—” I continued to retreat from his presence, though I could not determine if it was the correct act to hasten away. “Your kind is cruel and savage, and if you—”
“And you believe that?” he frowned, as if seeking to mark me as dishonest.
“It is what I have been told, yes.”
“Believe precisely what you please to, in that case,” he mused. “I only sought to show you companionship. You can trust I am no threat.”
“I do not require any companionship you wish to offer, to be sure,” I scoffed.
“You do not even wish to see the rest of the forest? Are you not curious of your own home?”
Chiller’s proposal was, to all appearances, entirely benign. However, such an act was, in every respect, forbidden, and I could not accept. In spite of this sage recognition, however, I felt my fascinations being preyed upon by his openness, and the casual enticement that his breed roused in me at once alighted, and I labored to smother it.
“I am—but I will not—not with you. You may be in search of some vulnerable fool. Believe me—I am not the one who will fulfill such a role.”
“You are afraid, then? Of me?”
“No. I know my power exceeds yours.”
“Your certainty is justified. Thus I know you could not be frightened of someone of my composition.”
“Of course—therefore I do not risk anything standing here.”
“Now that is where you are wrong,” he waved his finger at me, grinning, and drawing closer. “You only risk your most valuable asset—that of your reputation.”
Chiller’s averment seared me, for I only knew him to speak with veracity. It was undeniably true—I had been instructed to dismiss any werewolf I happened to chance upon, for the security of Syndor and the safety of my own self. It was a known order, and I was shattering its significance!
“Hm! You know our orders, then, and you still wish to detain me,” I glared. He was imprisoning me—yes—against my very will, the will of a sorcerer who wished to do right by her community, and who did not wish to consort with the enemy.
“Oh—do not play victim,” he sneered. “You are free to go. I have not trapped for one moment during our exchange.” I bit my tongue, for he was correct.
“I will take my leave then,” I returned. “Goodbye.”
“Goodnight,” he smiled, as if it would not be our last farewell.
Before my eyes he transformed into a wolf with a rusting coat, and promptly he dashed into the black sea. I withdrew directly, disappearing from the illicit scene.

Chapter Text

“You have been deemed the messenger between them—ha!” Brett kicked his feet up to rest them upon his couch as we lounged together, enjoying the crackling heat of his hearth. “I was aware being Skylar’s second-in-command was an exceptional position, but I did not know it was so considerably—honorable!”
“Oh—do not tease me!” I exclaimed, taking a drink from the ale we shared together. “It is not my fault that our dear empress cannot properly articulate her feelings, and her betrothed cannot bear to confront her about it.”
“Well, it appears there is not much for you to do in this case. You are no romantic advisor, I can assure you. C'est la vie—as the French say.”
“It feels entirely unnatural to do nothing.”
“Allow them to sort out their own differences, ones that do not involve you in the slightest,” Brett instructed. “Do not concern yourself over their affairs. It will find its resolve. They are both grown. They will do what’s best—which, I presume, is to be married this week!”
“It came as suddenly as you might expect,” I said.
“You did not detail what exactly inspired the sudden union. Does not the royal family typically wait till the age of eighteen to marry?”
Brett’s inquiry was entirely logical, but he would not seek an answer, because I had been demanded to secrete the sincerity beneath the empress’ decision. Indeed the motivation beneath the hasty martial union between Skylar and Trent had come about due to Skylar’s decision to confront Mitch herself, with the intention of taking his life with the power of nature itself. She would be required to produce an heir before executing such a perilous task, in the likely event that she would not survive the spell. Thus, being bound to Trent under the witnessing of the village was a necessity before anything else could come to pass.
“Yes, they do,” I answered thoughtfully. “I only was told of their plans after Skylar and Trent met for breakfast. I cannot tell you the reason for their impatience.”
“Oh! Perhaps something occurred during their breakfasting that now requires their speedy espousal!” Brett raised his eyebrows suggestively, before throwing his head back in a fit of laughter.
“A curious presumption—given their such evident estrangement.”
“Ah! Do not be fooled by the girl and the boy who appear to be at odds with one another,” he said. “Often the most passionate loves are born from some sort of animosity.”
“How wise,” I sneered playfully.
“I only ask you to not underestimate their connection. I have lived many years, and I have seen much throughout my time.”
“You speak as if you are greying.”
“Perhaps I am,” Brett responded. “I am twenty-nine, after all. At best I have one final year upon this earth before I join it.”
“Do not speak of death, please,” I implored, looking at my mentor with a mark of melancholy.
“It is time I begin speaking of it as fact, because it is.”
“I do not wish to lose you.”
“Mother Nature is quite obstinate with her wishes for me to return to her. A persistent wretch!”
“She cannot have you!” I jested. However, beneath my bantering, my heart grew fiercely heavy, as I could not bear to acknowledge Brett’s fleeting moments.
“We have spoken of this before, Noelle,” his cadence softened. “But we will speak no more of it today. We have more pressing matters to attend to—such as Skylar’s love life.”
“Of course—much more demanding.”
“So—you have decided to speak to her? Again?”
“I have no choice. Trent told me himself that he will not pressure her into any affair if she does not wish to.”
“But they will be married regardless?”
“Yes, but further than that—”
“Ah! I see,” Brett smiled. “He regards himself as a true gentleman, I suppose, even if abiding by his own morality comes at the cost of the termination of the royal bloodline. And what will you say to her? How will you inspire in her the love required to accept her betrothed?”
“That I do not know. I only seek to offer my counsel, my support, as her dear friend, seeing as though she has exhausted all other options to deny him.”
“And you believe she will listen, as she has done as many times as you have approached her on the issue?” Brett interrogated.
“Her circumstances have changed immensely,” I said. “She will be married—that she cannot escape from.”
“Suppose you were in her position,” Brett mused. “What would you wish to hear?”
“Me?” I tittered. “I believe I would much rather croak and be buried than become joined to one I was not in love with.”
“Surely I would choose you to bestow some advice upon me with such sympathy,” he teased.
“I will soften myself for her. I always do.”
“That is precisely your problem.”
“Excuse me?”
“For as long as I have trained you, you have never failed to be a fawner.”
“How do you mean?”
“You assign yourself to others’ problems,” Brett explained. “It is a virtue, to be sure, but one that will sour you if exercised in excess.”
“I am not assigning myself to anybody’s problems, to be sure,” I argued. “It is my sworn responsibility to assist our empress.”
“Assist, Noelle. Not coddle.”
“You speak as if you have never helped a friend before.”
“I am doing so as we sit here.”
I wished to rebuke Brett’s claims, and deem them as improperly unfounded, but there was a degree of truth within each one. Such was something even my own pride could not dismiss. My extravagant agreeableness was a trait I had harbored since my earliest days, one that had become a well-defined attribute of my character that others saw plainly of. Perhaps it was true that I possessed a hardened exterior, but it was merely to oppose the need I felt to be everything for everyone at any given moment.
“I only hope that one of these days you do something for yourself, and only for yourself,” Brett said. “You serve others faultlessly. It is time to serve yourself is all I am saying.”
“I will, I will,” I assured him, though with scarcely any confidence. “I only need to ensure everybody else is afloat before I do so.”
He shook his head grimly. I knew his forthcoming reprimand, but he did not give it. He understood I did not need to hear it to feel its effects. If anything, Brett’s silence was enough censure by its lonesome.
“In that case I will leave you to it,” he stood upright, finishing the last drops of ale from his wooden mug. “You have a mighty weight upon your shoulders as we sit here, that is for certain.”
“Do not endeavor to distress me further.”
“Never,” he smiled endearingly. “Now—off you go! Allow me to inebriate myself in peace, for heaven’s sake. I am tired of speaking of our empress and her marital woes. Surely this is not how a man’s final year is purposed to be spent.”
“I will humor you,” I replied, taking my leave. “Thank you for your guidance.”
“As always—you did not require it. Because you will not take it.”
“Oh! You have drunk too much,” I laughed as we embraced one another in a farewell. “Do not get into any mischief while I am with Skylar.”
“Mischief? I am too old for such trivial things,” he winked. We shared a moment of joviality before I retired from his cellar and crossed the bridge toward the Nature Tribe.
Skylar had been noticeably absent from the diligent bustle of Syndor for a handful of days, though it was only myself, Lizzy, and Trent that knew the cause for her withdrawal. The wedding had not yet been announced. The publication of such an event was sure to arrive in the next day or so given the critical nature of its happening, however, and I strode to the empress’ cabin to act as her advisor accordingly.
Lizzy pronounced my arrival upon my entrance, and within a moment or so Skylar emerged from her bedroom, wrapped in a sage, silk robe, with her hair tied delicately in a bun. If I had not been aware of her intentional elongated detachment from society, I would have supposed she were preparing for an event of some sort. Such was not the case, however, and she welcomed me with a fatigued happiness.
“Ah! Noelle—I was just readying myself to see you,” Skylar said.
“You were?” I asked, perplexed.
“Of course. I have something I wished to ask of you.”
“Pray tell, your majesty.”
“As you well know, Trent and I are preparing for our wedding. The news will be distributed to the rest of the village tomorrow—that in a week from now, we will be married. I wished to ask you to be the one who escorts me to the altar on my wedding day.”
Skylar spoke with such ease of her marriage ceremony that I questioned if I were correct in remembering the very dissent she had paid Trent for years! She wore a countenance of utter placidity, one that roused a look of complete astonishment upon mine.
“Your majesty, I—”
“Since neither of my parents are here to witness the union,” she mused mournfully, “I thought you the best choice in their absence.”
“Of course, I would be honored, but—”
“But what?” she frowned concerningly. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” I answered, recovering my senses. “I only am surprised, your majesty, at how well you appear—considering!”
“Considering what?”
“Considering that you are to be wed to the very boy you have staunchly asserted to me for years you could not marry.”
My impertinence disturbed her, but I did not apologize for my revealing the truth of what the past had paid witness to. My amazement at her cold conformity beseeched for some explanation.
“I have accepted the occasion,” Skylar responded gravely, “for I had no other choice.”
“Accepted? So you are not happy for it?”
“I said I have accepted it. Is that not enough?”
“No—no I fear it is not.”
“How do you mean?”
“Your majesty—Skylar,” I asserted. “The indifference you speak with—that you act with—it is no way to admit Trent into your family on your wedding day.”
The statement I put forth at once fractured her unperturbed façade, and I saw within her eyes a blazing storm, one that she could evidently not have kept veiled for long.
“I cannot hear it so plainly put!” she exhaled, digging her fingers into her hair. “I have already gone through the misery of surrendering to this fate. I cannot be reminded of it.”
“Has Trent spoken to you as of late?” I asked, recalling his vow to inquire after Skylar’s confessions for himself.
“No. I have not seen him since our morning together.”
The bastard! I had never thought him weak, but how frail he was in the light of love!
“Very well then,” I continued. “Do you not wish to see him before your wedding day?”
“I do not know what it is I want in the slightest.”
“Come, sit,” I implored, gesturing toward the drawing room. Skylar sank into the cushion of her sofa, languishing as if she were a wilting blossom. “Perhaps it would be wiser to not recount this to you, but when you left the morning of your breakfast with Trent, he and I spoke of you.”
“You did? What did he say?” she pressed with a youthful eagerness and a tinge of red sparkling on her cheeks.
“He told me that he would wed you, as is expected,” I detailed, “but that he would not force himself upon you.”
“What? What did he mean?”
“He would not give you an heir if you did not wish him to—if you did not consent to doing so.”
“Oh,” her blush deepened, and a pitiful look cursed her lineaments. “Oh—Noelle! He is too good! He is too good!”
“How do you mean?” I clasped her hand, essaying to ease her.
“I will ruin him—he who loves me merely out of obligation, one he as a child could not consent to himself.”
“Skylar!” I exclaimed, rousing her immediate attention. “The boy loves you! You cannot be so foolishly blind!”
“He loves me, he loves me not,” she laughed madly. “It does not matter! It changes nothing. He is to wed me because that is what he has been asked to do—and that is all!”
“If Trent loved you simply because it was his duty to, then he would give you an heir regardless of how you felt in return,” I spoke sternly. “But he loves you—he loves you with heart, with soul, with presence of mind, with every soundness of his faculties—because he grew beside you, and continues to do so. That is precisely why he would rather see the demise of Syndor, brought about by the complete cessation of your bloodline, than cause you any discomfort!”
Skylar clenched her jaw, shifting her eyes from one side of the room to the next. Evidently she was engrossed in her own contemplations, but I doubted even she could discern what her own thoughts spoke of.
“Skylar, listen to me,” I persisted. “Do you love him?”
“I am empress of Syndor,” she protested. “I cannot be in love, because that love has been named a sworn duty, Thus it cannot be a feeling—but an obligation.”
“Do you love him?” I neglected to entertain her dismissals.
“I am much too stained for him! I do not wish to blemish him the very same. If I blacken myself enough for him now, as I have for years since my parents’ passing, he will not be so surprised at how tarnished I have become!”
“He loves you precisely because he knows the depth of your tarnishing. He knows your very worst, he has seen it, and yet he has stood by you in spite of it—not because of a responsibility to, but because he desires of his own accord.”
“Noelle—Trent is the sun, and I the storm,” Skylar wondered. “How could he love something that will diminish his light?”
“Because when that tempest touches the light, it will inspire the most magnificent rainbow.”
Within her eyes flickered a whisper of sureness. Still her tongue remained a prisoner of her pride, strengthened by the fear that oppressed her so cruelly. My heart ached for her insecurity, an injudicious foible indeed, but I was no savior in spite of my hubris, and thus I surrendered to her stubbornness.
A long quietude settled within the walls of her drawing room. Skylar appeared utterly defeated, drunk from her own demons, ruminating over each stepping stone that had led her to this particular moment. I allowed her her momentary peace, withholding any further counsel, because it would be wasted breath on my own account. Therefore I was amazed to behold my dear friend when she confessed—
“I love him. I have adored him since I was a child and that reverence has never left me.”
I was scarcely stupefied by her feelings; I was only surprised to hear her acknowledge it aloud to an audience, much less reveal it at all.
“Then tell him so!” I stood upright, throwing my hands up in a gesture of conceding. “I will not tell him for you.”
She stared at me, bewildered, yet appearing to admire my strength of character. Having fulfilled my due diligence, I bowed with respect, and departed from Skylar’s cabin.