The First Loss: Vaelor x Elora (Rogue X Ara Book 3)

Chapter 1

Spring had always been my favorite—the changing of seasons, the signal of life, hope, and renewal. As nature woke, it reawakened hope in me as well. The warm swell in my chest lifted my spirits with the promise of more: more to come, more life, more happiness and sun and green and spring showers.

I strolled over the hill, my gaze falling to the apple grove tucked away in the valley below, echoed on all sides by hills covered in glowing forests. With a growing smile, I adjusted the basket in the crook of my elbow before continuing down the dirt path, my long skirts swishing around my ankles.

Goddess, I love the color of spring, especially here.

The orchard was notoriously Fae-owned, and I’d come to the conclusion that the land was steeped in magic, as it produced both blooms and fruit year-round, each tree impervious to the season and in their own stage of growth.

Even now, the apples were red against emerald green leaves, the blooms a soft pink that complimented spring’s rainbow of flowers at the bases of their trunks. All of the trees in and around it were vibrant beneath the sunshine, rays beaming through the foliage and falling to the lush ground.

It was beautiful in a way no other season could ever hope for.

The orchard was encircled by a small white picket fence, aged and falling apart in some places, but it had its charms. Its gate was perpetually propped open, forever inviting any passersby.

As I strolled through the entrance, I bit my lip and glanced around before setting the basket down to unlace my boots and pull them off. With boots in hand, I walked toward the nearest tree, the grass thick and soft under my bare feet as I held my face to the sun. A breeze wound through the grove and wrapped me in the scent of apple blossoms, caressing my exposed skin and rustling the leaves as I placed my shoes at the base of a tree. I took a slow breath and wiggled my toes in the grass; the coolness revitalized my tired soul.

Scooping my basket from the ground, I continued through the trees, searching for the best fruit. I was making another apple pie for Alivia, the daughter of my adoptive father—and my best friend. I, personally, felt like apple pie was an autumn staple, but she and our father craved it year-round, and I was happy to oblige. There was something so…magical about the way food affected people; the darkest of moods could be sweetened by a good dessert, even if only slightly.

I loved it, touching people’s souls with nothing more than a bit of sugar.

Hums slipped past my lips as I lowered the basket to my hand and swung it with each step. I strolled for a few minutes, longer than needed, before reaching up to pluck an apple from its stem. After examining it, I dropped it in the basket and picked another, then another.

My basket filled quickly, but I didn’t want to leave just yet. The day was too nice, too beautiful to leave so soon.

Instead, I sat beside my boots at the base of the tree and tucked my legs beneath me as I picked an apple from the basket, wiping it on my dress before taking a bite. With my free hand, I dug through my satchel until I felt the worn leather and smiled to myself, pulling out the book.

Thick, fluffy clouds rolled over the sun as I reclined against the tree, taking another bite and cracking the book open, but they released the light soon enough, and warm rays fell to the old pages.

Then, I read, falling in love with yet another story—one of epic love and longing and tragic loss.

I had come to paint spring in a new light, to capture nature’s rebirth, but I stayed for her.

With long strands of auburn sparking in the sunlight and eyes the color of pure blue skies, she could have been the embodiment of the season itself. When she pulled her shoes off, leaving them under a tree to stroll across my orchard barefoot, she only confirmed it. Now, as she sank beneath a tree with her heavy basket and pulled out a book, I felt my breath leave me.

I watched nature itself fall in love with her—the sun’s rays reaching for her, the breeze kissing her pale, freckled skin, the flowers leaning into her as they swayed. Even the butterflies flew close. One landed on the knuckle of her finger, and she laughed, cocking her head to look at its brilliant orange wings. The sound carried over to me—a glorious sound I didn’t think I’d mind hearing again, hearing a thousand times.

In another life, I would have gone over to her. I would have introduced myself and told her of her beauty, for I believe one would love to hear how fully she has enraptured another. I could have at least stayed to paint her—the slope of her cheekbones, the curve of her full, red lips, her long hair the color of leaves in autumn—but I feared there would be no way to ever truly capture her, and anything less than perfection would have been an insult.

I could have done a lot of things that day, but I couldn’t bring myself to disturb her peace. She was too happy, too beautifully content.

Instead, I silently packed my easel and canvas, tucking them under my arm as I threw my bag of paints and brushes over my shoulder.

With one last glance at the goddess across the orchard from me, I turned and followed the path away from her.

In another life.