Chapter 9
nine
The Garden Below
Miralyte
We agreed to meet at the Garden of Stillwind.
Tucked behind the eastern wall of the manor, it was a patch of unnatural calm carved into the chaos of the Thunder Court.
Ivy clung to ancient, mossy stone walls, roses and bluebells growing in wild, overflowing bursts from artfully mismatched flowerbeds.
At the center was a stone roofed well, beneath which lay a bench of frosted glass.
The wrought iron gate creaked as I pulled it open and then closed it carefully behind me.
It was quieter here, and empty of people.
Normally, that would have put me at ease. Instead, the strange feeling gnawed at the base of my stomach.
I took another step forward. As soon as I did, the hairs rose on the back of my neck, every nerve in my body instantly aware, attuned to the sudden heaviness in the air.
Every protective instinct told me to run, to put distance between myself and whatever was making the warning signals in my head turn so red, but it was already too late.
Before I had a chance to react, Narietta appeared, stepping out from the rose hedge behind me. A knowing smile touched her lips, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"You startled me, Lady Narietta," I managed, after a moment. My heart was racing, and there was a lightness in my legs that made me think I might collapse.
"Did I?" Narietta tilted her head, her eyes giving me a knowing look. "My apologies, darling. I didn't mean to frighten you."
"It's fine," I said, taking a shaky breath. I managed a small smile. "You've done no harm."
"You've come looking for answers." She stepped closer, taking my hand in hers. It was unnaturally cold, sending a shiver of unease up my spine. "You shall have them."
She turned and sat on the frosted glass bench at the center, resting her hands in her lap. The afternoon sunlight illuminated her face, her skin practically glowing. In the diffused haze, the shadows beneath her eyes were less pronounced, giving her a look of timelessness that was almost unearthly.
"Please, sit," she inclined her head towards the empty spot next to her. I did, the glass slightly uneven beneath my weight. When I spoke, my voice was quiet.
"You knew her. Tell me what happened. Please..."
Narietta sighed, the wistful expression in her eyes fading to a dull, empty gaze. She looked... resigned. Frustrated, almost, at the memory. "What I know won't bring the dead back to life."
I clenched my fists, a bitter taste in my mouth. "Start from the beginning," I pressed, wanting to hear it all and unable to trust myself to ask all the questions. "How did the Rot begin?"
The corners of her lips pursed. "Ylvena wasn't the High Sovereign back then. It was her mother, Emystra."
"Was she the one who started the Rot?"
"Yes, though unknowingly."
"How?"
"The details are inconsequential, but it would have been because of her decision to marry a mortal."
My breath caught. "She… what?"
"A man from the Driftlands. He was a soldier, a powerful one, and his loyalty to Emystra was unquestionable. However, he was not a fae, and thus their union was forbidden. "
"Why is it forbidden?"
"Because if a faerie falls in love with a human, their magic becomes corrupted. Not only do they slowly lose their powers, but those powers poison the realm. "
"The Rot," I said, and she nodded.
"It went beyond the High Sovereign and spread through our entire realm. Then Queen Ylvena killed her mother, thus ending her reign."
"Killed her own mother?" I asked, frowning.
"And her mortal husband, and their child," Narietta finished. "Regicide."
I stared at her, trying to understand the words. "This is all very tragic, but it has nothing to do with why I'm here. I don't care about ancient history or dead queens or political intrigue. I care about one thing."
"Miralyte—"
"My sister." I turned to face her fully, my voice rising. "Ciradyl Tavora. Remember her? The person you somehow know well enough to use the nickname she made up for me?"
She smiled then, but it was sad, almost pitiful. "Oh, my dear child. There is so much you don't understand."
"Then explain it to me!" I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. "Stop speaking in riddles and tell me the truth. Did you know my sister? Did you meet her? Was she here, in Thunder Court?"
"No," Narietta said quietly. "I never met Ciradyl."
The simple answer caught me off guard. "Then how—"
"The night you arrived at Thunder Court, I had a vision." She stood and walked to the edge of the garden, her fingers trailing along the ivy-covered wall. "It's a gift I gained during my exile in the Fog Courts. The ability to see into dreams, into memories that aren't my own."
I stared at her back, trying to process what she was saying. "You saw my dreams?"
"They leaked out of you like water from a cracked vessel." She turned back to face me, her violet eyes distant. "I saw her through your eyes, Miralyte. Your sister, calling you Summerchild on a winter morning. I saw her teaching you to hunt, to track, to fight. I saw the love between you."
I bit back my disappointment. There were no answers to be uncovered here. Just a bit of fae magic used to gain leverage. Angrily, I dashed back a tear with the back of my hand.
Gently, Narietta took my arm. "Come. This has all been too much for you."
We left the garden, walking side by side down the pebble path that weaved its way through the manor grounds, our footsteps crunching in the quiet.
A light rain had begun to fall, creating ripples in the surface of the nearby pool, and I couldn't help but wonder if the weather was the product of magic, or simply a change in the natural climate.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"I want to show you something," Narietta answered.
She led me across the courtyard, towards a pair of carved oak doors that opened with an eerie groan.
As I crossed the threshold, I could feel my shoulders tense, instinctively fighting the panic that threatened to spill over, to freeze my legs, to root me to the floor.
But I kept walking, following Narietta down the darkened corridor, until it turned to a staircase, leading down into pitch black.
With a flick of her wrist, she ignited the torches that lined the walls, her hand shimmering as light danced over the cuff.
We descended the stairs together, the air becoming cooler, the tension seeming to thin the farther down we went. Eventually, the narrow space gave way to an antechamber, a doorless arch in the far wall.
"What is this place?"
"This is where we keep those who suffer from the Rot."
I stopped, holding my breath, as if afraid to hear anything beyond the barrier.
Narietta stepped forward, placing her palm flat against the stone. Her tattoos shimmered faintly, responding to her touch. Then she whispered something in the old tongue, voice soft but steady.
"Ven'ae thalas miren."
The wall pulsed, once. Then slowly, it began to dissolve—melting into a pale, mist-like veil that shimmered with faint blue light.
“You can pass through now,” she said. “But I can’t go beyond this point.” She nodded towards the gateway. I stepped forward, barely able to believe my eyes. It reminded me of what I had felt coming into Thunder Court for the first time, the strangeness of this world still so new.
Without thinking, I reached out. My hand passed right through. It didn't feel solid, more like an invisible, paper thin sheet that concealed the unseen.
When I looked over at Narietta, she nodded. "I'll be here, waiting."
Holding back the questions threatening to spill, I simply nodded. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the gateway.
It was like stepping through a waterfall, a feeling of weightlessness, and then a pull.
A pressure that threatened to hold me, to pull me through faster than I was meant to go, only it lacked the feeling of cold or wet.
Instead, it was a sense of emptiness, a cool nothingness that wrapped itself around me.
Then, just as quickly, I was on the other side.
When I turned to look behind me, there was only a solid stone wall.
Turning back around, I found myself standing in the middle of a circular room, its pale marble floor blackened with scorch marks. Walls formed a barrier, their height disappearing into the shadows above.
From within their depths, I could hear it.
Screams, wails, cries, even prayers. Some muffled, some eerily clear, all eliciting a deep shudder in the pit of my stomach.
I walked towards them, instinctively knowing their source. And the closer I got, the darker the lines grew, the more distorted the space seemed.
Before long, I came to an alcove.
The space opened into a vast underground chamber, quiet and glowing like a dream half-remembered. Pools of green light dotted the floor, each one perfectly round, their surfaces rippling softly despite the still air. The liquid shimmered unnaturally, somewhere between water and glass.
It smelled faintly of crushed mint and something sweeter beneath, like sugarwood bark steeped too long.
Each pool held a figure.
Some lay motionless, heads tilted back, lips parted as if caught in a silent scream. Others trembled, muttering in garbled, broken whispers that didn’t quite sound like any language I knew. Their skin was pale, blotched with bruiselike markings in jagged patterns that pulsed faintly.
Healers moved between them like phantoms, dressed in thick robes the color of frost, their faces obscured by strange, delicate masks.
Their gloved hands carried ladles, bowls, cloths—tools for tending, containing, soothing.
One was kneeling beside a boy who couldn’t have been older than ten. Though aging worked differently in the faerie realms, it was hard not to miss the innocence in his youth, the purity of his face.
I stepped forward without thinking.
His eyes flew open, darting wildly around the room before settling on mine.
"Who are you?" he asked.
I crouched down, keeping a distance of several feet between us.
"My name is Miralyte," I said quietly, meeting his gaze. He flinched, eyes darting to the floor.
"Are you also sick?"
"No," I replied, shaking my head. "I'm a... visitor."
"Oh," he said, his voice growing softer. His eyes were a pale shade of silver, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. "No one visited me before. Are you here to visit me?"
"Yes," I lied, swallowing hard, the words sticking in my throat like tar. "I'm here to see how you're doing."
"It hurts," he whispered, fingers digging into the earth, and for a moment, I could almost feel the pain, the hollowness filling up my chest as he gasped, gritting his teeth against the surge, the tightness. "It feels like someone's scraping my insides out."
I sat down next to him, shifting so my legs were folded beneath me. "It's going to be alright," I gently brushed the strands of hair from his forehead, hoping my face didn't betray the fear seeping into my bones, the guilt eating away at me like acid.
I wanted to comfort him, to ease his suffering somehow, to make him feel safe, but instead, I simply asked, "What is your name?"
"Riden," he whispered, his eyes half closed, his chest rising and falling heavily. His voice shook, whether with pain or fear, I wasn't sure.
I took his hand, squeezing it gently, feeling the clammy sweat that clung to his fingers.
"I won't let anything happen to you, Riden. I promise."
His grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. "Thank you," he murmured, his eyes slipping closed as he sank back onto the bedroll. "You're kind."
I stayed there, holding his hand, my thumb brushing lightly over his fingers. His breathing was still uneven, but steadier than before.
"Do you live here?" he asked after a while.
"No," I said softly. "But I came to see you."
"Will you come back?"
I hesitated, just for a second. Then I nodded. "I will."
He smiled faintly, eyes still shut. "I hope I’m still here."
"You will be," I whispered, though my throat burned as I said it. "You have to be."
"I like your voice," he said. "It makes the hurting quieter."
"Then I’ll talk to you as long as you need me to."
I stayed there with him until he fell asleep, holding his hand, tracing gentle circles along his palm. When his breathing slowed, I carefully untangled myself, smoothing my gown over my lap.
A breath caught in my chest, tightening my ribs, making the air turn to stones. Tears blurred my vision, burning the bridge of my nose, making my throat ache and my shoulders shake with unshed sorrow. He was only a child, a boy, afflicted by some force beyond his control.
I hated it. I hated everything about it. About the courts, the nobles, the corruption and the suffering, the horrors that they carried.
And I wanted nothing more than to wash it all away.
I got up, wanting to get away, to leave it all behind. I turned towards the exit, fighting back the tears stinging my eyes.
But something stopped me.
A touch. A hand on my arm.
Zydar.
I spun around. "What are you doing here?"
He frowned. "You shouldn't be alone."
"Why not?"
He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the shadows. His hand stayed on me, firm. "Because word is spreading. Your existence is becoming known, and soon it will be impossible to keep your identity secret."
"So?"
"So, that means you're in danger, Miralyte."
"I've been in danger my entire life, Zydar. What makes this any different?"
He didn't answer, his mouth drawn tight, jaw clenched. He was staring at something, but I couldn't tell what it was.
"Zydar," I pressed, leaning closer, forcing him to look at me.
"Some of the courts are already whispering. The healers talk too much. And now that they think you’re... the key to stopping this, the Rot... they’ll want to take you. They'll kill to have you."
My mouth went dry. “And you came here to warn me?”
His jaw tightened. “I came here to get you out before someone else does. You'll be safer in my keeping."