Chapter 47 Wren
Iwake in my room in the Moonhollow, a room that has been mine for over a decade, and yet doesn’t feel like mine when I can’t hear Cassiel shifting in the next room.
The light has a different quality here, dappled and green-tinged as it filters through the living wood.
The walls curve in a way no human-built chamber ever could, the smooth, dark grain marked with the natural whorls of the tree itself and a few runes to retain heat, keep it cool, or prevent growth.
Vines creep along the edges where wall meets ceiling, their tiny white blossoms perfuming the air with a scent I’ve known since childhood.
My bed is a shallow alcove carved into the wood, its mattress piled with soft moss under an enchantment, and embroidered quilts that have long lost their familiar warmth.
Across from it, a low desk sits beneath an arched window, its glass warped with age, offering a view of the forest floor far below.
The shelves beside it hold books and trinkets I’ve collected—feathers, stones, a handful of dried flowers from places I no longer visit.
A lantern rests on the nightstand, its glow faint in the daylight, but I remember how it would pulse against the walls when I was younger, when I would trace the shadows it cast and imagine shapes in the dark.
There is a wardrobe in the corner, its doors slightly ajar, revealing dresses I have not worn in months, boots dusted with fine pollen, a cloak that’s threaded with starlight.
Everything is as I left it, and yet nothing feels the same.
My grandmother stirs from her seat beside the bed. It has been months since I last saw her, but even if it had been years, she wouldn’t have changed. My grandmother is as ageless as the trees.
She rises with the slow, deliberate grace of something carved from stone and enchanted to move, like a statue brought to life.
Her long braids clink softly with gilded beads.
The lantern’s dim glow catches on the gold tattoos that spiral over her rich ebony skin—patterns of power, of history, of magic.
Her eyes settle on me. They’re as large and keen as an owl’s.
For a moment, I am a child again, small beneath the weight of her gaze.
There is neither warmth nor coldness in it, only the steady patience of someone who has seen countless seasons change and knows that all things—pain, love, uncertainty—are as fleeting as autumn leaves.
She folds her arms, the motion making the muscles in her broad shoulders shift beneath her heavy cloak.
It is the same one she has always worn, a green so deep that it’s almost black, with gold embroidery that glimmers when she moves.
The scent of wild herbs clings to her, mingling with the faint spice of woodsmoke and old parchment.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, little bird,” she tells me, smiling warmly. “You did give us quite the fright there, for a while.”
It’s hard to imagine my grandmother being frightened about anything, but she would not be able to say it if there wasn’t some truth in it.
“What happened?” I asked.
My limbs are wrapped where I cut into them. There’s a bandage over my heart. More than that, I don’t know what’s occurred since I got here.
“You said something about a fire,” my grandmother begins.
“We deduced that you must have swallowed it rather than snuffed it—an easy error to make, when you’re not used to using your magic.
It erupted, didn’t it? You placed the cooling runes on yourself to try and counter it, and almost killed yourself. ”
I squirm in my bed. I have the feeling I’m being chastised. “I was trying not to reveal myself.”
“Does the Prince know what you are?” she asks. “Does he suspect?”
I hesitate. Cassiel had asked no questions, but he’ll be asking them now. If I tell her he suspects… will she let me go back?
“I don’t believe so,” I respond. “He couldn’t see anything—obviously—and—”
“That’s useful.”
“If I’m all right now, I should really be getting back to him—”
“Not yet,” says my grandmother, in that stiff, stony voice of hers which makes me freeze. “First, the elders and I need to discuss our next steps. And before you go anywhere, Wren, you need to finally make peace with your fire.”
I knew this was coming. I knew it deep inside. I expected to fight her, to refuse. A part of me still wants to. I have fought against fire for most of my life. I swore I’d never use it again…
But I think of Cassiel, crawling to me in the flames. I think of him burning.
I think of my mother’s corpse.
And I also think of myself, of the way it felt to swallow fire, of the power that could be mine if only I was less afraid.
“All right,” I tell her.
She pulls back, as if searching my words for hidden meaning, or expecting my reluctance to leap out at her like a monster.
“All… all right?”
“Yes,” I repeat. “All right. All right, I’ll do it. I’ll start today, if you’ll let me.”
“You should rest today,” she tells me. “Recover your strength. You’ve been out almost three days.”
My stomach drops. Three days. I hope Cassiel’s all right.
I wish I could send him a letter. Someone else could read it to him, of course, but he might doubt the authenticity of it—he’s never seen my handwriting.
I don’t think anyone at the castle has. I could probably write something that would make it believable, but where would it come from? Certainly not Thornvale.
I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do that won’t create more questions, but it’s a powerful motivator to conquer my element.
Because as soon as I’ve done it, I’m going home.
The next morning, I dress slowly. My limbs are stiff, though not in pain, and the air in the Moonhollow feels different now—charged, wary. I feel it as soon as I push open the door and step out onto the platform, winding my way down the tree and into the glade.
The Moonhollow glimmers in the dawn, a cathedral of silver trees rising like columns into the sky, their bark luminous in the blue-green light that seeps through the leaves.
The air is cool and still. Ferns unfurl across the mossy ground, and pale blossoms tremble on low-hanging branches, casting faint glows like candlelight.
Autumn doesn’t touch us here. Not unless we want it to.
Conversation hushes. Heads turn. Faces regard me as if I’ve grown horns in my sleep. No one says anything outright, but they clutch their cloaks tighter, not making eye contact. They’re not afraid of me. Not exactly.
Actually, horns would be considered far more acceptable. I wonder if it was my show of power that unnerved them, or how ill I was when I arrived. Faeries don’t like to be reminded of such things, like it reminds them that they’re not truly immortal.
Maybe it’s neither of those. Maybe they’re worried that my time amongst the humans has changed me, that I’m somehow less fey than before.
I ought to be ashamed of that.
I’m not.
Human is like Cassiel. Like Evander, Runara—even Alessandra or Dain or Anne. Human alone is not an insult. It is not bad to be like them.
That’s probably a thought that I can do without when today I’ve determined to unlock my magic and confront what I am, but it stays with me nonetheless.
I square my shoulders, trying not to shrink beneath their gazes. If I ever want to return to the castle—to Cassiel—I can’t afford to be small or weak or hesitant or whatever they thought of me before.
“Wren!”
Zephyr’s voice cuts through the tension like sun through mist. He barrels toward me, arms flung wide. He wraps me in a hug so fierce it knocks the wind out of me.
“You terrified me, you idiot,” he mutters into my shoulder. “What were you thinking?”
That I didn’t want to explode and hurt Cassiel like I hurt my mother.
“Mostly, I was just trying not to set on fire and reveal myself.”
Zephyr nods, understanding. Of course he doesn’t think it’s anything else.
“You… you saw Cassiel, right? When he brought me to you? Do you think he knows what I am now?”
Zephyr shrugs. “Grandmother asked me the same thing,” he tells me.
“But honestly, I think he was too worried to think straight. I glamoured the driver. Made him think we got in a nondescript carriage and made it too dark to see our direction. Couldn’t glamour the Prince though, because, you know, blindness. ”
“Of course.” There are ways to glamour people without directly staring into their gaze, but it’s harder to achieve, and Moira has never taught us.
“I knocked him unconscious with a spell instead,” Zephyr carries on. “Fixed him first, though.”
My chest warms. Zeph didn’t have to do that. Indeed, it’s probably more suspicious that he did. But Zephyr has never enjoyed watching people in pain.
“Thank you.”
Before he can respond, a familiar voice calls, soft but unmistakably clear.
“Is that my storm-tossed little torch I hear?”
I blink. The crowd parts instinctively, and there she is: Moira.
Her white hair is braided back in elaborate coils, held with vines that bloom with tiny lavender flowers.
Her eyes are the same cloudy grey I remember—sightless, but somehow always more perceptive than anyone else’s.
She walks with the same carved yew staff she’s had since I was a child, but I’m not sure she really needs it.
She knows where everything is, and the Moonhollow is one with her; roots shift to make way for her footfalls.
“Moira,” I say, and I can’t help the small smile that curls at the corners of my lips.
“I hear you’ve been playing with fire again,” she says, tilting her head. “Good. It’s about time.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, because as much as I told my grandmother I was ready, I think I’d still rather purge that power from my bones.
But I know that’s not an option. I know I have to face it.
Zephyr puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get to the stream.”