Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Abreeze stirred the leaves overhead, carrying with it the faintest trace of wildflowers and the memory of rain.
Phillip moved deeper into the forest, his boots whispering against the moss-covered ground.
He'd left his horse at a stable at the top of the main road into the forests.
Had he brought his steed any deeper, both the fauna and the horse would have spooked one another.
As he walked, the forest hummed with life.
Everywhere he looked, memories flickered like ghosts just beyond his reach.
He saw himself as a child, running through these woods, chasing after Mal as her laughter rose to the treetops.
He could still see the way the light danced in her eyes, the way her horns gleamed when the sun kissed them just right.
He remembered the feel of her hand in his—strong, warm, and always a little rough from her magic.
He brushed past a familiar tree. A flicker of their younger selves sitting together beneath its branches went through his mind.
Mal’s voice, smoky and teasing, drifted on the wind.
Phillip closed his eyes and let himself feel her fingers threading through his as they went on one of their adventures.
Gods, he missed her.
A rustle in the underbrush pulled him from the memory. He opened his eyes to find several forest folk emerging from the shadows—sprites, dryads, and fae. Their eyes were wary. A few faces were twisted in anger. A few others held postures that were tense and ready to strike.
"You finally found the courage to show your face here, prince of men?" one of them demanded, his voice sharp and bitter. "Why are you destroying our homes? We thought you were on our side."
Phillip held his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I'm sorry for the destruction of the machines. I’ve already cleared up the misunderstanding. There will be no more bulldozing. You have my word."
The forest folk murmured among themselves, exchanging uneasy glances.
Phillip stepped closer.
"I’ve been away for too long. I left to fight off the trolls and ogres who were threatening the borderlands. Now our borders are safe, but I see that my absence at home caused harm. For that, I’m truly sorry. I will make this right."
The murmurs softened, but the tension in the air remained. It buzzed like the wings of the sprites hovering near the treetops. Some shifted uneasily, their gossamer wings twitching, while others stood with arms crossed, casting furtive glances behind him as if waiting for something—or someone.
Phillip caught the faintest motion out of the corner of his eye. Vines curled and uncurled along the ground. The movement sent a chill up his spine. He’d seen this before—long ago, when the forest answered the call of its Guardian.
Two warrior fae emerged from the shadows, their stance firm and commanding. Yet their movements were fluid, precise, almost as though they were being guided.
Memories rushed back—of a time when Mal’s mother had walked these very paths, the forest alive with her presence. The reverence the fae folk showed now was the same as it had been then, an unspoken acknowledgment of a power greater than any of them.
The vines writhed again, snaking along the ground toward him. He scanned the shadows but saw nothing save for the warriors with their heads bent toward an empty space as though they were conferring with it. The empty space rippled and shimmered like there was a presence there.
Was it the new Guardian? He strained to see, but there was no figure stepping into the light. No one revealed themselves. Only the forest pulsing with power. He knew something was there in the nothingness because all eyes were on it.
Doran tapped his staff lightly against the mossy ground. The sound was rhythmic, steady—a heartbeat in the tense silence.
"Doran, what is it? Who are they talking to?"
The dryad tilted his head, studying Phillip closely. "You can't see her, can you?"
"See who?"
Doran said nothing, and in the dryad's silence, Phillip heard it. The unmistakable echo of her voice drifted through the air. It was faint, like the memory of a dream. It set his pulse racing as though his heart were trying to break free from his chest and run to her. The scent followed—a wild, untamed fragrance that was uniquely hers. It wasn’t jasmine or anything cultivated; it was the scent of earth after rain, the freshness of untouched forests, and the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers.
Phillip's hand lifted without his permission, reaching toward the space the others were focused on. At first, he felt nothing—just air, cool and empty. He reached again. This time, his fingertips brushed against something solid.
Warm. Familiar.
His hand found skin. Smooth. Radiant.
His fingers curled slightly, afraid the sensation would vanish if he let go.
A surge of energy shot through him, starting at his fingertips and racing up his arm, setting every nerve on edge.
He was on the edge of something big, something bright.
It felt like waking from the deepest sleep.
It was like a shroud that had smothered him for years was suddenly being torn away.
His heart, sluggish and heavy for so long, kicked into overdrive, pounding against his ribs with a rapid rhythm, like it had just remembered how to beat.
He inhaled sharply. The air tasted cleaner, sharper, like the first breath of the spring solstice. Every sound around him sharpened—the rustle of leaves overhead, the distant birdsong, the creak of Doran’s staff against the forest floor.
He blinked again, and the haze that had clouded his mind for years vanished. His limbs no longer felt heavy, his thoughts no longer slow. The fog that had draped itself over his soul had lifted, leaving him fully awake for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.
Blood surged through his veins, filling him with a wild, reckless sense of vitality.
He felt alive again—truly, fully alive. The exhaustion that had plagued him melted away as though it had never existed.
His pulse thrummed in his ears. His muscles tensed with the thrill of renewed strength, daring him to run, to leap, to fight.
The air shifted, and suddenly, he was staring into a pair of eyes he knew better than his own. Wide, shocked, and vividly green. The same eyes that had haunted his dreams for years.
"Mal?" He breathed her name like a prayer. Only this time, she answered.
Maleficent stared back at him, her expression one of disbelief. Neither of them moved. They stood frozen in the strange space between memory and reality.
Phillip was touching her. Phillip could see her. And for a terrifying, beautiful moment, Phillip thought she might be a ghost—some lingering spirit sent to torment him with what he had lost.
It didn't matter. The surreal her was just as breathtaking as the real one. If she was dead, he would follow her to the afterworld.
But then he saw the way the others stared at her too—the way their gazes flickered between her and him.
She wasn’t a ghost.
She was real.
"You..." Phillip’s voice faltered, his hand still cradling hers as if afraid she would vanish again. "You’re really here."
Mal shook her head slowly. She gasped in a shaky breath, as if she, too, couldn’t believe what she was seeing. "You are supposed to be dead."
Phillip’s hand tightened around hers, the ache in his scar fading into the background as warmth spread through his hand, up his arm, and through his chest. "I'm not. I’m here. I’m right here."
Mal let out a choked sound, her body shaking from the revelation. Then she yanked her hand away from him, turned on her heel, and stormed off.