Chapter 3
LILIA
After a fretful night worried about Mom and Henri, I woke before dawn and prepared to go search for them.
I’d wanted to head into the forest last night when they hadn’t returned, but venturing into unfamiliar territory in the dark would have been foolish.
If I’d gotten lost, which seemed likely, I’d waste more time trying to find them.
It had taken all my willpower to convince myself the best course of action was to get some rest so I could venture out at the break of sunlight.
And I’d hoped—prayed—that I wouldn’t need to, that Mom would return with Henri last night, both with smiles on their faces after finding a healer who’d helped them.
But that didn’t happen.
After one last look around our cottage, I grabbed my cloak, put on my boots, and tied them over my pants, then I stepped outside. My family needed me.
As I walked through the village, I scanned the other dilapidated cottages with barren vegetable gardens.
A sad sight. It hadn’t always been like this.
We’d had happier lives before Queen Mireille had squeezed us dry.
All after promise after promise of how only she could bring peace and prosperity to the region. How only she could help the villagers.
All lies.
She was a powerful sorceress, and I’d wondered if she’d put a spell over the village, making them unable to see she didn’t care one whit for them.
So many followed her without question, as if she were the leader of a cult.
They’d created excuses for her vile actions, reasons behind the madness—even though she never helped them.
She helped only herself and her rich, corrupt supporters.
Since she’d come into power, she used it to gain more. More control, more influence, more land.
She’d even had the gall to proclaim herself queen. Her word law. There were rumors she was pushing further west now.
As for the rest of us?
Nothing.
We grew more destitute each day. Many had died from disease and fewer resources for basic healthcare.
The rest of us struggled. As I walked along the western path, my feelings turned bittersweet.
Yes, this village was home, but would I miss it?
What was there to miss at this point? Still, it was the only home I’d ever known.
The path was easy to follow at first. I’d walked this section before, gathering herbs on the forest’s edge. The morning sun filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground with light and shadow.
But as the trees grew thicker, the forest changed.
The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of loam and decay. Moss hung from branches like tattered curtains. Roots writhed across the ground. The canopy thickened overhead, blocking the sun until even midmorning felt like dusk.
Something rustled in the undergrowth to my left. I froze, listening, but heard only silence pressing back like water.
La Forêt de Veillepierre felt alive. Watchful. Waiting.
I forced myself forward, disturbing leaves and breaking stems. By the time the sun reached its peak, or what I assumed was its peak beneath the dense canopy, I must have been walking for hours. My legs ached. My throat was dry. But I had to keep going.
The first dark silhouette caught me by surprise, and I gasped, pressing my hand over my racing heart. The stone gargoyle stood alone on a forest path, its head tipped up to the sky. I tiptoed by it, as if my footsteps might wake it, but it didn’t move.
The stone-watchers.
When I spotted the next one, I tried not to look at it, yet kept vigilant of it in my peripheral vision. Foolish, perhaps. Statues didn’t move.
Eventually, the trees began to thin and light pooled ahead, a beacon of brightness. My pulse quickened and I hastened my steps, eager for a break of sunlight after hours under this somber cloak. I pushed through a curtain of spiderwebs.
A clearing spread before me, and in its center rose a castle.
It was massive, imposing, its towers creeping toward the sky. The stone was charcoal gray, stained with age and moss, and the walls were thick with ivy.
The garden caught my eye.
It spilled along the grounds in wild abundance—roses climbing the outer walls in cascades of deep purple and crimson, their blooms heavy and full.
Herb beds lined the paths leading to the entrance; some overgrown and in need of tending, but the plants themselves were lush, thriving.
Feverfew tangled with lavender, chamomile spread in thick mats, and yarrow reached toward the sun with healthy green stalks.
What I would have killed for back home.
While our village gardens struggled to survive, here plants flourished with an abundance that seemed almost defiant. The beds might need weeding, the paths might be overgrown, but the life force in these plants was undeniable.
I moved closer, drawn despite the formidable structure looming above. My fingers itched to touch the leaves, to test the soil, to understand how anything could grow so well in a place that felt so abandoned.
But the statues stopped me.
Gargoyles carved from dark stone, scattered throughout the grounds like chess pieces abandoned mid-game.
One stood near the castle wall, his hand outstretched as if reaching for something just beyond his grasp.
Another was frozen mid-run, one foot lifted, his face twisted in agony.
A third kneeled with his hands raised defensively, mouth open in a silent scream.
They looked too real. Too detailed. And the anguish etched into their faces…
My skin prickled. These weren’t decorative statues meant to beautify a garden. They were monuments to something terrible.
But then, up ahead near the door was our cart, the one Mom had taken with Henri yesterday. My heart lit with hope. They were here!
When I glanced around this unsettling garden of gargoyles, trepidation crept in.
The sensation of being observed crawled across the back of my neck like a crawling insect, and I rubbed it. I glanced around but saw nothing. No movement. No signs of life except for the thorny rose bushes growing wild and the ivy climbing the walls.
I crossed the grounds slowly, my footsteps loud in the silence. The weeds brushed against my boots, like whispering in warning. The statues watched with their frozen eyes.
My heart thumped. I had to step forward. Had to find them and make sure they were okay.
Nudging my chin up, I forced myself to take decisive steps forward. I lifted my hand and hesitated, my thoughts conjuring all sorts of monsters behind the door.
Do it.
I knocked, softly, and waited.
No answer.
I tried again, using more force this time.
With still no response, I pushed the door open and stepped into a vast entryway with a vaulted ceiling.
Lamplight mixed with sunlight streaming through high windows, illuminating stone walls lined with faded tapestries.
Paintings hung between them—portraits of stern-faced men in military dress, landscapes of forests I didn’t recognize, a massive battle scene that covered most of one wall.
The colors had dulled with age, but I could still make out the details: soldiers with wings spread wide, gargoyle warriors locked in combat against an enemy I couldn’t identify.
The floor was polished stone, though dust had settled in the corners. A grand staircase curved upward to a second level, its banister carved with intricate designs—more gargoyles, their stone faces frozen in expressions of vigilance.
But it was what lay beyond the hall that stopped me entirely.
An open door at the far end led into a courtyard. I crossed the hall quickly, my footsteps echoing on the stone, and stepped out. The courtyard was open to the sky, enclosed by walls on all four sides. And it was magnificent.
Lush plants thrived despite being surrounded by stone.
Roses climbed the walls in deep purples and blood reds.
Ferns unfurled in the corners, their fronds thick and green.
Moss covered the ground in thick carpets, soft as velvet.
A rising, circular stone bed overflowed with herbs. I clasped my hands together in glee.
In the center, a tree I’d never seen before rose toward the sky. Its trunk was pale and smooth, almost white, and its leaves shimmered with silver iridescence in the midday sun, catching the light and scattering it in soft patterns across the courtyard walls.
It was the most beautiful tree I’d ever seen.
“Lilia?”
I turned toward the sound of my mother’s voice and ran over, throwing my arms around her. “Oh my god, Mom, you’re here. You’re okay.”
She held me tightly. “What are you doing here?” She pulled back and glanced into my face with concern. “I told you not to follow—”
“But you didn’t come back.” My ribs tightened before I asked what pressed on my mind. “Henri?” I could only get out the one word.
She nodded, her face grim. “He’s here, resting.” She stared down at the ground. “His fever spiked. I had to get him out of the woods. Let him rest.”
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, drawing our attention, and we both turned. An elderly woman appeared with a long gray braid coiled over one shoulder, wearing a faded blue dress. Her face was deeply lined and had dark, kind eyes. She saw me and gasped. “Who are you?”
“Genevieve,” my mother said quickly. “This is my daughter, Lilia. She—she came looking for us.”
“Oh, you poor dears.” Genevieve hurried over, her weathered face creased with concern. “You must be exhausted from your journey. Victor!” she called over her shoulder. “Victor, we have another visitor.”
A man appeared in the doorway—tall and lean, with the tan of someone who’d worked outside. His gray hair was close-cropped and his face creased with lines. His eyes were a clear blue and narrowed as he assessed me.
“Another one?” He tilted his head. “You traveled through La Forêt de Veillepierre alone?”
“I was looking for my family.” Glancing around, I asked, “Where’s Henri?”
“Resting,” Mom assured me with a soft touch on my hand. “Genevieve has been kind enough to make him tea.”