Chapter 3
Alora
When Alora was born beneath the light of the Blood Moon, they say she was born dead.
Whether it was true or not, the rumor had clung to her all her life, and there were days Alora wondered if she should have stayed that way.
Her reflection stared back at her from the pond behind her cottage.
She sat at its edge, listening to the birds sing.
Her green frock was damp at the hem, cinched with an old leather corset.
The water lay still, glass-bright, mirroring clouds drifting lazily across a sky so blue it was the color of forget-me-nots.
But the world had long forgotten her.
Wildflowers swayed along the bank, their petals glowing faintly beneath the late afternoon sun.
Alora breathed in their sweet scent, relishing one of her few joys before they faded with autumn’s arrival.
A forest sprite darted past, stealing a walnut from the small pile on her lap.
She laughed as another stole the ribbon from her hair, letting her braids fall loose in soft golden waves over her shoulders.
Curious things.
More chirped at her in the branches above. They were shaped like leaves given wings, with moss-green skin and hair fluff like dandelions. Their bodies were already changing color with the season.
The forest sprites chirped insistently again, and Alora smiled. “Do you come for another song?”
Their wings fluttered excitedly, ringing like little bells.
Reaching for her pail, Alora walked to the stone well at the front of her cottage as she sang a few trilling notes, her voice carrying through the trees.
The fairies followed, echoing in turn. They sang together, the high lyrical notes blending into a lilting warble, calling for the birdsong to join in next.
Her gaze lifted to the distant gray peak, veiled in mist and nearly hidden among the clouds, and she found herself singing an eerie lullaby.
Tread not the path where the black winds bite
Beneath the peak where sun meets night
For there he waits with eyes of flame
The hollow shadow with many names
The breeze caught the melody and carried it through the trees beyond. In a sudden high-pitch chitter, the sprites cut her off, tossing walnuts and acorns at her head.
Alora ducked. “I-I’m sorry—”
They wagged their fingers at her angrily before darting away in a streak of gold-green light.
Alora sighed. Why had she the urge to sing about the fabled shadow that lurked within Karag D?r?
The hollow mountain rose high in the range, jagged like a broken crown against the sky. It was said to have been formed in the shadow of the first dawn, when the gods warred and the earth cracked open to swallow the first people whole.
Alora shivered.
She must have heard the bard singing those eerie words in town… or was it her mother?
It had been so long since her mother passed, Alora could hardly recall her voice, or the exact shade of her eyes.
But she remembered dancing with her in front of the stained-glass windows.
And how colorless they became once her mother was gone.
Alora dipped the pail into the well, drawing up fresh water. The walk to the cottage was short. A worn path wound through tall grass and scattered wildflowers, leading to a crooked thatch roof draped in ivy, nestled between two oak trees. The sweet scent of her briar rose bushes filled the air.
It was quiet here. Snug, in a way, though it was always a bit too empty.
Her cottage sat on the edge of the Midlands. It wasn’t a realm, or a kingdom. But a hidden borough where odd things bloomed and stranger things watched, raised under the care of her godmother.
Well, perhaps “raised” was a generous word.
Lady Zinnia was simply... indifferent.
Alora’s leather slippers padded across the wooden floor as she set the pail near the hearth.
“A cup of nettle tea would do nicely,” she said aloud.
Though no one ever answered back.
A soft, insistent tap at the door drew her attention. She turned, eyebrows lifting at the prospect of a rare guest.
Alora rushed to open the door exaltedly, seeing no one until she glanced down at the creature standing at the threshold with a scowl.
The hedge goblin was scarcely taller than her knees.
Bristled like a hedgehog with wiry fur and clothed in tatters of brown-colored cloth.
His enormous, pointed ears twitched as though they caught secrets from the wind, and his round belly sagged beneath a necklace of crude stones.
His small eyes, too blue and too stern for such a strange face, regarded her with wariness.
“Oh, hello there, Bramble—”
He thrust a letter up at her impatiently.
Alora bit her lip, dread growing before she saw the zinnia crest embossed on the pink wax seal.
The Thornbearer of the Midlands.
A simple title, but a prominent one, nonetheless.
The fae had no need for queens in a territory this small, but Lady Zinnia descended from a distant fairy queen from Arthal and ruled in name, nonetheless.
“A letter from Lady Zinnia?” Alora frowned. “I didn’t expect to hear from her until next spring…”
But Bramble had already shuffled away toward his goat-drawn cart waiting by the road, having completed his duty.
Alora slowly closed the door.
She stared at the envelope in her hands, her fingers trembling faintly.
It wasn’t the letter that was startling, but rather that her godmother had broken routine.
And that never happened.
Since the day Alora had arrived in the Midlands, the Thornbearer kept her distance. Her main interest was managing her education.
Elves were sent to her for schooling.
Weavers for clothing.
Earth brownies to tended to her meals and tidying the cottage, though Alora only spotted them when they were dashing out the windows. She rarely saw fae unless she ventured into town.
Even that too was rare.
The fae didn’t like humans, much less half-breeds.
Alora’s mother had been a spring fae, bright and fleeting as the season itself. Perhaps that was why the Thornbearer tolerated her. But since she had finished her schooling at sixteen, she only saw Lady Zinnia when summoned once a year on her birthday, without fail.
Never twice.
Never urgently.
Each visit involved the same questions. Were there any changes in her body? Any strange dreams? Any pull toward the dark that she could not explain? And always the reminder, delivered with a curt edge.
Stay away from magic. Don’t look into mirrors. Never spill your blood.
Alora glanced up at the mirror on her wall, secretly foraged from a rubbish pile in town. As half-fae, magic may not even be possible. Though she had read enough forbidden texts in secret to understand the fundamentals of spell casting.
But the third rule, she never dared break:
Blood.
Once, when she had been no more than eleven, she had cut her palm on a bramble while gathering berries. The wound had been shallow. Ordinary.
The forest had not reacted ordinarily.
The wind had stilled. The birds had fallen silent. And something—something vast and unseen—had stirred beneath the earth, answering her pain like a distant echo.
Lady Zinnia had arrived before the blood could spill on the grass. She ordered the briars burned and healed her, spelling Alora with wards that prevented shallow wounds. Worse was the bitter draughts she was made to drink to still her cycles.
The yearly audiences began.
They were less like visits and more like examinations. As though Zinnia had been searching for something she both feared and expected to find.
It was her otherness that set her apart.
Alora had known that from the moment she arrived at the Thornbearer’s door like a gift no one had asked for. The Midlands were forbidden to humans, yet she was a conditional exception. Perhaps due to her father.
She had tried to fit in. The Seven know she tried.
But her efforts went largely ignored. The shallow point on her round ears marked her as lesser, and her mixed heritage a reminder.
The fae did not tolerate ugly or imperfect things.
Alora stared at the letter, tracing the crest pressed deep into the wax seal.
Had Lady Zinnia grown tired of her at last?
Perhaps it had been naive to think she could remain forever. She was twenty-four now. Long past the age of belonging to anyone but herself.
With a shallow breath, Alora broke the seal.
The parchment unfurled with a sigh of lavender and sage, the scent clinging to her fingers like perfume and warning.
The handwriting was delicately ornate. The sort of penmanship that belonged to someone with silk in her voice and barbs in her smile.
Princess of Argyle,
I find myself with a desire for frivolous conversation. Let us share tea and speak of your future. I expect your presence in Briar Manor promptly at high noon.
Be sure to pack your belongings.
Lady Zinnia Verdelis
Thornbearer of the Midlands & Matron of the Glades
Alora’s heart twisted, her breath catching in her throat as she reread each line, every word etched in precise, elegant black ink.
Princess of Argyle.
No name. No warmth. Only her title, deliberate and distant. A reminder of who she had once been… and how clearly, she didn’t belong. Whatever Lady Zinnia had to say, it would be anything but frivolous.
Alora’s vision blurred as those final words swam before her.
Pack your belongings.
So, it was done, then.
She exhaled slowly, quietly folding the parchment. A weight settled in her chest like stones dropped into water, slow and sinking.
“Well,” she murmured, sitting at the small round table in the corner of the cottage. She had been cast out of her home once before.
This was nothing new.
Alora paused on the dirt path beyond her doorstep and looked back at the small cottage nestled between the trees, its chimney long since cold. Her throat tightened.
It had been lonely…but at least it had been hers.