CHAPTER 2
Just Breathe.
Faelith steadied her breath as she aimed her arrow, her focus so intense that the forest seemed to breathe with her.
The bowstring pressed against her cheek, quivering softly with controlled energy.
Morning’s golden light filtered through the canopy, scattering across the mossy boulder beneath her feet.
She had left Mist Haven at first light, tracking her prey through dew-covered underbrush and faint signs only a skilled eye could follow.
Now, crouching low, she blended into the shade among the trees.
Her heart rate quieted. Her lungs expanded. The world contracted to a single point. She exhaled.
Then released.
The arrow cut through the forest in a clean, silent arc, passing between branches and ferns as though the forest itself parted for it. A few hundred yards away, the buck collapsed silently into the soft earth. Her shot had hit the heart and lungs… a quick, merciful end.
Faelith drew a deep breath, easing the tension from her shoulders.
The Diwaller taught that a hunter must respect nature, the forest, the balance, and the life taken.
For centuries, her adopted people had lived in harmony with the wilds, as wardens rather than parasites.
They hunted only what they needed, built homes among the trees, and served as arbiters of justice to those who threatened the forest.
She approached the fallen deer and knelt beside it, resting her hand over the wound. The warmth beneath her hand faded slowly, like the last ember of a dying fire.“Diolch,” she said quietly to the wood spirits as she bowed her head. “For the hunt, for the sacrifice."
A light rustle stirred around her. Leaves brushed against one another in a way that was far too deliberate to be wind.
A familiar warm stillness crept into her chest.
Faelith pulled the arrow out and began work on a makeshift sled, gathering fresh branches nearby. As her hands worked, her mind drifted back to her dream.
It had been eighteen years since that dreadful night. Eighteen years since she woke in a strange bed, bandages wrapped around her head and arms. Strangers hovered around her, feeding her, cleaning her wounds, taking care of her instead of herself.
The Diwaller elves found her in the forest, unconscious, with a gash at her temple and burns running down her forearms and hands.
Thanks to them, the wounds slowly faded; only a small scar remained near her hairline at the right temple.
Her memory of the massacre was fragmented, bits and pieces that made no sense when strung together, like a book with its chapters out of order.
She tied the last knot that held the sled together and rolled the deer onto it. Slinging the tow rope over her shoulder, Faelith began the trek home.
The forest trail curved between towering oaks and soft beds of moss. Sunlight dappled the ground in shifting patterns, and the air was redolent of spring blooms and damp earth. As she walked, a cluster of tiny blue flowers caught Faelith’s eye—the first blooms of moonbells, delicate and bright.
She slowed.
A memory of a happier time rose within her.
She was twelve again, thin and pale from her injuries, still learning how to breathe without coughing.
Tyr had dragged her outside despite Rena’s protests, insisting she needed fresh air.
“Come on, Little Fawn,” he said excitedly, tugging her hand.
“You can’t stay cooped up forever.”They wandered into a small clearing just outside the village, where moonbells grew in dense clusters.
Tyr plucked one and tucked the stem behind her ear.
“There,” he said proudly. “Now you look like one of us.”
She laughed—genuinely laughed—for the first time since arriving in Mist Haven.Emboldened, Tyr challenged her to a race to the creek. She had barely made it ten wobbly steps before he scooped her onto his back and ran with her, both of them breathless amid giggles.
At the creek, he gently set her down on a rock near the babbling water. “One day,” he promised, “you’ll be faster than me.”
Tyr had been with her from the very start.
In those early days, when she was still bedridden, she woke one night to find a blonde boy around her age hovering near her, just staring at her with wide blue eyes.
The children of the village had seen her being carried, limp and nearly lifeless, to an Elder’s home.
Tyr was the only brave one to check it out; the shock of her still being alive had left him pale and speechless.
He made it a habit to sneak into her chambers every night while she healed, bringing games and stories of the day’s adventures or tales of legendary warriors he had recently learned about.
Her caregiver caught him a few times and would box his ears, but that didn’t stop him from trying again.
He stayed by her side, even through the bad nights when she withdrew within herself, when the pain was too much—both physical and emotional.
The memories were hard to forget; they were the few moments when she felt safe, like she could have a second chance at life.
As Faelith continued to gaze at the flowers a moment longer, a bittersweet expression softened her features.
The forest felt smaller, quieter… as if it were holding the memory with her.Tyr had been acting strangely for the last few weeks—distracted and restless—but she figured it was due to helping plan the Solstice.
Since being named successor to the Diwaller last year, his responsibilities have grown, taking up most of his time as he navigates the role’s political and traditional aspects.
She delivered the deer to the kitchens and quietly slipped away while the settlement buzzed with activity.
Spring decorations were being hung, banquet tables were being readied, and musicians tuned their instruments.
Tonight marked the spring solstice, a night for music, laughter, and handfastings—a celebration dedicated to new beginnings.
In the past, it had been a night she had never genuinely felt part of.
Faelith wandered to a small glade near the village, picked a spot with soft grass, and lay down, her bow and quiver discarded nearby.
Her hand rested on her stomach as her other arm hooked over her head.
Dusk would fall in a few hours, giving her time to rest. The sun felt warm on her, filtering through her eyelids; the lush ground beneath her long coat was still cool from winter; it felt grounding.
The familiar hum from the soil seeped through her, like a soft lullaby.
She often walked barefoot through these woods, listening to it, the meaning lost to Faelith.
Tyr often made fun of her, thinking she was trying to talk to the trees by growing roots herself.
She felt the shadow stretch over her first. What the sun had warmed, the shade now cooled, slipping across her skin in a slow, deliberate sweep. Whoever stood above her moved with practiced silence. No crunch of grass. No shift of weight. No telltale breath.Only one person was too skilled for that.
They were almost as good as she was, though Faelith would sooner swallow a mouthful of river stones than admit it aloud. Their ego was already large enough to blot out the sky on a good day.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, the world coming back to her in soft, disjointed pieces. Sunlight pressed against her face, too bright, too warm, and she lifted a hand to block it, fingers slitted just enough to let thin rays spill through.
Through those narrow bands of light, Tyr came into focus.
He stood with a familiar, almost boyish ease—shoulders relaxed, weight tipped slightly to one side, arms loosely crossed as though he’d been waiting longer than he meant to. The sun caught in his blonde hair, turning it into a golden halo he probably didn’t realize he had.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth when he saw her squinting at him through her fingers.
“Well,” he said, voice warm with that brotherly teasing she’d known since childhood, “look who finally decided to join the living.”
She let her hand fall a little, enough to see the spark in his crystal blue eyes—concern tucked behind humor, affection threaded through every line of his expression.
“Tyr…” she murmured, still half-dazed.
“You know, Little Fawn, you’ll catch a cold lying down like that.”
Tyr’s grin widened when she didn’t immediately rise to meet him. He shifted his weight, boots pressing gently into the soft earth, the absolute picture of an older brother pretending he wasn’t worried while absolutely checking on her.
Faelith let out a slow breath and closed her eyes again. “I’m not going to catch a cold,” she murmured. “The ground’s barely thawed, but the sun is warm.”
“That’s exactly how catching a cold works,” Tyr said, lowering himself into a crouch next to her. “Warm on top, frozen underneath. You’re practically inviting the winter spirits to crawl up your ass.”
She cracked an eye open. “That’s not how spirits work.”
“It’s how colds work,” he countered, tapping her boot with the back of his hand. “And before you say it—yes, I know you’re the daughter of an elder, and yes, I know you know every tradition better than I do. But you’re still lying in grass like a fawn who wandered too far from the herd.”
Faelith huffed a laugh despite herself, staring up at the sky. “I’m resting. I’ve hunted all morning. I think I’ve earned this.”
“And I’ve been running around the village all morning,” Tyr said, rising to stand again, brushing dirt from his palms. “Do you know how many lanterns your mother wants lit before dusk? All of them. Every single one. And do you know who gets to make sure the younglings don’t set themselves on fire while doing it? ”
Faelith smiled up at him. “You?”
“Me,” he confirmed with a melodramatic sigh. “Because apparently I’m responsible. And dependable. And ‘good with children.’”
“You are good with children.”
“I am not,” he said, scandalized. “They’re tiny, sticky creatures with no sense of self-preservation.”
She laughed again, more softly this time, letting the sound settle into the quiet glade. The hum beneath her deepened, as if pleased.
Tyr’s expression gentled. “You should head back soon. The Spring Solstice isn’t just lanterns and songs tonight. There’s the blessing during moonrise. Your mother will want you there early.”
“I know,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I’ll be ready.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He nudged her ankle again with his toe. “Just… don’t disappear into the woods for hours. Not today.”
Faelith sat up slowly, brushing grass from her coat. “I promise, I won’t.”
Tyr watched her for a moment, the teasing fading into something more protective. “Good. Because tonight matters. And not just because of tradition.”
She held his gaze. “I know.”
He nodded once, satisfied, then turned toward the path. “Come on, Little Fawn. If you’re late, your mother will blame me.”
Faelith rose, slinging her bow over her shoulder and grabbing her quiver. “She usually does.”
“Exactly,” Tyr said, flashing that boyish grin again. “So let’s not give her a reason.”
???
Faelith followed the winding path out of the glade, the hush of the woods giving way to the rising pulse of village life.
By the time she stepped past the last line of trees, the world had shifted into motion.
Lanterns—hundreds of them—hung from ropes strung between rooftops, their pale paper skins stirring in the breeze like stars waiting to be coaxed awake.
Children darted between adults with armfuls of ribbons and early blossoms, their laughter weaving through the air.
The scent of pine resin, fresh-cut wood, and simmering broth drifted on the wind, warm and familiar.
She paused at the edge of it all, letting the noise settle around her.
Elders argued over the placement of the ceremonial arch.
Younglings practiced their procession steps, tripping over each other in a tangle of limbs and giggles.
Someone shouted for more firewood; someone else shouted back that they were already bringing it.
It was chaotic, but it was the sort of chaos that meant the Solstice was close, close enough that the whole village seemed wound in anticipation.
A few people noticed her at first, offering nods of respect or warm greetings.
As Rena’s daughter, she was expected to be visible today, but not ornamental; her role was woven into the ceremony itself.
Still, she felt the subtle shift in posture as she passed, the way people straightened or softened, acknowledging her place in the village hierarchy.
She returned each greeting with quiet ease, though the echo of the glade’s hum continued to linger beneath her ribs.
Near the central square, a commotion rose above the rest. Tyr was attempting to corral a swarm of younglings who had somehow acquired lit candles and were determined to light the festival lanterns early.
One child lunged toward a lantern frame with heroic enthusiasm, and Tyr intercepted him with a quick scoop of the arm.
Another tried to sneak behind him with her candle held high, only for Tyr to pivot and block her with the reflexes of someone who had survived far worse than children.
“Not yet. No, not that one. Put that down. Please put that down,” he pleaded, herding them backward with outstretched arms. The children ignored every word, laughing while they scampered about him like mischievous fire sprites.
One tugged at his coat. Another tried to climb him.
A third proudly announced she was “helping,” waving her candle dangerously close to his hair.
Faelith rolled her eyes, though a smile threatened to escape at the corner of her mouth.
Tyr caught sight of her over the heads of the tiny arsonists and mouthed a desperate save me.
She only shook her head and kept walking.
He was good with children, whether he admitted it or not, and the younglings adored him for it.
As she moved through the bustle, the undercurrent she’d felt in the woods threaded its way through the village as well, a quiet chord beneath the melody of preparation. Not ominous or disconcerting, but present, as though following her footsteps.
Faelith adjusted the string of her bow across her shoulder and headed up the carved stairs of a massive oak tree. It served as the seat of the elven council, a bulwark for the people in times of uncertainty and disaster. For eighteen years, she has called it home.