Chapter Three
Elysia
Instead of filling the silence with more questions, Pat just watches the sunrise a moment longer, then lets out a slow breath. He raises a brow like he’s thinking of pushing me for a second, but decides not to.
When he speaks again, his voice is gentler. “I want to marry Persephone.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
The whiplash of it hits me fast—so much that I laugh, eyes wide and startled, the sound bubbling out before I can stop it. “Pat, that’s amazing!”
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it, real and warm. My heart and spirit genuinely lift for the first time since waking. Persephone is perfect for him. Quiet, but fierce in her own way. Steadfast, opposed to his whims. They bring the perfect balance to the other’s needs.
I couldn’t have picked someone better if I tried.
“She accepted,” he murmurs, but his voice is heavy, tinged with a weight that doesn’t belong with such good news.
My back straightens as I narrow my eyes on him. “So why do you sound like someone just stepped on your heart?”
“Her father raised the bridal price,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “I can’t afford it. Not for another few cycles, but there’s another suitor already knocking.”
My blood ignites with fury. “What? That’s not legal. The price is set by the Elders. He can’t just …”
“He did,” Pat says, defeat clear in the slump of his shoulders. “And the Elder approved it.”
My hands curl into fists, my nails biting against my tender flesh. Our Elder has turned down all fathers’ requests for a higher price in our lifetime.
Why now?
Anxiety and unease stir within my core. First the laws that were broken by an elf—perhaps two—while I slept, and now this.
Subtle cracks in the order of things, all widening at once.
There’s something changing in our world, I just can’t put my finger on it.
“Let’s just enjoy the sunrise,” he says quietly, squeezing my hand.
I nod, squeezing back, sure that he will let me know when he is ready to stir up a fight. For now, I breathe in the sweet air, tinged with the scent of berries, and soak in the golden light streaming down between the clouds that sustain the elves’ courts atop them.
As the warmth of the morning rises, I can’t shake the ache in my chest. The whisper of fate still clings to me, and I can’t help but wonder if the Dromin from my nightmare is up there, looking down at our lands as I gaze up at them.
The smile that had bloomed on my face only moments ago fades, and a sour feeling blooms in my stomach.
The truth is, I fear the price of ever being able to see their world in the clouds. The only human that has is the Queen, and no queen has ever returned.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of repetition once I’m at work—loops and pulls, thread and tension, the bite of fiber against skin.
I keep my head down and my fingers moving, grateful that the work is demanding enough to distract me from the thoughts I can’t seem to shake; not even a short reprieve.
Still, no matter how fast I move, I can’t outrun them.
The Dromin’s voice lingers like a thread woven through my mind, taut and humming. Pat’s problem with the bridal price loops alongside it, gnawing at me like the raw skin beneath my nails.
By midday, I’m combing through the names of everyone I know, testing out conversations in my head—imagining reactions and weighing risks.
Who would listen?
Who could help Pat and Persephone?
Who wouldn’t call me cursed or broken for the nightmare?
And who wouldn’t go straight to the Elders the moment I walked away?
By the time the sun begins its slow descent beyond the hills, the pads of my fingers are sore, the skin cracked at the edges and smeared faintly with blood.
And in all that time, the only name I’ve managed to settle on to talk to about my problems is Maggie, just as Pat suggested. Unfortunately, that’s one more name than I’ve thought of to help him.
A thin line of crimson streaks the side of my thumb where the bowstring fibers have worn through the budding callus that had already formed, and I hiss softly as I flex my hands.
Another full day spent crafting strings for the guards’ weapons—my new post, and the highest-paying one in our village. It comes with pain, yes, but it also brings money we need to prepare for winter. I’m not about to complain when few are ever offered the task.
Bowstring crafting requires precision, patience, and speed.
It’s a delicate balance not all possess, but I’d leapt at the chance to prove myself halfway through the cycle when a spot had opened.
My fingers are small and quick, deft enough to loop and bind at the pace the overseers demand, and I take pride in the fact that I earned this position on merit.
The ache beneath my nails pulses as I gather my things and make my way up the familiar path through the village to head home.
The gentle breeze tugs at the braid that hangs over my shoulder, the scent of drying elderberry leaves filling the air in comforting waves.
I breathe it in deeply, the spice of it grounding me.
Just a few more weeks, I remind myself. The harvest season will end soon, and the work will shift again for the winter cycle to give my fingers a chance to heal. For now, I need to be grateful. It’s steady work and it’s needed.
And it’s better than accepting a proposal.
“Elysia!” Harven, the old baker, calls out from his stall as I pass the edge of the square. “You still owe me a song, you know. That voice of yours could charm the flour right from the sack.”
I chuckle, pausing just long enough to wave. “You’d regret it the second I opened my mouth, if you don’t have a cup of mead in your belly already. I don’t sound as lovely as you think.”
He laughs, eyes crinkling. “Take care, girl. Tell your mother I’ll be bringing over a few items to have her patch up before winter.”
“I will,” I say, offering a smile. “And thank you for being patient with her needing more time now to complete orders. I know it’s slower than it used to be.”
Harven waves a hand, brushing off the thanks. “Elysia, she and your father have cut me more deals than I can count. I was fresh out of coin two winters ago, and your mother still mended half my clothes. Never asked for a single copper for that order, all these cycles later.”
I blink at his admission, surprised, but only a little. I’ve seen them do that before, quiet acts of grace … but I always thought it was just a delayed payment or discount, not something they’d chosen to give away entirely.
“She and your father have done that for plenty of folks in this village,” Harven continues, his voice low, almost reverent. “Finished work they should’ve been paid triple for. Fixed things for people they knew wouldn’t be able to pay at all.”
I’m not sure how to process that, standing here with cracked fingertips and a heart full of responsibility, trying to contribute however I can. All while carrying guilt for not accepting a proposal that would’ve eased our burden with the bridal price.
Maybe this is why they never made me feel like I had to accept. I thought they were just being kind and loving, but maybe they’ve made so many quiet sacrifices for others that they never expected me to sacrifice myself in return.
My chest tightens, warmth and ache mingling deep in my ribs.
“You inherited that soft heart, girl,” Harven says, nodding toward me. “Don’t let anyone try to harden it, and remember—there are plenty of us willing to help your family if it ever comes to that. They’re the type to never ask, but they’ve earned it.”
“I won’t,” I say quietly.
His words stay with me long after I’ve left the edge of the stall.
All this time, I’ve carried the weight of our struggles like they were mine alone to fix—shouldering the burden my parents never asked me to carry. They’ve chosen to live with less, again and again, rather than watch others go without, whether it’s my sister and me, or the villagers we live among.
The thought settles over me like a balm, mending a self-inflicted wound in my heart.
Maybe I inherited more than their deft hands and their kindness … maybe I inherited the grace to silently carry what I can for those in need.
Farther down, a few children run past, one of them nearly barreling into me. I steady the smallest one with a hand on his shoulder.
“Careful, Kas,” I say with a smile. “Your legs are faster than your eyes, it seems.”
“Sorry, Elysia!” he calls, already racing to catch up with his older siblings.
A flicker of warmth rises in my chest at seeing the childlike joy, but it’s fleeting, serving as a stark reminder that joy has become a rare currency in this village.
Around me, the square churns with the quiet rhythm of late-day trade. Baskets scrape against wooden stalls and shoes crunch over brittle leaves of the wilting foliage.
A woman I don’t know well glances up as I pass and scowls faintly, eyes lingering a second too long before darting away. I smile anyway, a small, deliberate curve of my lips, and keep walking.
I’ve learned that most people don’t want kindness here. They want someone to blame for the blessings we haven’t received.
Our village has been caught in a long, bitter stillness with no queen chosen from our lands.
The gifts the elves bestow upon the human queen’s homeland—gold, enchanted artifacts, even enhanced crop yields—haven’t touched our soil in many centuries.
Meanwhile tales reach our border of the blessings in other villages and how the lives of all within their lands are altered and made easy.
While no one dares speak their resentment aloud in public, it shows in their narrowed eyes and tightened mouths anytime Maggie is around.
The current queen was chosen when I was still an infant, and the elves’ magic stretches her reign across several human generations. She could outlive us all, so most believe we’ve missed our chance entirely to experience the luxury and softness the blessing affords.