Chapter One
Wynessa
Morning dawned, calm and golden, moving through the shrubs then setting softly atop the garden dividers, dreamlike rather than upon waking. I liked it best this way, when the palace still slept, and the world hadn’t remembered how to be sharp yet.
I knelt in the rosemary patch with my skirts bunched around my legs, fingers dyed green and damp from dew. Here, a small, plump thrush, with plumage the color of faded autumn leaves, lay nestled in my palms; its wing twisted at an odd angle, fluttering against the twine I’d knotted into a tiny splint.
“Steady now,” I hushed, my voice barely a breeze. “I know it hurts. But you’re braver than you look.”
The bird blinked up at me, its chest rising and falling so rapidly that the flutter was perceptible against my skin.
I smiled, brushing a stray strand of strawberry-gold hair behind my ear.
“You’re fortunate,” I whispered. “You fly when loads grow too heavy.”
The bird gave a faint twitch in reply. I was unable to determine whether it was in agreement or protest.
I’d found her beneath the balcony garden, half-buried in abed of violets, her wing caught in the thorny grip of a rose briar. I hadn’t even intended to go out this morning, yet something allured me here. The garden often did. Only here, could I truly breathe. Here, fear didn’t earn a scolding. Smiles didn’t need to be forced, and the weight of a kingdom I barely understood didn’t have to be shouldered. The herbs didn’t care that I stammered in court, and the bees never asked about my lineage. I was myself here.
They just desired gentleness, plus perhaps some sunlight.
I opened my hands.
“There. Go on. You’re free now.” I smiled gently.
The thrush hesitated, tiny talons digging into my skin.
Then, with a sudden, breathless flutter, she launched from my fingers, wings wobbling slightly, but determined to fly. She soared past the rosemary and thyme, through the dappled light and over the stone wall, her speckled breast soaring as she disappeared into a blur of soft feathers and silent flight.
I sat back on my heels, watching the sky swallow her. My heart ached with envy.
A memory from a summer long ago came to mind, before the crown was a heavy burden, before I understood what it meant to be watched at all hours, evaluated like a crop before harvest. Alaric and I had crept out here barefoot, racing across the lawn with wildflower crowns sliding off our heads. The grass had reached our knees then, and we’d pretended it was a sea. I was a sailor, and he was the sea monster dragging me under.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on my lips as our laughter echoed in my ears. We’d gotten in trouble for tracking mud back into the marble halls, but I didn’t care. That day, I laughed so hard that I cried.
Later, our nursemaid, with hands smelling of earth and woodsmoke, showed us how to steep valerian root and hang dried yarrow for warding off evil spirits. She’d told us tales of thegods who once walked Wildervale, their very steps painting the land with vibrant gardens. In those days, and in the magic she taught, I believed love could overcome anything.
But now I know better. The world was not made of magic; it was made of rules. And I possessed no talent for rule-following.
Sometimes I wondered if there was a place beyond the borders of Elyrien. Where the high courts and walled gardens didn’t define me, where the silver threads of dirt, woven into each breath, loosened their grip. A place where I could be Wyn, and not Princess Wynessa of the Grainlands, a name that felt less like an honor and more like a heavy cloak.
Elyrien, cradle of harvests. The softest kingdom on the continent of Aetherra. A place of rolling sun, gilded hills, fields that hummed with unseen life. Vineyards that spread like emerald tapestries across the slopes, their leaves trembling like whispers in the breeze, while ancient temples stood bathed in a soft, honeyed light that seemed to pulse with a quiet magic.
But beneath the abundance lay roots bound too tightly by ancient treaties and political debts. My existence felt no different: merely a field’s produce, destined to be harvested or worse, planted as a seed in their soil.
The sharp clip of boots on stone shattered the morning hush.
“Princess Wynessa?”
The voice startled me gently, like a ripple across still water. I turned to see a young page standing at the edge of the hedged path – Davien. He was barely older than thirteen, all elbows and sunburns, but he bowed with more grace than most men twice his age.
“My lady,” he said again, cheeks pink with embarrassment, “you’re summoned to the throne hall. The King and Queen request your presence.”
Of course they did.
Still, I offered him a warm smile, despite the urge to run in the opposite direction. “Thank you, Davien.”
He looked surprised to be called by name. “I’ll walk you there if you like.” He beams.
