CHAPTER ONE
Mal stood at the edge of her garden, her dark eyes scanning the shadows for the disturbance that had dragged her from sleep. Something was wrong—something pressed on the horizon, in the direction of the castle. It pushed against her thoughts like a dream that refused to fade, or perhaps a nightmare with tendrils that clawed at her mind, desperate to take hold once in the waking hours.
She inhaled deeply. The heady scent of night-blooming jasmine filled her lungs. Its sweetness was overwhelming—cloying, almost suffocating. Beneath the saccharine aroma lay a sharp bitterness, faint but undeniable, leaving a trace of regret on her tongue.
Mal knelt, her claw-tipped fingers sinking into the rich earth. The fertile soil mirrored the color of her skin, deep and brown like the essence of life itself. The feel of the dirt grounded her, even as unease stirred within her chest.
A sound broke the stillness—a faint rustle. She lifted her gaze to the sight of a proud stag standing at the edge of the clearing. Its intricate antlers arched like the branches of an ancient oak, powerful and imposing, daring anything to challenge it. Thestag's dark eyes locked with hers, its breath visible in the cool air between them.
Mal raised her head, the movement slow and deliberate. Her black horns curved upward in elegant spirals. As the full might of her presence became visible, the stag faltered. Its muscles twitched. Its hoof stamped once as tension rippled through the air. Then, with a sharp exhalation, it turned and cantered away, vanishing into the trees.
She watched it go, a frown tugging at her lips. Clearly the stag didn't know who she was, otherwise it wouldn't have run. It would have bowed low enough to the earth that its dark nose grazed her feet.
It took only three years for a deer to grow into its maturity. Three years for antlers like that to form. Three years for a stag's antlers to arch like the boughs of an ancient tree.
Had it been three years?
The forest beyond her small cottage stirred with life. Trees groaned as they shifted in the evening breeze. Leaves unfurled, and night-blooming flowers opened their petals, whispering secrets to the stars. A sharp cry of prey falling to a predator's hunger echoed through the canopy before dissolving into the soft hum of night insects.
A new day was dawning. The sun's rays picked their way over Mal's roof before quickly moving on. Mal's home sat at the Enchanted Forest’s border, deliberately removed from the cluster of cottages deeper within. Their roofs, thatched with moss and woven leaves, could be seen in the distance, clustered like a family huddled around a fire. Laughter drifted from that direction, faint but persistent—a reminder that others found solace in one another’s company. Solace Mal had long since given up on.
Three years?
An elf and a sprite strolled along the forest path, their fingers entwined in affection. The tall, lithe elf carried themself with a graceful ease. Pastel eyeshadow adorned their lids, the soft hues catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. Beside them, the smaller sprite walked with a confident, grounded stride. Their compact, muscular frame exuded a quiet strength. Their curving silhouette was balanced by delicate, shimmering wings, each flutter casting iridescent glimmers onto the mossy ground like fleeting stars. Quiet laughter floated between them, light and intimate, carrying an air of unshakable trust and shared joy.
"Good morning, Guardian," trilled the sprite.
The elf's colorful brows rose at the sight of Mal. The elf shushed their love, putting themself between the sprite and Mal. "Beg pardon, Guardian."
Mal forced her expression into something cold and unmoved, as if it didn’t matter. She’d perfected this—watching without wanting, listening without longing.
After all, she told herself, it was easier to be alone. Safer. Loneliness was predictable. You couldn't miss what you never let in. And Mal hadn't let anyone in for three years.
She watched the elf steer the sprite around an unsteady bit of earth. Once out of the path of danger, they pressed a kiss to the sprite’s forehead. The gesture tried to stir up memories inside Mal. But it couldn't get past the jagged thing inside her to get at the memories she pretended she’d buried long ago.
The ache spread through her chest. Mal welcomed it. It was an old wound she’d learned to live with. The ache was proof that she was still standing. That the walls she’d built around herself hadn’t crumbled—not yet.
Better to be alone, she reminded herself. Better to carry the ache of solitude than risk the agony of opening her heart again.His absence had taught her that. Love was a cruel teacher, and she wasn’t eager to relearn the lesson.
It had been three years.
She had barely noticed a single day go by since she'd last seen him. She ran her hand along the rough bark of an oak tree, feeling the patterns beneath her fingertips. The forest reached out to her, asking for her guidance, for her leadership, for her protection. It was in the rustling of leaves, the faint glow of will-o'-the-wisps bobbing over the underbrush. But no matter how much magic lived within these woods, it couldn’t fill the ache where his presence used to be.
A sharptap-tapof wood on stone broke through the ambient noise. Mal didn’t turn. She knew the steady rhythm of Doran’s staff as well as she knew her own name. The elder dryad approached slowly. The weight of his expectations settled on her shoulders before he even spoke.
“You can’t keep hiding here, Maleficent.”
“You can see me. I’m not hiding.”
Doran came closer, his ancient bark-skin crinkling as he studied her with quiet patience. “You are the Guardian of the Enchanted Forest. You weren’t meant to live apart like this. The forest needs you.”
“The forest is doing just fine without me.”
“The forest is not fine. Ever since…"
Mal pressed her fingers to her temple. She saw Doran's mouth move, but his words were garbled. The collection of consonant and vowel sounds he made pricked at her mind like a needle. Of course they did. Anytime anyone saidhisname, it caused her heart, her head, her very being pain.
Then Doran said another name. A name full of soft vowels and rolling Rs that Mal heard quite clearly. That three-syllable collection of sounds pained her in an entirely different way.
