"… It is your duty to Princess Aurora as the forest's representative."
Mal made a growling sound like the monster humans thought she was. Her lips curled, and her canines flashed as though she could taste the red blood of that snowy white princess on her tongue.
"The balance between humankind and forest folk is breaking, Maleficent. Your mother?—"
“I am not my mother.”
Unlike the stag or the sprites or fairies or even the humans of old, Doran was not afraid of her. He let the tempest of her words roll over him like a breeze through the leaves of his hair. “You are her daughter. Morwyn left Guardianship of the forests to you. As well as the flora, fauna, and folk who dwell here."
Mal opened her mouth to reply, to deny it, to damn them all to hell—but a sudden flicker of movement caught her eye.
A youngling darted through the trees. The child didn’t see that crumbling bit of ground the sprite and elf had skirted. It was hidden by roots and shadows, its edges slick from the recent rain. The child would fall, perhaps even fall through the cracks with that small, viny body of theirs. Without thinking, Mal moved.
She sprinted toward the child, her bare feet barely skimming the earth. Magic surged under her skin. She reached out with a flick of her wrist. Roots twisted and shot from the ground like serpents, weaving themselves into a net just as the youngling stumbled and fell.
The child let out a startled yelp as they tumbled into the cradle of roots. Mal skidded to her knees, pulling the child to safety just before the ground gave way beneath them.
Wide-eyed and trembling, the youngling clung to Mal, throwing small arms around Mal's neck in a desperate hug. Thewarmth of the child’s embrace seeped into Mal. For a heartbeat, she hovered on the edge of something dangerous—connection.
Her hands flattened on the child’s back. Her fingers settled and claws extended. Mal shoved the child away. “You need to be more careful."
"We were playing storm the castle." Though the child was small, her voice was booming and bright. "I'm the princess."
"Learn this lesson well, child; no prince is coming to save you."
"Of course not," huffed the child, coming to stand on her own two feet. "I was coming to rescue the other princesses." She pointed to two small girls on the opposite side of the clearing. The young tykes had sharpened twigs in the belts over their tunics. "They're my friends. They would've come for me if I fell."
The child patted Mal's forearm as though to comfort her. Mal stood stiffly, brushing dirt from her hands as the youngling scurried away to rejoin her friends. The warmth of the child's embrace lingered on Mal's skin. She gave a shiver at the unwelcome sensation. The feeling clung stubbornly, like a ghost she couldn’t shake.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Doran watching her. He said nothing. The look on his face was enough. He had seen everything—her instinct to protect, the spark of care she tried so hard to smother.
Without a word, Mal turned on her heel and strode back toward her cottage. The door slammed shut behind her. A sharp sting broke through her thoughts. She hissed softly and looked down at her hand.
There it was again—a scar. She had the vague memory of a needle pricking her fingertip some time ago. She'd wrapped the wound in a bandage, but it constantly throbbed as though a splinter were stuck there.
She rubbed at the spot absently, feeling the ache pulse from her fingertip all the way to her chest. The old wound never stopped hurting. It was a constant reminder of everything she’d lost. Though now the pain felt sharper, more immediate—like the universe itself was driving the point deeper into her soul. Like the dream that woke her and brought her to the door was looming over her, ready to turn dark.
Mal's hand drifted to her chest. Her fingers curled over the hollow ache she pretended didn’t exist. It had been three years since she lost Phillip. Three years since she had let anyone get close enough to matter. And for three years, she had told herself that loneliness was better than loss. But for the briefest of moments, when she'd held the child in her arms, she hadn’t felt lonely.
And that scared her more than anything.
CHAPTER TWO
Phillip rubbed absently at the scar on his fingertip, the rough patch of skin catching beneath the calluses on his thumb. It was a small thing—barely visible, really—but the ache it left behind lingered, stubborn and persistent. He traced it with his index finger as if by doing so, he might unlock the memory of how it came to be.
He had no memory of pricking his finger, yet there it was. A thin, pale line that had been with him for years. Two? Maybe three years, refusing to heal. Once, out of sheer frustration, he’d gone to see a healer. They’d squinted at the scar, poking at it with mild curiosity before dismissing it as some phantom pain or minor irritation.
This morning, the ache was sharper than usual, as though the scar had a mind of its own. A soft breeze rolled through the open balcony doors, carrying the faint, bittersweet aroma of jasmine. He paused, his hand lowering to his side. The scent tugged at him, stirring something restless and hollow in his chest. It was so familiar—so achingly familiar. Jasmine, tinged with a faint bitterness, like a memory just out of reach.
It reminded him of the forests, of running wild amidst the trees, ofher.
That smell was the first thing that made it feel like home when he’d returned to the castle in the dead of night after three years of war at the borderlands with the trolls. The small regiment that accompanied him had cheered their return, relishing the prospect of hot meals and warm beds. Phillip had found no comfort. Not in the stone walls, the tapestries, or even the gardens. Nothing had felt like home—not without her.
Phillip rolled his neck, hearing the tendons crack and protest at the movement. He'd had a restless night of sleep, as he had every night since losing her. The bed was too soft, the air too still, his thoughts too loud. He’d thrown himself into the war at the borderlands, desperate to make something hurt the way he did. The trolls had fallen; the border was safe, and his people had hailed him a hero. The victory rang hollow.
Instead of a daylight parade, he’d returned to the castle under the cover of darkness, hoping that the familiarity of his rooms might grant him some measure of peace. But nothing felt the same. The scent of her was gone from his pillows, replaced by the faint, clean fragrance of lavender sachets left by the maids.
Now in the pale morning light, he gazed at the tangled green outside his window, the ache in his chest as stubborn as the scar on his finger. He reached out, tracing the jagged lines of the vine nearest to him, the cool dew clinging to his fingertips. The vines she had once used to climb into his chambers at night were overgrown with disuse, curling around the stone walls in wild tangles.
