“He’s expecting us,” I say with a certainty I don’t fully understand. The words rise from somewhere deep inside me, spoken with knowledge I shouldn’t possess. “He’s been waiting.”
Locke glances back at me over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing slightly with interest. “Is your sight returning? Are you having visions again?”
I shake my head slowly. “Not visions exactly. Just. . .a feeling. An instinctive knowing that I can’t explain.”
We continue riding for another quarter hour through increasingly mystical surroundings before the narrow path suddenly opens into a perfectly circular clearing. At its center stands what I can only describe as a tree-dwelling. Definitely not what you would describe as a conventional cottage built around or beside a tree, but a home that appears to have grown directly from the living forest itself. Massive, gnarled roots form its foundation, rising from the earth like ancient pillars, while branches and vines weave themselves together into walls and a roof with impossible organic architecture. Windows glow with warm, amber light despite the bright afternoon sun filtering through the canopy above.
Locke dismounts first, his hand automatically moving to rest on his sword hilt as he signals for the rest of us to wait. He approaches the strange, impossible dwelling with cautious steps and raises his hand to knock on what appears to be a door made of woven branches, but it swings open silently before his knuckles contact the wood.
“Finally,” says a voice from within, rich with amusement and wisdom. “I’ve been waiting three full centuries for this particular batch of tea to properly brew, and it’s finally reached absolute perfection. Your timing is impeccable.”
Locke takes an instinctive step backward as a figure emerges from the dwelling. Okay, so not the ancient, wizened sage I had expected, but a fae man who appears hardly older than Locke himself. His skin is deep bronze, marked with swirling tattoos or birthmarks that seem to shift and move like smoke across his forearms. His eyes. . .his eyes speak of years longpassed, countless decades of accumulated wisdom. They’re a kaleidoscope of colors that never settle on just one hue, constantly shifting from gold to green to silver to blue and back again.
“You must be Galin,” I say as I dismount from my mare, somehow feeling completely certain despite never having met him before.
He turns those ever-changing eyes on me and smiles—an expression that transforms his entire face into something boyish and mischievous, completely at odds with the abundance of knowledge I sense radiating from him. “You must be the daughter of stars and water who has finally come to reclaim her birthright.”
His statement sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the cool forest air. I’ve been called many things throughout my life, bastard, abomination, dud, freak, but never something so reverent, so laden with destiny and purpose.
“I’m Esme,” I say simply, unwilling to get caught up in flowery titles and prophecies.
“Names are merely masks we wear for the convenience of others,” Galin replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come inside, all of you. Even you, wolf, yes you with the blood still drying under your fingernails. I have questions for you especially.”
Sam tenses visibly beside me, his protective instincts flaring at being singled out, and his hand finds mine automatically.
“It’s safe,” I tell him quietly, though I have absolutely no logical reason to believe that’s true. There’s simply something about Galin that feels inherently right, like meeting an old friend whose face you’ve temporarily forgotten.
Inside the tree-dwelling, the space defies every law of physics I thought I understood. What appeared quite small from the outside unfolds into a vast, cathedral-like chamber filled withhanging plants, bubbling cauldrons, and walls lined floor to ceiling with books, bottles, scrolls, and mysterious artifacts. A large circular table occupies the center of the room, already set with steaming cups and what appears to be an elaborate tea service.
“Sit wherever you feel comfortable,” Galin instructs, settling into his own chair with fluid grace. “Drink deeply. The tea won’t kill you, though it might make your ears ring for the better part of an hour.”
Rue sniffs his cup suspiciously, his nose wrinkling. “What kind of tea causes ear-ringing as a side effect?”
“The kind brewed from blossoms that only bloom during total lunar eclipses,” Galin answers with a mischievous wink. “It’s absolutely excellent for achieving clarity of purpose and seeing through illusions.”
I take a cautious sip, and the liquid tastes how honey and moonlight would taste if moonlight had a flavor, sweet and ethereal and somehow comforting. Warmth spreads through my limbs, bringing with it a sense of peace I haven’t felt in ages.
“You know exactly why we’re here,” Locke states rather than asks, leaving his own tea completely untouched.
“Of course I do.” Galin turns his kaleidoscope gaze directly on me. “And no, I don’t need to see your father’s decree. I was always meant to help you. You seek the four trials. You seek to reclaim what was so cruelly stolen from you, your magic, your heritage, your true destiny.”
“I just want to survive long enough to understand what I am,” I correct him carefully. “The queen wants me dead because of my bloodline, because I’m not completely fae. I need to comprehend what that means.”
Galin’s eyes flash with something that might be disappointment. “Is that truly what you believe? That this entire journey is simply about survival?”
“What else could it possibly be about?”
“Becoming,” he says with simple, devastating certainty. “The trials aren’t merely tests to be passed, Soraya. They are transformations to be undergone, metamorphoses to be embraced.”
The name hits me like a physical blow to the chest. “What did you just call me?”
“Soraya,” he repeats, each syllable flowing from his lips like liquid starlight, resonating with an ancient power that seems to vibrate through the very air around us. The name settles into my bones with an unsettling familiarity, as if it’s been waiting there all along, dormant and patient. “Your true name, bestowed upon you by the celestial bodies themselves on a night when the veil between worlds grew thin, long before your mortal form drew its first breath. A name your grandmother whispered to the four winds during a prophetic vision, her voice carrying across realms and through time itself.”
Galin lowers his voice, as though reciting something sacred.
“When shadow drinks the throne and blood soaks the stone. A daughter born of water and starlight shall rise.
Crownless, yet marked by fire and name, she will burn through the veil and bring the realm to its reckoning.”
