They were less like visits and more like examinations. As though Zinnia had been searching for something she both feared and expected to find.
It was her otherness that set her apart.
Alora had known that from the moment she arrived at the Thornbearer’s door like a gift no one had asked for. The Midlands were forbidden to humans, yet she was a conditional exception. Perhaps due to her father.
She had tried to fit in. The Seven know she tried.
But her efforts went largely ignored. The shallow point on her round ears marked her as lesser, and her mixed heritage a reminder.
The fae did not tolerate ugly or imperfect things.
Alora stared at the letter, tracing the crest pressed deep into the wax seal.
Had Lady Zinnia grown tired of her at last?
Perhaps it had been naive to think she could remain forever. She was twenty-four now. Long past the age of belonging to anyone but herself.
With a shallow breath, Alora broke the seal.
The parchment unfurled with a sigh of lavender and sage, the scent clinging to her fingers like perfume and warning.
The handwriting was delicately ornate. The sort of penmanship that belonged to someone with silk in her voice and barbs in her smile.
Princess of Argyle,
I find myself with a desire for frivolous conversation. Let us share tea and speak of your future. I expect your presence in Briar Manor promptly at high noon.
Be sure to pack your belongings.
Lady Zinnia Verdelis
Thornbearer of the Midlands & Matron of the Glades
Alora’s heart twisted, her breath catching in her throat as she reread each line, every word etched in precise, elegant black ink.
Princess of Argyle.
No name. No warmth. Only her title, deliberate and distant. A reminder of who she had once been… and how clearly, she didn’t belong. Whatever Lady Zinnia had to say, it would be anything butfrivolous.
Alora’s vision blurred as those final words swam before her.
Pack your belongings.
So, it was done, then.
She exhaled slowly, quietly folding the parchment. A weight settled in her chest like stones dropped into water, slow and sinking.
“Well,” she murmured, sitting at the small round table in the corner of the cottage. She had been cast out of her home once before.
This was nothing new.
Alora paused on the dirt path beyond her doorstep and looked back at the small cottage nestled between the trees, its chimney long since cold. Her throat tightened.
It had been lonely…but at least it had been hers.
The dawn crept over the horizon as Alora set out, the hills stretched wide before her in waves of gold and green. She followed the dirt trail eastward, weaving through orchards and meadows blooming with dusk-thistle and humming fern.
By early afternoon, she reached the outskirts of town.
