She closed her eyes. “I hate that I miss him…”
The shadows didn’t answer. But she imagined they were listening.
Somewhere, she thought he might be too.
In the slipping fog of half-sleep, warm, gentle hands tucked the blanket around Alora. Her mother’s face leaned over her, eyes soft and tender. She pressed a kiss to her temple, light fingers brushing her hair as she sang the same song that put Alora to sleep every night as a child.
But the words were no longer soothing as they once were.
She whispered to the velvet night
A wish born of longing and light
Beneath the moon’s crimson glow
A seed of shadows took to grow
Born of the bloom
The dark runs deep
A daughter cradled
Yet none may keep
Oh, she will sleep
And the storm will rise
A beauty bound to sacrifice
Alora gasped awake.
The lullaby still resonated like the after-ring of a bell.
A soft knock sounded at the door. She jumped up out of bed to answer it, startling her cat.
Zinnia stood in the doorway like something the moon had sculpted for the twilight hour. Her hair fell in soft rose-petal waves, a gradient of blush to deep pink at the tips. Her pink skin shimmered beneath the low light, lashes like wisps of white silk.
She wore a gown that shimmered like a living stream and petals intertwined, each shift of her skirts blooming and folding like a garden breathing. Silver thorn-filigree curled at her wrists and collar, delicate as lace but sharp enough to warn. Alora had forgotten how fae the Thornbearer truly was… elegant, graceful, and impossibly beautiful.
On the path waited a gilded carriage drawn by two great white elk draped in moss, flickering lanterns hanging from their antlers. Caelum petted one, glancing her way.
“Godmother,” Alora greeted.
Lady Zinnia’s pink eyes gazed at Alora, not with warmth, but with weight as she took in the faintly glowing markings on her arms. “You’ve bloomed,” she murmured.
That alone confirmed enough.
Alora stepped back from the doorway, silently inviting her in. Lady Zinnia entered the cottage with a curious frown, pink eyes flitting around the space with disapproval, narrowing when she saw the mirror.
Her elegant presence made the cottage feel pitiable in comparison.
“I suppose you feel I did you a disservice to house you here,” Zinnia mused, eyeing the cobwebs and dust with a sigh. “I was never much of a godmother. What would I know about raising a child? Yet somehow, she thought I was best for the task.”
“Who?” Alora asked, sitting at the small table set in the middle of the room.
“My sister.” Lady Zinnia sat across from her, pink gaze meeting hers. “Your mother.”
