“You shouldn’t walk alone. It’s not safe.” It’s almost like he really gives a shit, and he’s not just trying to get me to go home with him.
I consider his offer for a moment, weighing whether it’s worth the potential embarrassment or rumors if I allow him to walk me home.
“I’ll be fine,” I repeat. “I can handle myself. Or didn’t you learn that earlier?”
Eryk chuckles. “Fair enough. I still don’t love the idea of you roaming around in the dark on your own. Especially with everything the rebels have done lately.” The image of the bodies hanging in the square embeds itself in my vision when I blink.
I wave him off. “They only target the elite class, and I’m a nobody.” I can’t tell if I’m trying to convince him or myself.
“You’re not a nobody to me.” His words make my cheeks twinge with heat. “I know you’re capable of protecting yourself, but I would feel better if you weren’t alone out there.”
I level him with a glare, and he raises his hands in defeat. “Fine. Whatever you say.” Eryk shakes his head and turns to take the tray of broken glass to Phillipa.
Outside, the rain has turned to a cold mist that feels nice after the heat of the tavern, but I’ll be freezing by the time I make it to the house. The smell of smoke from fires burning to keep the villagers warm inside their homes snakes through the air.
The walk from Phil’s to my home on the outskirts of town is not long, but in the dark and empty streets, that familiar unease settles deep within me. I take slow, measured steps, both from fear of drawing attention to myself and dread for what awaits when I arrive at home.
I cross the river bridge that connects the main part of town to the road heading toward the Queen’s Keep. Our little farmhouse sits just on the border of Spoikos, and from the highest crest of the bridge, I’m able to see the outline of the castle.
I wonder if Queen Daphne knows how bad things have gotten. I picture her in her rooms, toiling away, hard at work, looking for an answer to our prayers.
The Smog is a cage. Whatever fuels it doesn’t allow us to pass into other lands, and I’ve heard the surrounding kingdoms have wards up that keep it from passing into their territory.
No soul comes in, and there is no way out.
I’ve often daydreamed of an army on the other side of the Smog, waiting for their chance to strike at whatever feeds the dark magic. Not unlike the way I used to dream of Father returning to us.
I think back to this morning in the healer’s quarters. There are some fae who could really use that army.
Something in the shadows makes a crunching sound, and my heartbeat quickens as I brave a quick peek over my shoulder, praying it’s just in my head. I’m far enough out of town now that not a soul will hear me if I scream.
The road behind me is dark, and even in the rain, the air is stagnant. It couldn’t have been the wind. The spot where I think the sound came from is within view and empty. There is nothing there. Of course there isn’t. I must be imagining things. I shake the fear from my mind and continue on.
All I’ve ever known is darkness. What I wouldn’t give to see the sun or stars unobstructed. I find it impossible not to wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t been born into a land cursed by the Smog
The fae who were alive before the curse are all aging much faster of late, and not many of them like to talk about what things used to be like, if they remember at all.
What little I have learned of our history comes from the older fae who like to drink and reminisce after a few too many. They say the sky is a gorgeous shade of blue buried beneath the imposing swirls of brown and black, and breathing fresh, clean air was something they never knew they were taking for granted.
I heave a sigh of relief when I make it to the rickety front gate and up the moss-covered stone steps to my home.
There is a basket of food in front of the door that I recognize to be from the castle, and my heart warms knowing Queen Daphne ensures even the lowliest of her people are taken care of. These baskets have come at least once a week for as long as Ican remember, always filled with something useful or necessary. Sometimes there are even special treats.
When I was too little to work, the baskets kept us alive. I’ve brought them up a couple of times to Phillipa and even the other healers, but if they’re receiving something similar, they’re too proud to admit it to me.
The baskets are what inspired me to volunteer in the greenhouses in the first place. I wanted to feed people, but lately the food is growing much slower, and rotting faster.
I silently pray that Demitra is sleeping as I unlock and open the front door with a creak.
“You’re home early.” Mother’s voice is dripping with malice; already attempting to goad me into an argument. She’s blocking my path to the stairs, watching me with glassy, bloodshot eyes. The air around her is sickly sweet.
My mother, Demitra, is a miserable pain in my ass and my own personal living nightmare. She’s been that way since before I was born. Ever since a group of rebels broke into our house and stole my father from his bed.
It’s been almost thirty years, and the rage I feel is as pungent as the day I was old enough to understand exactly what that meant.
The alcohol makes her angry, and I never know what version of her to expect on any given day. She has bright, shining moments of clarity, but mostly she drinks to numb herself and lays in her bed.
It’s not an uncommon occurrence. The Darkness seeps into some people and twists their will to live until it snaps.
