I crept through my own home, each step slow and deliberate, as if I could coax the old wooden floorboards into silence. But they betrayed me anyway, creaking softly beneath my feet. I winced at every groan of wood, praying Ambrose wouldn’t stir. The front door moaned as I slipped into the night.

  The summer air was crisp and cool, brushing against my skin like the first breath after a long cry. Above, the sky stretched wide and endless, scattered with stars that shimmered like forgotten promises. My bare feet sank into the damp grass, the dew clinging to me as if trying to anchor me in this world I never asked for.

  My nightgown billowed around my legs, thin and pale as fog. In that moment, I must have looked like a ghost drifting through the fields—but that wasn't far from the truth. I was a phantom in this world. A shadow of someone who had once belonged to something greater. I walked among humans, but I was not one of them. I never could be.

  I had tried—gods, I had tried—to build new lives in this place. To blend in, to start over, to let go. But I could only remake myself so many times before the pieces stopped fitting. I missed progress. I missed purpose. I missed the comfort of familiarity, of roots that ran deeper than time.

  Instead, I was stuck in a cruel stasis. Just existing. Never more, never less, than the woman I was yesterday.

  And I deserved it.

  I stopped in front of the ancient oak tree, the sentinel of my solitude. Its gnarled trunk twisted skyward, thick with power and memory. I laid my palm against the bark. The surface was rough, alive, humming with something I could never quite reach.

  I closed my eyes and reached inward, calling to the source of my power—searching for him. For the only part of him that still lingered in this world. There it was.

  The pulse. Faint, but steady. A flicker of energy that mirrored my own, like a second heartbeat. Not his soul, no—his soul was long gone—but this... this was his magic. The last remnant of my eternal pair.

  I had spent countless nights here, exhausting myself in futile attempts to awaken the power inside the tree, hoping I could undo the unthinkable. Hoping I could bring him back.

  Ambrose would see me as the villain. And he wouldn’t be wrong. I was the villain. No amount of silence or sorrow could erase that. If the world ever knew the truth, they'd see me for what I was.

  These humans around me—they were vessels, echoing with faint traces of the beauty that once flourished in their bones. They had forgotten. I never could.

  I pushed harder, digging into the connection, my hand trembling against the bark. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t stop. I wanted to feel him—just once, just a little more.

  My body shook from the effort. I fell to my knees, sobs breaking past my lips in pitiful gasps. I tried to muffle them, but it was useless. I knew he was gone. My soul knew. But my heart—my cursed, stubborn heart—refused to let go.

  I stayed there as the night unraveled above me, my body aching with grief and magic I didn’t ask for. When dawn finally came, the sky bloomed with a slow, burning orange, chasing the darkness away.

  Still, I couldn’t move. My face was raw from crying. My knees were sore from kneeling. I wanted to stay there forever, to disappear into the roots. But death, like so many things, refused to claim me. The universe wouldn’t let me die.

  Even when I stopped eating. Even when I stopped drinking. My hair never grayed. My skin never wrinkled. My body refused to decay. It was as if the world insisted on keeping me alive to feel the weight of everything I had done. But today was different.

  I turned back toward the house, my steps slow, my limbs heavy. There was no burst of hope—just the memory of Ambrose sleeping soundly beneath my roof, and the quiet ache of purpose that hadn’t touched me in centuries.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  I slipped inside and exhaled with relief. The house was still. I crept to his room and cracked the door open just enough to see him safe beneath the covers.

  In my own room, soft cream-colored walls greeted me, vine-like patterns curling across them like whispers of a forgotten forest. Potted plants hung from the ceiling beams, casting shadows that danced with the morning light.

  I passed the bed, resisting its pull, and dressed quickly—brown trousers, a white tunic, black boots. I tied my hair back in a low ponytail and stepped outside into the gold-tinted morning.

  I moved through the rhythm of routine. The coop, warm eggs nestled in hay. The groaning well, the cold splash of water into the horse trough. The breath of life in each mundane motion.

  When I came back inside, Ambrose stood at the bookshelf, his fingers brushing reverently over the spines.

  “I haven’t heard of some of these books in years,” he murmured.

  “Stories shape how we see the world,” I said, setting the basket on the counter. “They used to comfort me. But sometimes they just make reality harder to accept.”

  He turned, startled, then smiled.

  “Is that why you collect all this folklore?”

  I stepped beside him. “I didn’t just collect them. I wrote some.”

  His brows rose. “But these are from all over the world. Stories that shaped cultures.”

  “I never wanted the Fae to be forgotten,” I replied. “So I wrote them in a way humans could believe.”

  I pulled down an old volume, leather-bound and stitched with twine. “Their gods became Greek. Roman. Mesopotamian. But they were always ours.”

  “You made mythology?”

  “No. I translated what already existed.”

  He said nothing, and I smiled faintly before shelving the book again.

  “Are bacon and eggs alright?” I asked, shifting the conversation.

  His grin answered for him. The kitchen warmed with the scent of breakfast. Eggs hissed in butter. Bacon sizzled beside them. Ambrose cracked eggs like he was breaking treasure chests—sloppily, joyfully, yolk everywhere. He stood beside me, humming, unaware that I had mourned him for a thousand years. He hadn’t changed. And maybe I hadn’t either. But I could never be that na?ve child again. The one who thought the Fae were good because their magic was beautiful. The Fae worlds held beauty, yes—but the Fae themselves? That was another story.

  “You said you’d tell me more of the story today,” Ambrose said as he wiped up a cracked yolk with his sleeve.

  I passed him a plate. “We will. But first, we eat.”

  We sat in silence. Knives scraped against plates. The sun filled the kitchen with quiet gold. And then I spoke.

  “I barely slept that night,” I said softly.

  -------

  I held the pillow close, willing it to absorb my fear. My eyes ached, but no tears came. They’d all been spent.

  My mother had taught me to be strong. But all I felt was failure. Shame. I could see her eyes—green like moss after rain—staring back at me in disappointment. I slipped from bed and stood in front of the mirror. For minutes, maybe more, I just stared. Not at my face. At my eyes. I pressed my fingers against the glass, pretending they were hers.

  Then a whisper at my side: “I see a future Lady of beauty and grace. What do you see?” I flinched.

  There was a woman beside me—so pale she looked powdered, as if trying to hide whatever life once existed beneath her skin. Her frame was frail, almost crumbling, like her bones could no longer hold her together.

  She wore a gown black as ink, trimmed in deep violet and silver thread, the fabric shifting like shadows under moonlight. Her lips were thin, her voice sharper than the air in winter. And her eyes—

  Deep, dark violet. Unmistakable. A Fae from Arcanum.

  I didn’t answer her. My fingers stayed against the mirror, as if my mother’s eyes could protect me. She sighed, almost theatrically. Then came the whistle. A sudden rush of air. A sting bloomed across my arm. I gasped and stepped back, clutching the burning skin.

  “Proper ladies respond when asked a question,” she said.

  -------

  “What’s Arcanum?” Ambrose interrupted.

  I smiled gently. I kept forgetting how much he didn’t remember.

  “Do you remember the eight realms?” He nodded eagerly.

  “We came from Amathara—the realm of life and creation. The others were Cordelia, Nephele, Fintan, Valo, Arcanum, Cypress, and Kallik. Each was guided by a different god or goddess.”

  “So what made Arcanum different?”

  I sighed. “Every world draws its lines—who’s light, who’s dark. Arcanum got cast into shadow. Their god, Erebus, ruled over deception and secrecy. Their magic was subtle. Unpredictable. Feared.”

  “So they were evil?”

  “No,” I said. “Magic isn’t what makes someone cruel. Fear does. And the stories that grow from it.”

  Ambrose tilted his head. “Then why were you scared of her?”

  “Because I believed the stories too.”

  He squinted at me, thinking. “So... what changed your mind?”

  I stood slowly, gathering the dishes. I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t know. But because saying it out loud would bring it all back.

  “That’s not fair!” he said, his voice rising. “You barely told me anything!”

  I rinsed the plate under warm water. “We have time, Ambrose. Besides, we have other things to work on.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Work on what??”

  I dried my hands on a towel, then turned to face him.

  “Your magic.”