The first thing Margo decided as the town hero was that she wanted a fortress. Sure, she had criticized the people of Guina for their oversized homes, but she wasn’t going to rely on this fortress for protection, and she certainly wasn’t going to wield it over the rest of the Blems as a hypocritical show of wealth. No, Margo would be different.

  For weeks, Margo and Xireal worked together to come up with blueprints and charts for the fortress. It would be made of tall, cultivated trees, magically linked together to form walls of wood and curtains of leaves for every doorway. Using Treeg’s magic and the fellow plant-specialists among the Blems, the fortress could grow endlessly upwards, a never-ending communal home to meet the expanding needs of the many. There would be natural fountains for water connecting the floors, allowing the more aquatic-based of the Blems to swim through the currents as an elevator. A separate water system would be filtered by the volunteers daily, allowing fresh clean water that would keep the fortress alive and quench the thirst of its many inhabitants. There would be a classroom that spiraled upwards, giving Xireal all the space he could possibly dream of to teach. This proposition made by Treeg and presented by Margo left Xireal blushing, and he turned to dry a few stray happy tears that trailed down from his right eye.

  While the planning of the fortress itself needed weeks of strategic and intensive discussion, the physical creation of it only took half a day. The Blems were eager to assist in the work, throwing down their calloused hands readily for their generous and powerful hero. Margo watched with absolute wonder as the Blems gathered in a grand circle, joining hands around the layout Xireal had traced in the dirt. Thousands of bright sparks erupted from where the Blems stood, and the layout shimmered as verdant saplings bloomed from every marked corner in the dirt. They wiggled and writhed, unfurling to spread heavy branches that wove together to form the walls and corridors. The fortress grew decorative vines and leaves, even blossoming flowers from every new balcony. It was prettier than every fairytale palace Margo had seen in her scrolls. Once the final branches came together to form the rooted, gated doors, the Blems cheered, surging forward to rush through the halls and find their gifted rooms. Living in the hollow stone huts had been ironically dreadful for the once cave-dwelling folk. Margo saw Kethell begrudgingly marching through the entryway, a frustrated, humble pout sitting under her fuzzy snout.

  Treeg’s work as Margo’s self-proclaimed Green Witch meant a lot of solitude in the newly-built library. Margo would often visit him between construction orders, if for nothing else than to see someone who didn’t bow every time she walked by. The adulation was wonderful, invigorating and inspiring even, but Margo was quickly growing bored of the constant praise. The praise meant peace, and peace meant comfort, something she was finding it hard to grow accustomed to in her new life as a leader. Seeing Treeg had steadily become a reminder of the mysteries and adventures that still plagued Margo’s curious existence. Not to mention, he had discovered the best snacks in the entire fortress.

  “I’m thinking about calling them Glenbers,” Treeg said, dropping a handful of the vibrant orange berries. Their short black stems curled like the tail of a pig, sproinging firmly as Margo pulled them and examined the fruit. Popping it into her mouth, the fruit exploded with a sweet, citrusy flavor. Margo devoured her handful, watching as Treeg flicked his hand near the library’s wall and caused a black plant to emerge from the bark. He stuck his hand near the base, beckoning the plant to grow with a few words of encouragement. When the plant refused to yield, Treeg raised his voice and whined, “How are we supposed to appreciate your color if you won’t grow for me?”

  The plant glowed and hummed, shivering slightly as it shook itself into bloom in Treeg’s palm. Brimming with satisfaction, he turned and dumped another handful into Margo’s eager fingers.

  “Why Glembers?” she asked between her ravenous mouthfuls. “Kinda weird for the name of a fruit.”

  Treeg shrugged, bashfully twiddling his thumbs and looking down at the floor. “Well, you know… They’re orange, like embers… And they glow a little, so I just… Combined the words. I thought it was pretty smart, actually.”

  Margo chuckled, reaching over to pick a few off the bountiful wall-plant herself. It shriveled and withered under her touch, crumpling to the floor in a spray of black, charred dust. She frowned apologetically at Treeg, but he shook his head, summoning another one from the floor this time.

  “They’re a bit sensitive, but the fortress seems to be the perfect place for them to grow,” he explained.

  “How did you find them?”

  “I didn’t,” Treeg said with an earnest grin. “I grew them! I’ve been growing lots of stuff inside the fortress. The Glembers are just the start. The more I use my magic inside the fortress, the more the trees seem to respond to me. Look!”

  Treeg pressed an open palm against a nearby dark-wood table. A warm, golden light pulsated out from his hand, rippling in glowing grooves against the wood. The light passed the edges of the table, traveling through the floors to the tall book shelves. A blackened root emerged from the floor, wrapping a thick tendril around a book with a light-green color and pulling it off the shelf entirely. The root caught the book before it hit the ground, and brought it diligently back to Treeg before vanishing back into the fortress floor entirely. He held the book out to Margo.

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  “All I did was ask the fortress for a book about the Green Witch, and here it is,” he remarked proudly.

  Margo took the book, eyeing the cover’s illustration with intrigue. There were three figures: a man she recognized as the statue she had seen in town, with the sharp nose and the flowing chestnut hair; a figure cloaked from head to toe in crimson robes, a wide-brimmed pointy hat obscuring their face entirely; and a mysterious woman smiling curtly in the center. She was looking over her shoulder knowingly at the reader, with frizzy red hair tightly wound in intricate, elegant braids. Her emerald cloak wasn’t so different from the one the Blems wore. Hers was only longer, draping down to the bottom of the cover where yellow tulips appeared to blossom in its trail.

  “In the legend of the First King, they say she was his sole confidant,” Treeg said, tapping her peach-pink face with his index finger rhythmically. “She was the one who hatched the plan to bring the evil mage Merlin down. Her wisdom is what led to the territories finding peace thousands of years ago.”

  Something curled inside Margo at the mention of Merlin. She pointed to the red-robed figure. “That’s Merlin?”

  Treeg nodded. “Stuff of nightmares, isn’t he?”

  Margo stared closely at the mage. His body language was stiff and rigid, arms crossed behind the Green Witch and the First King. She was sure if she could poke under the brim of his ridiculous hat, a scowling old man with horrifying features would be leering back. But something about the depiction didn’t sit right with her, as though something were missing and only she could point it out.

  “Is this the right color?” she finally asked, after struggling to pin down why it bothered her so much. Treeg shrugged, giving her a quizzical look.

  “I don’t know,” he said indifferently. “I mean, probably not, the First King’s legend is supposed to be centuries old, so no one really knows what any of them look like. They might not have even been real.”

  “So why give me this book?!”

  “Because it’s embarrassing that you don’t know any of this stuff,” Treeg said pointedly, jabbing a finger into her shoulder. “It’s like common knowledge, even for us on the outside. You need to get educated if you want to be a great leader.”

  “I thought I was supposed to leave the studying to you!” Margo protested, frowning about the stack of books moving towards her through another black root traipsing along the shelves. Treeg laughed.

  “I’m only in charge of the really boring stuff,” he said, turning away before Margo could complain further. “Have fun!”

  Despite her initial dislike of the forced academic work, learning more about the culture came easy to her. In the books left behind by the Duke, there were all sorts of lies about the Blems scribbled in proclaimed scientific journals and philosophical entries. Some argued that the Blems were creatures of the night, with gray skin and yellowed teeth that they used to snatch up Fable’s children and swallow them whole. Margo gave an amused hum at that observation, because aside from her, the appetites of the Blems seemed fairly normal. A few were interested in eating rocks, but that seemed to be more of a personal issue rather than a cultural one. The more philosophical entries surrounded whether or not Blems could be considered human, since many were “tragic half-breeds who knew their mother tongue, but not their mother’s womb.” Margo slogged through the boring rhetorical jargon, most of it ending with reasons why the Blems should be exterminated. That just made her want to plague the town with her magic all over again.

  The legend of the First King fascinated Margo greatly. It was simple, and daring, the story of a young man without magic braving battles with high-flying dragons and cackling swamp-witches. He saves the Green Witch as a young maiden, pulling her from the jaws of a vicious sea monster mere moments before the fearsome beasts dives below the water and disappears forever. Margo found herself enamored by the evil mage Merlin, and his insistence on appearing in the First King’s life just to cause problems.

  “The world is mine!” the mage screamed before the armored hero cut him down with one grand slice. Margo shuddered, envisioning the silver sword bisecting her body entirely. No form she took could possibly hope to survive a blade that powerful, she thought, and vowed under her covers to never to get that close to an enemy’s sword, just to be safe.

  Her true magic had manifested strongly after the events in town. Through practice with Xireal and the rest of her classmates, Margo had grown an affinity for controlling and centering her inflicted diseases. Aside from the weakening of bones and the foul boils she could conjure up on one’s skin, she learned how to use it more subtly. She could give Kethell an immediate fever, rendering Kethell sluggish and vapid whenever the giraffe-elk made a passive aggressive comment about the decor. Once, Kethell had complained about the fortress lacking alternative light sources, claiming that the cave’s system of glowing orbs was far superior than relying on sunlight and lamps, and Margo raised her blood pressure so fast and so suddenly, Kethell passed out immediately. She quickly returned Kethell’s vitals to their normal rate before Xireal could catch on and lecture her, but Kethell’s rants had come to a permanent silence in Margo’s direct presence.

  Aside from reading, visiting Treeg and amusing herself by giving Kethell rashes and coughs from time to time, Margo’s life had faded into a routine. Gone was the rebellion; despite the whispers among the older Blems, the Fable government had made no retaliation, and had seemed completely disinterested in the newly established Ophelia. But one night, while she sighed from her room’s cozy balcony, picking at the blooming peonies braided into the wooden railing, she saw a glint of silver in the distance speeding over the hill. She followed it, watching as the thing grew closer and closer. A single figure riding a horse was approaching the former entrance to the town, bounding past the headless statue of the First King on making their way towards the fortress. She turned just in time to see Treeg throwing her bedroom door open, face pale and eyes frantic.

  “It’s--” he swallowed, bullets of sweat dripping down the side of his face. “It’s one of the Knights.”