"Some fires burn quietly. Some... just before they rise."
The room Madoc had offered her was simple—too simple for someone who had once lived in golden halls, surrounded by stained glass and voices that never truly saw her. Now, she sat in the corner of a spartan stone chamber where even shadows dared not linger too long. The bed was stiff, the window a slit barely large enough to frame the moon—and yet, she could breathe.
But tonight, breathing didn't come easy.
Odessa sat cross-legged on the bed, her arms curled around her knees. Her sword leaned against the wall beside her like a silent guardian. The dim candlelight flickered against her coppery hair and the bags under her eyes that had deepened over the past day.
She was used to feeling invisible.
She wasn't used to feeling important.
Madoc's words still rang in her head from earlier:
"You weren't born to serve the court, Odessa. You were born to survive what the court fears."
But what did they fear?
The forged crown?
The woman from her dreams—running through a forest with crimson blooming from her chest?
She shivered.
And then came the knock.
Three sharp raps.
Her hand instinctively flew to the hilt of her blade.
"It's me," Wether called from the other side. "Before you lunge that thing through the door, I come bearing… dramatic news."
She opened it with narrowed eyes. "What?"
He handed her a parchment, sealed in wax. "Raven from the palace. You're popular."
She snatched it and shut the door without a word.
The seal was unmistakable. The royal crest of House Valien. Still warm from the raven's flight.
Her fingers hesitated at the edges.
What if it was a trick?
But she knew it wasn't.
She broke it open.
To Princess Odessa, rightful heir of the High Court,
Your absence has not gone unnoticed. You are hereby commanded to return to Faerieland by the next moonrise.
Failure to comply will result in corrective intervention deemed necessary by the throne.
—Signed by the High Council under authority of the Crown.
She exhaled shakily.
It didn't say "beloved daughter."
It didn't say "we are worried."
Just authority. Obedience. Correction.
As if she were a cracked mirror they were too polite to break, but too ashamed to display.
She paced the room, parchment trembling in her grip. Her heart beat in her throat.
Go back?
Go back… and sit at those cold banquets where she was never quite real?
Where her siblings whispered like crows behind gilded fans, and the queen watched her like a secret gone wrong?
She had only just begun to understand who she might be—why she was seeing that blood-soaked woman, why Wether had found her, why Madoc, of all people, had taken her in.
And now, they were calling her back.
She slumped against the wall, her head tipped back to the stone.
If she didn't return… the High Queen wouldn't wait long. She'd send someone.
Someone trained.
Someone dangerous.
Odessa had seen how the court made problems disappear. Sometimes all it took was a whisper, a drop of poison, or a blade in the dark.
She pressed the letter against her chest.
If she stayed, she needed a plan. She couldn't remain hidden forever. Madoc might have secrets, but he couldn't protect her from an entire kingdom.
A soft knock came again. She opened the door a crack. Wether stood there, leaning lazily against the frame.
"Let me guess. That scroll said 'we miss you terribly and please come home so we can braid your hair and feed you rosewater pies?'"
Odessa didn't laugh.
Wether tilted his head. "They threatened you, didn't they?"
"They summoned me." Her voice was flat. "Next moonrise."
His gaze sharpened. "And are you going?"
"I don't know."
That truth tasted like ash.
"I don't know what's right anymore," she whispered. "I don't trust the court, but I don't trust this either. You. Madoc. This war you all speak of in riddles."
Wether didn't flinch. He stepped closer, voice lowering.
"Well, princess, welcome to the grand circle of the Unchosen. We live off half-truths and instinct. If you're waiting for perfect answers, you'll grow roots in that stone floor."
Odessa turned away, fingers tightening.
"I don't want to run," she said. "I want to know. Why me? Why now? Why is a forgotten girl with half-blood and a dead smile suddenly so important?"
He said nothing for a while.
Then—
"Because," he murmured, "they buried a crown, and didn't expect it to grow roots. But you… you're the bloom that broke through the soil."
She turned, startled.
Wether offered her a crooked, maddening grin. "You're a storm wearing silk, Odessa. But silk burns too. Choose what you'll set fire to."
Then he left.
Odessa stared down at her hands.
She didn't feel like a storm.
But somewhere inside, something had begun to stir. A flicker. A heat.
And she wasn't ready to go back.
Not yet.
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