Ch. 33

“Threads of Fate”

After a few frustrating attempts to jump onto the mare, I shoot Devlyn a look of annoyance. With just a hint of my wind beneath me, I could be on this horse in seconds, landing with the same kind of effortless grace Devlyn has. But that would break my promise. I have relied on my powers so much they feel like another limb — a way to anchor myself when I feel out of place or off-balance. They have been my constant companion, even when they made me an outsider, even when they fueled others’ fear of me. And now, without them, I feel like a clumsy child fumbling in a world that is just a little too big, too unpredictable.

A nearby scout shifts as if to offer help, but Devlyn’s subtle sharp glance stops him in his tracks. She is keeping an eye on me, watching closely as I struggle to mount the horse without the crutch of my abilities. There is a sting in that watchfulness, as if already doubting my will to manage without my powers. It is as if she doesn’t quite trust me to handle this on my own, and something tightens in my chest. Thank, Nyx, I am stubborn though. Just add that to the list. Another flaw of how I and my powers have both defined and alienated me.

After what feels like an eternity of stumbling and tumbling, I finally manage to scramble onto the mare with a last, desperate hoop. Thankfully, the mare is patient, standing still as I get myself situated. If I were the one saddled with a rider as clumsy as me, I would have bucked them off by now.

Once I am finally on the horse, we set off down the road, past the stone arch at the entrance of Faymore, and head north, where the path tapers into the outskirts of the Endless Forest. The familiar scent of damp earth and moss wraps around me, but it feels different today, quieter and almost tense.

By the time we reach the camp, I am already feeling drained. Without my power, even the idea of them, everything seems more laborious as my mind spins. I didn’t realize just how deeply I have come to rely on my powers until they’re asked to be stripped away, leaving me to face each moment with only my raw, unfiltered instincts.

As we enter camp, passing wagons, scouts and horses, I catch sight of Sadar and Iamys. Devlyn dismounts with her usual simple grace and strides over to Sadar. They exchange a few words, both their expressions turning grave as they talk, and then — both of their eyes land on me.

A surge of irritation bubbles up as I realize Devlyn must have filled Sadar in on my current limitation. She shared her concerns about me, about my control. I can feel the weight of their gaze as if they’re waiting for me to stumble, to mess up somehow. My powers have always marked me as different, but now, under their watchful eyes, I feel like some liability, something dangerous that needs to be carefully managed. For a split second, the urge to use my powers flares up again, to prove to them that I don’t need their concern or control. But I stifle it, Mother’s warning echoing in my mind. Using my powers now could bring Mother’s wrath down on them, and for all my frustration, I won’t do that to them.

Looking around the camp, my eyes land on Iamys, who is standing a few feet from Devlyn and Sader, casually leaning against a wagon. He is watching me with a faint smile, and for the first time today, I feel a glimmer of relief. Iamys isn’t studying me like a ticking bomb about to go off. His expression is calm, carefree, and it reminds me of what it feels like to simply be Mihaela, without the pressure, without the expectations. Just for a moment, I can let my guard down.

Iamys makes his over to me, taking the reins of my horse in his hand. I swing my leg over, trying to slide off gracefully, but instead, I land with an awkward thud, my knees nearly buckling. Iamys chuckles softly but doesn’t comment, and he leads my horse to where Devlyn’s stallion is tied up. I manage a smile, grateful for his serene presence.

Iamys turns and catches my eye, a warm smile tugging at his lips. “No wind?” he teases, glancing at my mare as he ties her reins securely to a nearby wagon.

I can’t help but grin, rolling my eyes as I walk toward him. “Don’t even get me started,” I groan.

There is something about Iamys, a stable, humble presence that feels like slipping into a favorite cloak — recognizable, soothing, and just mine. Around him, I am solely Mihaela. Not princess. Not the daughter bound by Mother’s rules and expectations. Just… me. It is a rare feeling, one I cling to in moments like this.

“Does this have anything to do with the cold?” he asks, eyebrow arched with a playful smirk.

“Was it that obvious?” I laugh, spinning on my heels to take in the bustling camp. Scouts and guards are busy corralling horses, packing supplies, preparing for the road ahead. And yet, even amid the commotion, I feel a quiet sense of reprieve being here with Iamys.

“Well,” he says, sidling up next to me, “you were purple.” He chuckles, nudging me lightly.

Before I can respond, I catch a flash of bright red hair. It pulls me out of my easy moment with Iamys, back into the reality of the title and duty that is glued to me like an armor. Gaelira strides toward us, her presence compelling, yet graceful — almost as if she floats rather than walks.

Her long, fiery hair catches the sunlight, casting a golden glow that seems to radiate around her. I have heard the scouts speak of her with reverence, as a high light fae, she holds an aura that is impossible to ignore. Her power is like a soft, glowing warmth, the kind that draws people in rather than intimidates.

Gaelira’s eyes meet mine, and she dips into a slight bow, her every movement delicate yet deliberate. “How are you feeling, Princess?” Her voice is laced with an elegant spirit, a subtle respect that feels… intense.

I blink, caught off guard. “Oh… you don’t have to do that — or call me that,” I say, waving a hand somewhat awkwardly. It feels strange, being treated like royalty. I can sense the weight of the title she places on me, it is not just a title but a sacred acknowledgment, one I suspect she would never forsake.

Gaelira straightens, but her green gaze never wavers. “Lady Mihaela, it’s an honor. I owe your mother plenty. Bowing for her only daughter, her only child, her princess, and viewing her as my true queen is as easy as breathing for me.”

The reverence in her tone makes my skin prickle, a reminder of the role I am expected to carry. Mother’s shadow stretches long, reaching even here, reminding me of the legacy and duty I can’t seem to escape. But Gaelira’s respect for Mother feels almost different, more genuine, unlike the fear or obligation I see in so many others. This, I realize, is the difference between the high fae like Gaelira and someone like the blacksmith I met earlier — both fae, but they’re night and day in more ways than one. The blacksmith had an edge to him, a darkness that was rugged, unrefined. His powers came from a lineage steeped in the gods of shadow and chaos, while Gaelira’s light fae lineage shines with a clarity and peace that seems foreign, even unattainable, to someone like me.

I steal a quick glance at Iamys, who is watching us, bemused but silent. Unlike Gaelira, he doesn’t view me through the lens of titles or expectations. He simple sees me, Mihaela — flawed, restless, maybe a bit reckless — and that is somehow enough for him.

But Gaelira is still watching me, her eyes warm yet expectant, and I feel a strange mix of honor and discomfort under her attention.

Mother seems to be popular on everyone’s lips today. Her influence following me like a vulture, impossible to escape. I can feel the weight of it settling as the way Gaelira forest eyes look me over.

“How are you feeling?” Gaelira’s gaze sharpens, sliding from my eyes to my shoulder, and then stopping on my neck, as if reading the marks and hidden memories etched there. Her tone is careful, almost calculated, but her eyes give away the hint of actual concern beneath her formal demeanor. I know this is more than a simple question, though. It’s loaded, layered with all the expectations and anxieties that follow my last name.

“Honestly, it’s been the least of my worries lately.” I shrug, though it feels hollow even as I say it. There is so much she doesn’t know, so much no one knows, and I am not even sure how I would explain it if anyone asked.

Gaelira raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but remains silent as I unbuckle my vest and let it drop to the ground with a satisfying thud, heavy with the many daggers tucked inside. It feels good to set it down for a moment, to let myself breathe without the added weight.

I tug at the collar of my shirt, pushing it past my shoulder to reveal what lies beneath — the ink of a Serpopard winding down my shoulder blade, powerful yet scarred by faint impressions of teeth marks, remnants of an encounter with something with so much power, and a brand that bounded it to another.

My lavender eyes fall to the tail that ends at the top of my shoulder, a memory rises unbidden.

—

I’m running through the forest, the world blurring around me in streaks of green and shadow. Laughter bubbles up from my chest, free and unrestrained, as I push my body faster, feeling the wind whip through my hair. Behind me, a figure runs with me, though they are hazy and hard to see. I can feel them, though — their presence is warm, a silent encouragement urging me on.

I summon my wind, the gusts carrying me faster, my feet barely grazing the forest floor. My laughter echoes through the trees, and I feel utterly invincible.

But then… the laughter dies. A low, rumbling growl echoes from somewhere deep within the shadows that move frantically, as if to shield us. I halt, skidding to a stop, my sense sharpening as my heartbeat quickens. I glance back, but the figure is gone, faded into the mists of my memory.

I take a cautious step forward, searching the underbrush, until I catch the glimpse of something huge and coiled as shadows move all around it — a shape that defies reason and yet it calls to me. There, moving slowly, is a Serpopard.

It is massive, muscled body moves with feline grace, but the head that emerges from the racing shadows is all wrong — a serpent’s head with gleaming scales and eyes that seem to pierce through me, intelligent and feral, locking me into place. The beast’s tail, long and sinuous like a serpent’s, curls around a tree, and I know without a doubt it’s aware of me. I feel its gaze, predatory and ancient, holding me captive.

—

The memory flickers, and I am back with Gaelira, the forest and the beast dissolving like the chilly morning dew on the trees that surround us.

I blink, my breath unsteady, still feeling the weight of that primal gaze on me. I killed it…

Gaelira’s eyes narrow, as if sensing the change in me. I realize my hand is resting on my shoulder, instinctively protective, as if the motion could keep the memories from fading.

“A Serpopard,” Gaelira says quietly, as if saying its name aloud confirms something unspoken. She has stepped closer, and her fingers hover near my shoulder, stopping just shy of touching the inked beast that my beast has branded me with, a kill made by our fangs. “A creature of fierce independence and power.. it suits you.

I glance at where my hand rests, surprised by her insight. I have always thought a creature like a Serpopard as a symbol of untamed strength, but to hear someone like Gaelira acknowledge it — and to see her see me, not just my title, of being Mother’s daughter — strikes a nerve.

Gaelira eyes travel, lingering on my shoulder and the side of my neck, where scars fade into my skin. Her expression shifts, her eyes tracing the faint marks that still decorate me, reminders of a different encounter altogether.

“And the dragon’s bite,” she says softly, her gaze now heavy with understanding and caution. “A reminder of your strength… and your burdens.”

I meet her eyes, feeling old wounds pulse with faded memory. I don’t offer an explanation, but the weight of her words hang in the air, as if she sees the hidden truths etched in my skin as clearly as the scars that nearly cover every inch.

“They look good. I mean, they’ll scar, but I’ll live.” I try to smile at Gaelira, but the ease in her face only makes me feel more… bare. I shuffle my boots under her gaze, painfully unaware of how much she sees beneath the surface. She is looking at more than just my wounds and marks. It is like she is seeing layers peeling back, looking in places that I have locked away. Places no one is meant to see.

A chill tightens around my chest, and I clear my throat, trying to turn the conversation. “Thank you again, Gaelira,” I say quickly, hoping to ease the intensity, to shift the focus off of me. I grab my vest from the ground, brushing off dirt as I turn to buckle it back up. The heavy fabric and daggers give me a sense of control, like armor.

But then, that feeling — a prickling on the back of my neck, as if eyes are drilling into me. Not Gaelira’s. Something else, somewhere close yet distant. I look past her, past a nearby wagon, over the line of trees. And then I see it.

A shadow.

Darker than the rest, pooling by a tree about thirty feet away. It stands unnaturally still, its edges sharp against the morning light, as if detached from the surrounding movement. And then it seems to shift, not with the sun breaking through leaves and branches or even the chill autumn breeze, but deliberate… wanting me to see it.

My chest clenches as my lungs stop. But I can’t resist. I focus on the shadow, drawn as it inches further through the tree lining the camp. The shadow moves, leading my eyes along the way where the light softens, casting a twilight haze.

And then I see him.

Zanir.

He is crouching next to a wagon, helping a few scouts sort and pack supplies. His presence stands out against the forest, a figure of unsettling grace and quiet strength. Dark mahogany hair falls past his ears onto his shoulders, one single braid near his temple woven with a thin leather cord. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle and skin inked with tattoos that snake up toward his elbow, their dark lines and swirls intricate and ancient-looking, blending into his movements. His hands, strong and precise, move deftly through the task, lifting multiple bedrolls with ease as he gives a short nod to a scout beside him.

But it is his eyes that hold me in place. Even from this distance, the intensity of their color — a piercing blue cerulean, deep and calm like the midnight sea after a raging storm — they seem to pin me where I stand. He shifts his focus, glancing from the supplies to the line of scouts, but there is a weight about him, something guarded and almost otherworldly.

I feel a shiver crawl up my spine as I watch him, a sudden, inexplicable chill settling into my bones. The longer I look, the more I feel that coldness expand, a sensation that is both distant and sharply intimate. I can’t look away, my mind buzzing with questions and half-formed thoughts. There is something about him, something I can’t quite grasp, like a puzzle piece that almost fits yet leaves an ache in my chest.

He’s… different. Not like the others. Not like Gaelira, or the scouts, or any creature I have met before. There is a gentle intensity to him that tugs at my curiosity. A darkness tempered with something raw and almost soothing, concealed beneath his controlled demeanor. And then I catch myself, feeling my cheek heat against my cold core, as I realize how close I am staring.

As if sensing my gaze, Zanir’s eyes lift, meeting mine across the clearing. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves, locked in a silent acknowledgment. I feel my stomach turn, a flutter of something both unsettling and undeniable as his gaze sharpens, his eyes filling with that same intense orange flame that takes over, feeling the weight of something unspoken.

I swallow, breaking the spell by glancing down, pretending to adjust the strap of my vest. But I can still feel his eyes on me, steady, calculating, and far too aware. The shadow that guided me lingers at the edge of my vision, melting back into the trees.

For reasons, I can’t explain, I feel a rush of relief, like I have found something to capture my attention, something I didn’t realize needed. Or maybe, something was waiting for to discover it.