“Don’t you dare think of leaving me,” I growl, voice rough with the threat of breaking. “This is not the time for rest. It’s time to fight, and you…” My hand clamps around the withered stem, fingers closing until the brittle thing snaps free from the soil, because I will not stand for omens. “…you have never turned from a fight in all the time I’ve known you.”
I bow my head, voice trembling between fury and prayer. “You will not start now.”
I pause, waiting, foolishly, for something to happen.
For her to answer my defiance.
For the ground to tremble, for the blossoms to part, for her to rise like a phoenix from the earth, even if only to scold me for my insolence and strike me across the face.
But the world stays still.
Only the sharp crack of a twig disturbs the quiet.
I’m on my feet before I even think, the air shattering around me as smoke bursts from my skin in coiling, snaking tendrils. Death Singer solidifies in my grasp, the blade cloaked in shadow, whispering for release.
My burning white eyes lock on the trees ahead. “Show yourself,” I snarl. “And perhaps I’ll make it quick.”
Silence answers, deep, waiting silence. Death Singer hums against my palm, whispering awful, hungry things. I take a step forward, and the shadows seem to hold their breath.
Then something moves. Heavy steps, unhurried, reverberate through the earth. A stag steps from the shadowed treeline, each stride filled with quiet power. Pale moonlight spills across its massive golden antlers, gilding them like the crowns of kings long dead. Vines wind around them in intricate spirals, blossoms blooming where they touch, unfurling petals that glow faintly against the dark.
More vines coil around its legs, threading through fur that shimmers deep emerald, each movement sending ripples of light through the clearing. Its breath clouds the air like mist, carrying the scent of earth and rain. When it lifts its head, the night itself seems to hold still and in its eyes, bright and green as cut gems, burns the ancient light of something old. Even older than me.
This is no mere creature.
When its gaze meets mine, a voice fills the air that does not leave its lips. A voice I hear in my soul.“Prince Daedalus of the Mordorin Fae. You are not welcome here. Your presence pollutes this place of peace.”
My grip tightens on the hilt. Death Singer quivers, eager, but I hold her back.
“You dare speak to me that way, fairy?” I growl. “The Tenders may worship you and call you Soul, but I know what you are. You serve the Fae.”
“Not anymore.” The voice is calm, but beneath that serenity thrums long-held anger. “Not since we chose to stop serving. Not since we laid ourselves to rest here and woke reborn with new purpose.”
“So what then?” I sneer. “You expect me to bow?”
“No, Prince.” Its voice fills my head. “No one should bow. Not ever again.”
I feel Death Singer grow lighter in my hand, the smoke thinning, the edge dulling, the shadows ebbing away like a tide.
My voice is low when I ask, “And in this world where no one bows… who will rule?”
The stag’s jade eyes turn toward me. “That is the curse of our kind. To believe peace cannot exist without a throne. When there is no ruler, there is only balance and balance does not crave worship… or war.”
It shifts its majestic head toward where Amara lies beneath the blossoms. “Our Jewel understands the balance. It is she who will show the world the path of peace. It always has been.”
Something in my chest tightens until it feels like it might shatter. “Do you have the power to bring her back?” The demand in my voice strains into pleading.
“Yes.” The single word carries like stone.
My fist tightens until my knuckles blanch. “Then do it.” My chest convulses, the plea rips out of me. “Please. She’s fading. I feel it.”
The stag stamps the earth once, the sound deep and resonant. “The power to wake her may lie within us. But the will to wake is hers alone. She must want to return and there must be a world worth returning to. Go, fight your war, Prince Daedalus. Take your crown.”
I grit my teeth, tempering the fire that wants to consume me. “I fight for the Grove,” I say, each word dragged through my throat.
The stag regards me a long moment, then turns. Its hooves strike the ground in a slow rhythm. A heartbeat of the earth itself before the edges of its form come undone, vines and blossoms loosening into the air. Its voice softens, becoming almost mournful.
“Then you have already lost, Prince. For peace cannot be found through victory. Only through surrender.”
