The earth sees me and chooses me.
As I let the tears continue to fall, I finally feel what it means to belong–not to a crown or a court, but to something older, deeper, and infinitely more true.
Chapter 21
Wren
The core of the Summer Court breathes around us, golden light filtering through a canopy of trees that seem to sway with no wind at all. Heat hums low in my bones, not unpleasant, just ever-present. Thick vines spill down from natural archways, heavy with fruit and blooms.
Children dart between the large, sprawling roots, laughter trailing behind each of them.
I didn’t expect comfort from a fae court, yet that’s all I feel here.
The Duchess walks beside me in silence, hands clasped behind her back as each of her steps stirs new flowers to bloom in her wake. She’s quiet, but it doesn’t feel empty, just like continued reverence.
Then I see him.
Sylvin crouches in the center of a mossy clearing,sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a faint smudge of something green at the edge of his collar. He doesn’t notice us at first with his attention fixed on a small fae girl who I guess is no older than six. Her dark auburn hair is twisted into two uneven braids that swing as she frowns down at the ground. She stands with her feet braced and her jaw set, arms out like she’s trying to force the world to bend.
Sylvin murmurs something I can’t hear, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
The girl exhales sharply and a flicker of energy pulses from her chest.
It bursts across the ground in a bloom of rust-red light, twisting the grass beneath her feet into curling brown vines and red-tinged leaves that carry a scent of spice. Not green and floral like Spring. Not warm and golden like Summer.
The power recoils almost as fast as it appeared, snapping back into her skin, and she lets out a frustrated huff. Sylvin only chuckles, reaching forward to gently ruffle one of her braids before whispering something that makes her grin widen, proud even in the face of her failure.
My brows pull together as I watch them, curious about her power and his ease in this court.
“She’s not of the Summer Court, is she?” I ask gently, careful not to make it sound like judgment–merely curiosity.
The Duchess’s voice is quiet beside me. “No. She was born here in Summer, but her magic claimed her for Autumn.”
I glance at the Duchess, startled at how that is possible, but she doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are still on Sylvin and the girl.
“Fae magic doesn’t pass through blood, not in the way you’re thinking.” she adds softly. “We’re not always born into our true court. The earth watches and listens to each new soul, and when our power begins to stir, it provides the magic of the court we will build a life in as adults.”
The girl runs off toward a cluster of others who accept her into their ring of dancing with ease.
“How do they learn about their magic, if it’s not of their born court?” I inquire.
She hums for a moment. “We must be selfless as parents and allow them to attend school in their future court when they hit adolescence, which is when their full strength is revealed. They return to us only for two months throughout the year.”
An ache stirs in my chest at the thought of families being separated, and a question rises within me: Do I have parents somewhere, missing me?
The Duchess breathes in sharply before letting it out. “My son was born in this court, but his soul always belonged to Winter.”
My gaze snaps back to Sylvin, who stands now, brushing moss from his knees.
She watches him with a kind of tenderness that makes my heart stir. As if she’s remembering who he was before becoming High King. I watch her emotions flicker across her face, from sadness, to pride, but there is always an undercurrent of deep love. I feel the truth settle into place before I can speak it aloud.
They’re family.
Sylvin looks up then, and his eyes find mine first.
That familiar tug pulls between us–quiet, steady, inevitable.
Then he turns to the Duchess, a rare softness ghosting across his features as he crosses the space to us and bows his head in a slow, formal gesture.
