Chapter One: The Eyes of the Throne Room
The late afternoon sun cascaded through the towering gemstone window of the throne room, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the gleaming floor. Each shard of light glinted off the ancient thrones, which sat atop an elevated dais, their golden frames adorned with intricate carvings that depicted the rise of the Kingdom of Sablewood.
This was not a room for idle conversations. The throne room was only used for moments of immense significance — royal decrees, the forging of alliances, or, in this case, discussions about the future of the realm.
“You shall be crowned Queen on the Spring Equinox, Aubrey,” King Galdor’s voice echoed through the chamber, final and inescapable.
Aubrey dropped into a curtsy, the formal gesture at odds with the turmoil churning within her. The Spring Equinox? Her mind reeled, the room seeming to tilt ever so slightly as she struggled to process the pronouncement. That was no time at all.
“Father — my King — that’s but a month away,” she said, her voice steady, though her pulse raced.
King Galdor, a figure usually as unmovable as the mountain ranges that protected Sablewood, shifted in his throne. It was the subtlest of movements, but Aubrey caught it. The weight of his kingship seemed to press harder today, lines of weariness creasing his brow. His steel-gray eyes flickered toward Queen Daena, seeking some unseen reassurance.
The Queen, Aubrey’s mother, met his look with a calm smile, though her lips trembled ever so slightly, her smile fragile, like a fine porcelain mask ready to crack. Her blonde hair, tinged with silver, was pinned back elegantly, framing her delicate features, though her luminous blue eyes — so often filled with warmth — seemed clouded with worry.
“Dearest,” Queen Daena spoke softly, her voice a melodic contrast to the tension that hung in the room. “Though we have reigned for nearly three centuries, even we are bound by the laws of this Realm.”
Aubrey’s wings shifted ever so slightly beneath her braided hair, a faint quiver betraying the storm of emotions brewing inside her. Bound by laws? The words felt hollow. Her parents, rulers of the Realm of Elarion, bound by dusty decrees? The absurdity stung, and before she could contain herself, the words slipped from her lips.
“Then change them,” Aubrey said, her voice sharp, slicing through the silence like a blade.
Gasps rippled through the shadows where the clergymen lurked like specters. They did not hiss openly, but the flutter of parchments and the narrowing of sharp eyes betrayed their disdain.
The clergy. Always present. Always scheming, with their fingers tracing decrees as old as the hills, as if they alone understood the threads of fate.
She had forgotten herself, forgotten the weight of the Throne Room, and the ever-watchful eyes of those who clung to ancient rules.
She found it ironic that the clergy despised the Vampyrs, and yet moved like them — slithering in the shadows, preying on moments of weakness.
One of them, Clergy Member 421, Rodney, stepped forward, his skeletal fingers clutching a parchment that seemed to uncoil from his hands like a serpent. His voice was as dry as the paper he held.
“Your Highness,” he rasped, “the matter of succession is not subject to change. It is written: The heir shall ascend the throne of the Kingdom of Sablewood either before or upon their 201st year. They then must choose a consort if one has not been selected, ensuring the lineage and the future Ruler of the Realm.”
Rodney’s beady eyes gleamed as he rolled the parchment back up with a sneer that barely touched his thin lips. Aubrey ignored him, her focus resolutely on her parents.
“Mother, Father,” she began again, her voice steady but edged with defiance, “you are still fit to rule. What does it matter if I am two hundred?”
Before the king or queen could reply, Rodney’s voice cut through the air again, serpentine and sly. “Indeed, Your Highness, it seems your parents have coddled you as if you were still an infant.”
“Enough!” Queen Daena’s voice rang out like crystal shattering on stone, silencing the clergy in an instant. Her eyes flashed with restrained fury, and her gaze swept across the room. “The manner in which we raise our daughter is of no concern to you or your decrees. You will speak only when it is your time.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, though Aubrey could see the clergy exchanging glances, their dark thoughts swirling just out of reach. She knew they were far from cowed.
Her mother’s face softened once more as she turned to Aubrey. “You are two hundred, and we are aging. You must accept this.” The words were gentle, but they stung. Aubrey’s heart sank as the truth etched itself into the lines around her mother’s eyes and the subtle slouch in her father’s posture.
“You are not old,” Aubrey protested, her voice betraying a flicker of desperation. But as she studied her parents, she could no longer deny the creeping wear of time. Her father’s once unyielding hands, which had wielded swords and shields, now rested heavily on the arms of his throne, fingers tracing the grooves worn into the stone over centuries. Queen Daena, though radiant, was like a delicate porcelain figurine — still flawless, but fragile beneath the surface.
King Galdor spoke again, his voice steady but softer than usual. “Time moves forward, Aubrey. Just as our parents guided us, so too do we wish to guide you. But without a consort — without an heir — our line ends.”
Aubrey’s wings twitched, her feathers ruffling against her gown. “And if I refuse?”
Before her father could respond, a figure stepped forward from the shadows — a man who didn’t belong in the ranks of the clergy, not by appearance alone. Thalos, the leader of the Sablewood clergy. He was different, strikingly so. His hair wasn’t slicked with oil like the others, and he carried himself with an unsettling grace, his pale blue eyes more piercing than those of his fellow clergy.
“Your Highness,” Thalos began, his voice deceptively smooth, “in six days, a ball will be held where twelve suitors shall present themselves to you. You will choose your Prince Consort, who shall be King beside you.”
Aubrey’s heart stilled. “This is no conversation, is it? My fate has already been decided.”
“Aubrey, my flower,” Queen Daena’s voice softened, “you are beloved by the people. We know you will be a magnificent Queen. But without a consort… without a future…”
The sentence trailed off, and Aubrey caught her mother’s hesitation.
Plinth, another clergyman, stepped forward, unrolling yet another scroll. “In the event the Prince or Princess fails to provide a successor, or that the Prince or Princess abdicates the throne, the Clergy shall assume stewardship of the Realm until such time a suitable ruler is appointed.”
Aubrey’s eyes narrowed as she fixed Plinth with a cold stare. “And when, exactly, was that decree written? Was it in the days of the Second King? Or merely a fortnight ago, when you began plotting my future in secret?”
King Galdor glanced at the massive clock ticking away on the wall. “You have your Queen lessons before dinner, Aubrey. We will continue this… discussion tomorrow.”
Aubrey didn’t wait for permission to leave. With a swift, fluid motion, her bronze wings unfurled, the feathers reflecting the golden rays of her hair, as they caught the light from the gemstone.
As she took flight, soaring out of the Throne Room, she caught the glint of her mother’s eye — and a subtle, knowing wink that sent a rush of defiance through her.
The clergy had made their move.
But Aubrey had no intention of bending to their will so easily.
Despite the tension from the meeting, Aubrey couldn’t stifle the grin that tugged at her lips as she thought of the grand charade her parents had upheld for nearly a century and a half. “Queen lessons” in some distant borough of the Kingdom of Sablewood — what a tale.
In truth, the very thought of sitting still within the stone confines some room made her restless. Her heart longed for the trees and the skies, for the wilderness beyond the Kingdom’s reach.
Wrapping herself in her thick, fur-lined traveling cloak, Aubrey stepped out onto her balcony. The cool evening breeze greeted her, tugging at her cloak as if beckoning her to join the twilight. The familiar scent of pine and fresh earth filled her lungs, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, savouring the freedom.
No guards to trail her, no courtly duties weighing her down — just the wind, the open sky, and the promise of an hour or two where she could be herself, not the Princess of Sablewood, and future Ruler of the Realm of Elarion.
With a swift, graceful leap, her wings unfurled, catching the currents of air. She soared upwards, her wings beating rhythmically as she ascended, leaving the towering spires of the castle behind.
Below her, the treetops of Sablewood stretched out like a sea of green, their boughs whispering secrets only she could hear. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the forest in hues of amber and violet, and her heart raced with the exhilaration of flight.
As Aubrey soared higher, a shadow passed across her path — a Thalarian Owl, majestic in its size, swooped low on its way to its nest. Its amber eyes, wide and knowing, briefly met hers before it glided gracefully toward the mountains, where the last rays of sunlight kissed the cliffs.
While the Thalarian Owl made its way home for the evening, its nocturnal cousins were just beginning to stir. She caught the sound of their soft, ghostly calls echoing through the trees below.
The moment Aubrey descended through the trees, her heart felt lighter. The oppressive weight of the throne room seemed to melt away, replaced by the serenity of the forest that stretched beneath her.
She veered left, her wings catching the wind just so, allowing her to glide effortlessly toward her destination — a hidden clearing nestled between the Kingdom of Sablewood and the city of Aranello.
The forest opened up beneath her as if welcoming her home. There, tucked away from the world, stood a charming little hut with a thatched roof, its edges softened by the moss creeping along the stone walls. Ivy curled like delicate fingers, wrapping around the house, almost as though the building had been gently cradled by the forest itself. The hut seemed a part of the land, as though it had grown organically from the earth rather than built by mortal hands.
Aubrey’s heart swelled as she saw it. This place wasn’t just her hideaway — it was her sanctuary.
The air was laced with the comforting scent of woodsmoke, drifting from the chimney and mingling with the fragrant, earthy perfume of the trees. A short distance away stood the greenhouse, its enchanted glass walls glowing faintly in the soft light of dusk. Unlike ordinary greenhouses, one of its walls was left open, inviting the forest air to flow through freely. The plants inside thrived, wild and untamed, connecting to the natural world in ways that stone and mortar would never allow.
As Aubrey descended from the sky, she spotted Nalia below, already scanning the horizon with her sharp Elven eyes. Nalia’s fiery red curls caught the dying light, framing her pointed ears, and a mischievous smile broke across her face as she waved.
“You’ve got some nerve arriving this late, Your Highness,” Nalia teased, the mock formality dripping from her words.
Aubrey landed lightly beside her, groaning playfully. “Must you always call me that?” she sighed, exasperated but affectionate. “Just call me Aubrey, please.”
Nalia grinned, the gleam in her eyes betraying her affection. “Old habits die hard, Aubrey. He’s in the greenhouse waiting for you. We’ll have Kieren take you back to the Kingdom in an hour.”
“Two hours,” Aubrey insisted with a gleam in her eye.
Nalia rolled her eyes. “You’ll miss dinner. Your ladies-in-waiting will have a fit if they catch wind of this.”
“I’m sure there’s something simmering in the pot in your kitchen,” Aubrey retorted with a smirk. “Fetch me a bowl before I get to work — please?”
Nalia laughed, shaking her head in mock resignation. “Fine, fine. Your wish is my command.”
Aubrey grinned and gave Nalia a quick kiss on the cheek before making her way toward the greenhouse. The open wall beckoned her in, the mingling scents of damp earth, pine, and fresh greenery greeting her as she stepped through.
And there, in the middle of it all, stood Caedar.
The elderly Elf was like a living extension of the forest itself, his weathered face lined with the wisdom of centuries. His skin, though wrinkled and rough, had a glow about it, and his eyes — ageless, ancient, yet somehow always twinkling with a mischievous glint — reminded Aubrey of the deep-rooted oak trees that lined the edges of the clearing. His long, silver hair was tied back in a simple knot, and his robes were plain, earthy browns and greens, blending with the world around him.
He knelt beside a cluster of seedlings, his fingers moving delicately over the soil, whispering ancient Elven chants to the young plants.
“The frost has finally loosened its grip,” Caedar mused aloud, more to himself than to her, as his hands continued their slow, deliberate movements.
Caedar had witnessed more winters than Aubrey could ever fathom. His presence was as steady and unyielding as the mountains, a fixture in her life from the moment her grandparents first brought her to him as a young Fae. Since that day, he had become more than just a teacher — he was a living bridge to the ancient mysteries of nature and the elements, guiding her through the secrets of the world that only the land could whisper.
Even now, as he deftly spun seeds between his fingers and worked the soil with an intimate reverence, Aubrey couldn’t help but recall her own transformation.
She remembered the day her wings first unfurled, the coming-of-age ceremony etched in her memory like the stars etched across the night sky. The pain of the change was now a distant echo, but the overwhelming sense of freedom — that intoxicating sensation of becoming one with the wind — remained as vivid as ever.
On that fateful day, her aura had revealed her true path: she was a Garden Bloomer, destined to nurture life from the very soil beneath her feet.
It wasn’t unexpected — no heir of Sablewood had ever shown an aura tied to ruling. But Aubrey had never felt slighted by this fate. In fact, her parents and grandparents had always encouraged her to follow her passion, to cultivate the magic within her, a freedom for which Aubrey was eternally grateful.
Caedar, too, had nurtured that passion, teaching her everything he knew — from coaxing seedlings to life with gentle hands to conjuring seeds from the very air.
“Why are you just standing there, child?” he asked, his tone gruff but familiar. Unlike Nalia, he rarely treated her like royalty, nor did he ever let her forget that, despite her two hundred years, she was still young in his eyes.
Aubrey curtsied with a playful smile. “Apologies, Caedar. Nalia’s bringing me food, and I — well, I was enjoying watching you work.”
Caedar’s gaze remained fixed on the plants he was nurturing, his voice steady as the earth itself. “Then listen closely,” he said. “Tonight, the greenhouse wall stays open. The plants are hungry for the mountain air now that the frost has lifted. And once you’ve eaten, I want you to create a flower.”
Aubrey felt a shiver of both excitement and anxiety travel down her spine.
A flower. A single bloom sounded simple, but she knew the truth — it was one of the most delicate acts of creation magic. To bring something as intricate and perfect as a flower into being was far more than coaxing seedlings from the soil. A flower required not only life, but beauty, balance, and a harmony of elements that resonated with the land itself.
“I’ve done seedlings, yes,” she admitted, “but a full flower…”
“You are ready,” Caedar interrupted, standing tall, his ancient eyes gleaming with certainty. “Spring approaches, and you’ve breathed life into enough to prove you are capable. Why do you let your doubts poison the soil?”
Before Aubrey could reply, Nalia appeared at her side, carrying a steaming bowl of stew. She offered it with a knowing smile. “Because she doesn’t feel worthy of being crowned queen, though few understand why. That doubt creeps into everything she does,” Nalia said, placing the bowl into Aubrey’s hands.
Aubrey blew on her spoon, the rich scent of herbs and spices swirling up to meet her. “But you understand, don’t you, Nalia?” she asked softly.
Nalia chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I pretend to. But I’ve seen you grow into more than just a princess. Humility holds you back, perhaps.”
“It’s more than that,” Caedar said, his tone firm but not unkind. “But let her eat first. Daylight’s fading, and the task ahead is not easy.”
Nalia smirked, nudging her father gently. “Yes, father. But will you be having dinner soon?”
“I’ll eat in time,” Caedar replied, his usually sharp gaze softening as it settled on Aubrey. “Once she begins her work, I’ll leave her to it.”
Aubrey’s spoon hovered in midair, her pulse quickening at his words. “Alone?” she echoed, the idea strange and almost unsettling. Aside from her solo flights through the skies, time spent entirely by herself was a rarity. Caedar and Nalia had always been by her side, their vows to her parents ensuring she was never far from protection or guidance.
Without a word, Caedar handed her a small golden bell, its cool weight settling in her palm like a steadying presence. Aubrey traced its intricate designs with her thumb, feeling the faint hum of magic within it.
“You know the words if you need help,” he said softly, his voice quiet but firm, as though this simple bell held the power to summon the wisdom of ages.
Aubrey balanced the bowl in one hand, her eyes meeting Caedar’s as she accepted the Bell of Distress. She nodded, the gravity of the moment sinking in. “I do.”
“This place is safe,” Nalia added, her tone light but reassuring. Yet Aubrey already knew. Nalia’s brother, a skilled guardian of the woods, lived just beyond the edge of the forest, always ready to protect them should the need arise.
Caedar’s voice broke the silence, a subtle nudge. “Now, finish your meal, and let us see what you can create.”
