Chapter One: An Evening Quite Unlike the Others
Ella had envisioned a quiet, solemn evening after her wings emerged for the very first time — a simple gathering where those in attendance would offer their congratulations, share a modest meal, and slip away into the night. But as the final notes of applause echoed through the atrium and the last of the clergymen departed, her plans unraveled like loose threads.
She had vastly underestimated the unpredictable chaos that came with having Ulrich and Conric on the guest list.
The twins, with their infectious enthusiasm, bounded toward the platform, cold mugs of ale sloshing in their hands. Their grins stretched from ear to ear, completely oblivious — or simply indifferent — to the disapproving side-eyes of the more traditional guests.
Alaric squeezed Ella’s hand gently, his lips already quirking into a grin. He could sense the disaster brewing and, as usual, was utterly entertained by it.
King Mazale surveyed the scene with the calm bemusement of a Vampyr who had seen far too much to be fazed anymore. “In all my years,” he remarked in a tone that somehow managed to sound both weary and amused, “never have I seen ale sullied upon an atrium platform.”
Ulrich and Conric froze mid-step, their enthusiasm dimming into sheepish grins. But before either could stumble through some half-hearted excuse, Chef Gael swept forward from the other side of the room, wiping his hands on his apron as if this entire spectacle was nothing more than a kitchen mishap.
“That’s on me, Your Majesty,” Gael said with a cheeky grin. “I figured Lady Moriella deserved a celebration worthy of her accomplishment. And congratulations, by the way, my Lady.”
“Exactly!” Ulrich chimed in. “Ella, you made it look so easy!”
Ella’s wings fluttered instinctively. “Easy?” she teased, her voice playful. “Did my imitation of a screaming banshee not bother you? I assure you, ‘easy’ is not the word I’d use.”
The crowd erupted into laughter, her playful sarcasm lighting up the atmosphere. But before the laughter could settle, Sylvan strode confidently onto the platform, a grin firmly in place.
“I swear, Ella, your wingspan is bigger than mine,” he quipped, earning another round of chuckles from the audience.
“Well, you know what they say about the size of wingspans...” Conric began, letting the innuendo hang in the air, his eyebrows waggling suggestively. Just as he opened his mouth to deliver the inevitable punchline, a soft voice piped up from behind Sylvan.
“Um… a little help here?”
All eyes turned to the far side of the atrium where Gwenne, petite and red-faced from exertion, was valiantly attempting to conquer the stairway to the platform. Her skirts tangled around her ankles as she stumbled.
Sylvan, ever the charmer, crossed the distance in an instant. “Allow me,” he said smoothly, extending a hand. The moment her feet touched the polished stone, Ella swept forward, enveloping her in a sisterly embrace.
“Gwennie,” Ella murmured, her voice warm and full of quiet affection.
Gwenne pulled back just enough to look at her, her dark eyes shining with admiration. “Ellie, I… I don’t even have the words,” she whispered. “You were extraordinary tonight. After everything you’ve been through… you’re radiant.”
Ella’s smile softened, and she pressed her forehead lightly against Gwenne’s. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “But I couldn’t have done it without all of you.”
As Gwenne stepped back, Alaric moved beside Ella, slipping his arm around her waist. “Say the word, love, and I’ll have everyone leave. You’ve been through enough today — I don’t want you overwhelmed.”
Ella leaned into him, carefully adjusting her wings so they wouldn’t poke him. Resting her head against his chest, she let out a quiet breath. “As long as I have you by my side, I’ll be fine,” she whispered, her voice almost lost amidst the laughter and chatter around them.
Of course, Alaric’s half-Vampyr ears missed nothing, and he gave her waist a soft squeeze.
Then, with a slight smile, Ella raised her voice enough to be heard. “I’ll have one drink — just one. But let me get through this line first.”
Though the guest list was intentionally small, the procession of well-wishers felt endless, stretching the evening into what might as well have been an endurance trial. The mirrors lining the atrium shimmered softly, their reflections confirming each guest’s identity and offering Ella a quiet sense of reassurance.
Her brother, Puck, had been the first to greet her. Tears streaked his face as she flew down the platform and pulled him into a fierce embrace. “I knew it! I knew you’d get your wings!” he beamed.
Her parents followed close behind, showering her with love as she thanked them for being her unshakable pillars. Tutors, ladies-in-waiting, and visiting Consuls came next, each offering formal congratulations and words of praise.
Harley and Lysander arrived last, fresh from escorting the clergymen out. Ella’s eyes searched Lysander’s face, eager for news.
“Did they leave without a fuss?”
“Indeed,” Lysander confirmed. “They accepted the antidote without protest. We informed them that escorts will be sent to escort Lady Rosalia and Sir Soric within the week. Barnabas didn’t argue, but... he did say they’d ‘be in touch.’”
“Ominous prick,” Harley muttered, only to freeze when he realized Lady Seraphina was standing nearby, eyebrow raised. His face flushed as he cleared his throat, straightening his posture. “I mean, uh, Lady Moriella, it was an honour to serve as your scribe and witness your bravery.”
Ella couldn’t suppress her laughter, grateful for the levity cutting through the tension. “Thank you, Sir Harley, and Lord Lysander.”
Sir Darin circled around, having clearly been eavesdropping on their conversation. He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I — uh, would like to suggest that Lady Rosalia stays in Drakensridge before coming to the Kingdom. Given the autumn storms, I do believe it would be the safest option during her travels.”
Ella’s smile softened, seeing through his thinly veiled excuse to be near Rosalia. She suspected her previous rejection of Darin had more to do with the enchantment the clergymen had cast over Marshpoint.
“We’ll take it under consideration,” she said kindly, watching as Lysander gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement.
With the line dissipating, Ella let out a sigh of relief. She turned to Alaric with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Now, how about that drink?”
Right on cue, Chef Gael activated the mechanism hidden beneath the floor. The wooden benches surrounding the atrium tilted and swivelled with a smooth, almost graceful motion, repositioning themselves into gentle arcs that framed the centre of the space.
As the benches settled into place, circular tables began to rise from the floor, their bases entwined with twisting vines that seemed to bloom as they ascended. The tables fit seamlessly within the curves of the benches, as though the entire arrangement had always been part of the room, waiting to be revealed.
The guests began settling into their seats, some gravitating toward familiar faces, while others eagerly struck up conversations with newfound acquaintances. The air buzzed with a hum of excitement, voices mingling like the soft strumming of a harp. Then, suddenly, the energy shifted, heightened by a gleeful cry that rang out from the atrium doors.
“Father!”
All eyes turned as a young boy, no older than eight, burst through the grand double doors. His chestnut hair was a wild tangle, and his small Elven ears peeked out from beneath the unruly strands. His steps were quick and unbridled, the kind of unselfconscious energy only a child could muster, as he darted across the room with a grin that lit up his face.
His lady-in-waiting fluttered her wings behind him in a desperate attempt to keep up, her expression one of frazzled defeat. The boy, somehow far faster than her, reached Lysander first and threw his arms around his waist with an uncontainable grin.
Lysander chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair fondly. “Well, well, if it isn’t the fastest sprout in all the Realm.” He looked up, eyes twinkling. “Lady Moriella, may I introduce my son, Caspian?”
Caspian’s wide eyes drifted to Ella’s wings, glowing softly in the twilight. His mouth fell open in awe.
“Whoa,” he breathed, then quickly remembering his manners, launched into an exaggerated bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Moriella. You can call me Cas; that’s what Al calls me.”
Ella’s grin widened, warmth flooding her at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Then you may call me Ella. And… Al, is it?”
Alaric smiled sheepishly. “When Cas was learning his first words, ‘Alaric’ was a bit of a mouthful. ‘Al’ was easier, and, well… it stuck.”
The lady-in-waiting finally caught up, wings folding in exasperation. “I apologize, Lord Lysander,” she panted. “He insisted on seeing you.”
“No need for apologies, Briar,” Lysander said warmly. “We’re about to celebrate Lady Moriella’s coming-of-age properly. I trust there’s room for two more?”
“Of course,” Ella replied. “I’m so pleased to finally meet your son — and his very dedicated lady-in-waiting.”
“One of three,” Caspian said proudly, puffing out his chest. “They can’t keep up with me anymore — Father keeps having to hire more.”
Briar glared at him, her tone sharp. “That’s not something to boast about, young sir.”
The group laughed heartily as they all settled into seats around the now enchanted tables. For a fleeting moment, Ella found herself longing for the large circular table in Chef Gael’s kitchen — where everyone could be together, and conversations overlapped with laughter and stories.
But tonight, she was grateful just to be surrounded by the people she loved.
The doors to the hall opened once more, and a procession of staff entered carrying platters of roasted pheasant, golden-crusted pies, and bowls brimming with sugared berries. Their arms strained under pitchers of frothy ale, their arrival greeted with delighted cheers from the guests. The scents of spice and charred rosemary swirled in the air, rich and intoxicating.
Alaric slipped into the seat beside Ella just as a low, treasonous growl rumbled from her stomach.
“Sounds like someone’s worked up quite the appetite,” he whispered, his tone teasing as he nudged her gently.
“It’s not just hunger,” she admitted quietly, a faint wince crossing her face. Beneath her regal appearance, a dull ache twisted in her stomach — the unwelcome arrival of her monthly courses earlier that day, and a few ahead of schedule.
Alaric’s teasing demeanour faded in an instant, his eyes dropping briefly to her midsection with quiet understanding. “Do you need Vileria? Or—?”
She shook her head, cutting him off with a small, determined smile. “Nothing a little pheasant and ale can’t fix. I’ll survive.”
Before he could press further, Harley slid a pint of ale toward her. Ella caught it with practiced ease, the cool metal of the tankard refreshing against her palm. She lifted it high, preparing to call for a toast, but her voice faltered as another rose above the hum of conversation.
“I am but a humble farmer,” Erannon began, rising from his seat, his rough, weathered hands gripping the table’s edge.
From across the hall, Tuck bellowed, “The best selming farmer in the Realm!” The room erupted with cheers, laughter rippling through the crowd like a wave.
Erannon chuckled, shaking his head, but when he spoke again, his voice was heavier, steady with the weight of his emotions. “And yet, every day, I am reminded of how fortunate I am. To have two remarkable children, a wife who is the very foundation of my world, and now… my sweet Ella, coming of age.”
His voice wavered with emotion, and the atriu quieted as he spoke, each word carrying the weight of a lifetime of love and pride. “You have grown into a woman more extraordinary than I could have ever imagined. Strong, brave, and wise beyond your years. But no matter how high you soar, or what trials you face, you will always be our daughter. And we will always stand — or fly — by you.”
Tears pricked at Ella’s eyes, her heart swelling with emotion as she met her father’s gaze. The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a warm embrace, grounding her in the love and support of her family.
Ulrich, sensing the need to break the tension before the room became too heavy, raised his mug high. “Enough with the tears — let’s drink to Lady Ella!” he bellowed. The guests erupted into cheers once more, tankards clanking together in a chorus of celebration.
Ella let out a laugh, grateful for the distraction. Even Wilia managed a rare smile, with Sylvan’s arm draped protectively over her shoulder as he introduced her to the few she hadn’t met yet.
Though the joy in the room was near tangible, Ella couldn’t fully shake the shudder running down her spine.
How was it possible that less than twelve hours ago, she had been a captive of Quillen Waylocks, and now here she was — with wings, Quillen dead, and the clergymen unceremoniously cast out?
“You sure you’re alright?” Alaric’s voice was gentle, his gaze searching her face with unwavering concern.
Ella shot him a playful warning glance. “If you ask me that one more time, I’ll prod my heel into your foot.”
“Inspired by Lady Celeste?” Alaric quipped, wincing dramatically as though anticipating her retaliation. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, I’ll take the pain gladly if it means knowing you’re alright.”
Her expression softened as she sighed. “I’m... I’m sorry. Blasted emotions.”
Shaking his head, Alaric took her hand, brushing a tender kiss to her knuckles. “You’ve endured two ordeals today — though one gave you these beautiful wings. You’re allowed to be slightly acrimonious.”
Ella raised a brow, opening her mouth to protest before shrugging. “I suppose I am. Whether you allow me to be or not.”
Alaric’s smile deepened into something almost wicked. “Good girl.”
From across the table, Caspian leaned in, his wide eyes brimming with curiosity. “Are you two married yet? Where was my invitation?”
Lysander chuckled, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Not yet, Caspian. But I suspect the wedding will take place during the Winter Solstice. Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”
King Mazale, watching the exchange with amused eyes, gave a solemn nod. “Indeed, that’s the plan. Though...” He paused, his expression softening. “That’s a conversation for another night. Tonight, we celebrate all you’ve accomplished, Lady Moriella.”
Ella inclined her head, a warm smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Your Majesty. And thank you for your quips and anecdotes during my coming-of-age ceremony.”
Mazale grinned, his sharp fangs glinting in the torchlight. “I did perform rather well, didn’t I? Though I must admit, your loved ones made it easy. Their spirits lightened the mood — I was ready to chew out the clergy... quite literally.”
“Your Majesty, please,” Lysander said, shaking his head, “my son is present. No talk of chewing people.”
Caspian chuckled, eyes bright with humour. “Father thinks I’m innocent.”
“But we all know better, don’t we, Cas?” Alaric said with a wink.
Ella smiled softly as she watched Lysander and Caspian. For years, they had suffered together, knowing Isabeau — Lysander’s beloved wife and Caspian’s mother — was afflicted with the Withering Veil. It was all Caspian had ever known of her.
And yet now, there was hope. Ella’s aura — this strange, glowing force that had surged within her — seemed to counteract the very curse that poisoned the Consuls and Isabeau alike. Lysander had mentioned that they would try the antidote on her tomorrow.
Tonight, for all its celebration, felt like the prelude to something far more profound — a glimmer of hope on the horizon.
Her aura still shimmered now, though its light had dimmed from the earlier brilliance. It was a soft, warm orange, like the first light of dawn, and it seemed to make her wings glow with vibrant colour. She was unsure if the aura would fade by morning, as it did with most Fae who came of age.
But somehow, deep in her heart, Ella felt like this was different — that it wasn’t quite ready to leave her.
As the laughter and chatter swirled around her, she allowed herself to believe — just for a moment — that perhaps, this light wasn’t only meant to heal others. Perhaps it was a part of her, destined to remain by her side as she navigated the days ahead, a beacon to guide her through the shadows still to come.
While they feasted and exchanged light conversation, Conric suddenly shot up from his seat, his face alight with mischief.
Without missing a beat, he bounded over to the Kingdom musicians, who had been playing soft, elegant tunes, entirely out of step with his energy. The musicians, wide-eyed, paused mid-note as Conric spun on his heel, his voice loud enough to echo off the stone walls.
“I must make a confession, in front of all you fine folk!” he declared. “I didn’t write a coming-of-age report for the clergymen. Sod ’em all!”
A scandalized gasp escaped Lady Seraphina, but it was drowned out by the wave of laughter that swept through the hall, punctuated by a few approving shouts of “Hear, hear!”
Conric froze for a brief moment, realizing he’d just cursed in a royal castle — in front of the King, no less. His face betrayed a flash of panic before the room erupted again, this time with laughter that seemed to encourage his boldness.
Lysander, struggling to maintain decorum, was covering Caspian’s ears, though it was clearly too late for that.
“Anyhow!” Conric continued, undeterred, “While I witnessed Lady Moriella’s utmost bravery during her ceremony, I... well, I didn’t write a report at all. Instead, I composed a song. A birthday gift, if you will.” He turned to Ella, his grin as devilish as ever. “Would you care to hear it, Ella?”
Ella raised a skeptical eyebrow, her wings fluttering as she matched his grin. “Out with it, then! But it better not be too horrid.”
Conric clutched his chest in mock offense. “Horrid? Only the finest for you, my Lady! Though...” He gave a dramatic pause and a wink. “I might have dared to use your full name, Moriella — but only in the first stanza. Forgive me?”
“Treason!” Alaric called out, sparking another wave of laughter.
The band, clearly relieved that Conric wasn’t about to commandeer their instruments, struck up a lively tune, setting the stage for what was sure to be a performance for the ages — or at least for the evening’s amusement.
Conric, parchment in hand, began to sing, gesturing wildly as if performing for an entire kingdom:
Oh gather ’round, both far and near,
For now’s the time to sing and cheer,
Of brave Moriella, twenty strong,
Her wings unfurled, her heart in song!
With feathers bright as dawn’s first light,
She takes to skies in noble flight,
A Lady hid in common guise,
For weeds she plucks with cunning eyes.
He winked at Ella, whose eyes narrowed playfully at the mention of her “weed-pulling” adventures. But before she could interject, Conric launched into the chorus, his voice carrying above the laughter:
So raise your glass and drink it deep,
For Ella’s wings, so bold they sweep,
She’s brave and strong and true indeed,
Outdrinks the Fae and pulls their weeds!
The hall erupted with cheers and raised mugs as Conric continued, clearly enjoying himself more than anyone:
Before she dons her royal crown,
She’s lifting others when they’re down,
But soon the Prince, her hand will take,
The clergy will tremble as their wings awake.
So here’s to Ellie, flying high,
With fearless wings that brush the sky,
A Lady bold, a farmer keen,
The finest soul you’ve ever seen!
The chorus rose again, a raucous symphony of voices and pounding mugs, their rhythm shaking the very air of the atrium:
So raise your glass and drink it deep,
For Ella’s wings, so bold they sweep,
She’s brave and strong and true indeed,
Outdrinks the Fae and pulls their weeds!
The final note hung in the air, like the last echo of a battle horn, before the hall exploded into a cacophony of cheers, laughter, and the thunderous applause of boots stomping against the polished stone floor. The sound ricocheted off the grand vaulted ceilings, filling every corner of the room with unrestrained joy.
Ella’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson — not just from the impromptu tribute, but also from the realization that King Mazale and much of the Kingdom now had firsthand knowledge of her decidedly unladylike talents, thanks to Conric’s exuberant performance.
King Mazale, clearly entertained, leaned toward Alaric with a grin. “If Conric’s aura doesn’t show him to be a musician or minstrel a month from now, I might hire him anyway. The boy has flair.”
Ella, still laughing, raised her mug in salute. “Careful, Conric,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “If that’s your best work, I’ll be expecting a song for every occasion from here on out.”
Conric gave an exaggerated bow. “Only for you, my Lady! As long as you don’t throw me in the dungeons for my... poetic liberties.”
Ella just rolled her eyes, though her grin never faded. It seemed her “simple” evening had turned into quite the unforgettable affair.
