Chapter 1
I woke up late.
Again.
Not just “slept in” late, but that kind of disjointed, drifting-late where you can’t tell if your body clock is broken or just given up entirely. My days have been out of sync for months now: sometimes I crash hard and wake before sunrise, sometimes I don’t sleep at all, and sometimes I just… sleep through half the day.
It doesn’t really matter. I don’t work right now. Unemployment pays the bills-barely-but that also means I’m free to live in this half-floating, half-falling schedule. Technically, I’m job hunting. Realistically, it’s been a few months and the search isn’t exactly setting the world on fire.
Still, today’s another “try again” day.
I’ve decided I’ll take anything at this point: grocery store clerk, gas station attendant, stocking shelves overnight. I’m overqualified, sure, but overqualified doesn’t put food on the table. That sad $800 a month from unemployment barely keeps the lights on. Lot rent’s cheap, utilities aren’t bad, but after that, there’s just enough left for gas and groceries… and sometimes not both. At this rate, maybe I’ll lose some weight. Not that it would matter, half the food in stores these days is just processed sugar in different shapes anyway.
I swing open the fridge. Empty. Again. No surprise there.
I grab the Brita pitcher and start filling it. The tap water here is… generous word, questionable. That’s trailer park life for you. Either drink it filtered or start glowing in the dark. The pitcher’s a slow drip, so while it gurgles away, I lean on the counter and watch sunlight slant through the blinds in sharp, dusty lines. It’s too quiet in here.
Once it’s full, I pour a glass, drain half of it in one gulp, I feel a bottle to take with me: then grab my keys. Time to drive over, apply in person. In a small town like this, a handshake and a smile go farther than an online form.
Except… the car won’t start.
“Fuck!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn give a pathetic little bleat.
For a moment, I just sit there, heat pooling under my skin, frustration bubbling up like steam. Then I exhale, long and slow. Losing it isn’t going to get the engine running.
Phone out. YouTube open. I scroll through “Why your car won’t start” videos, half-listening to a guy in a baseball cap talk about alternators and ignition coils. None of it helps.
I check the address for the store I was planning to apply to. Mile and a half. Easy walk. I walked everywhere as a kid: summer days, no rides, no problem. Guess I’m going retro.
Keys get tossed onto the kitchen counter. I refill my bottle from the Brita, sling my old mesh backpack over one shoulder. It’s light and breathable, perfect for hauling a few groceries from the shop next door to my target store.
The second I step outside, the heat hits me: a wall of it, thick and steady. But there are enough trees lining the main road to break it into waves instead of a constant burn. I set off against the traffic, just like my dad taught me.
Headphones in. Music up. A steady beat turns my stride into something almost rhythmic. For a moment, I stop thinking about money, about jobs, about how the fridge looks like a crime scene victim.
The heat clings to me like a damp shirt, but moving helps. My muscles warm, my breathing evens out. Somewhere between my second and third song, I realize I’m not just enduring the walk… I’m enjoying it.
By the time I reached the plaza, my shirt clung to my back in little damp patches. The air shimmered faintly above the asphalt, making the row of storefronts look like they were wavering in and out of focus. There was a Chinese restaurant, a pizza place, a nail salon, and a small grocery store all lined up together. I slowed down, weighing my options in my head, but I already knew where I was going first.
The pizza place. Get the application done, then I could think about food.
The door jingled when I stepped inside, and a wave of cool air slid over my skin like a blessing. My shoulders loosened a little. It wasn’t exactly chilly. Pizza ovens never let a place stay truly cool, but it was enough to make me feel human again.
There was already a woman at the counter, standing very still, staring at nothing in particular. I hovered a few steps back, trying not to look impatient. She didn’t move until her pizza box was slid across the counter, and then she shuffled out without a word.
“Hey, I saw a help wanted sign,” I said as I stepped forward. “Are you still hiring?”
“Oh, yeah!” The girl behind the counter was all sunshine, quick to grab an application from under the register. “Need a pen?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll just sit right over there, if that’s okay?” I pointed to one of those tiny stool tables for two.
“Of course!” she said, grinning.
I sat down and started scribbling the usual stuff- name, phone number, address. My mind wandered. Why did they always ask for so much personal information? I thought about all the times I’d been listed as someone’s reference and no one had ever called me. And seriously- college? For making pizza?
When I finished, I got up and brought the paper to the counter. A different girl was there now, moving fast, her eyeliner smudged and mascara running like black rivers down her cheeks. It looked like it was melting right off her face. I wondered why she even bothered wearing it in this heat. Maybe she’d started the day thinking she’d look cute. Maybe she regrets it now.
The grocery store was just a few feet away. I wandered in and spent five whole minutes staring at a display of chicken thighs like they were about to reveal the secrets of the universe. Eventually, I picked a small package of six, grabbed an onion, and a little juice drink. That left me ten dollars poorer and still hungry, so I crossed back toward the Chinese place.
Fifteen bucks later, I had two egg rolls, a small veggie fried rice, and a large beef and broccoli boxed up in a flimsy white paper bag. I slung it into my mesh backpack with the groceries, adjusting the straps before heading back the way I came.
The sun pressed down harder than before, but the shadows from the trees kept it bearable. I wasn’t thin or fit, but I wasn’t dying either. Just a chubby girl in the summer heat, walking home with her groceries and a bag of greasy comfort food.
No sidewalk here, just the thin strip of curb between the asphalt and the grass. My eyes wandered to the houses along the way, neat lawns and pretty siding, the kind of places I’d probably never afford. I was mid-daydream when something caught my attention: a patch of grass taller and paler than the rest, standing out like it was painted that way.
I slowed. It wasn’t just tall grass. The pale blades formed a rough circle, and nestled inside were mushrooms- short, round-capped, perfectly spaced.
My chest gave a little excited flutter.
I glanced around. No cars. No people. Just me and the circle.
I stepped inside. The grass brushed against my legs as I crouched down, plucking one of the mushrooms. I twirled it between my fingers. “Cute little thing,” I murmured. Then my brain caught up with my hands. “Edible?”
I studied it more closely. The shape. The coloring. The subtle bruising near the stem. It was an exact match for certain psychedelic mushrooms I’d read about before. My fascination with mycology was finally good for something. I chuckled under my breath, grabbing a few more and slipping them into my bag. “I gotta wash and dry these,” I muttered.
When I stood up, something felt wrong.
The air wasn’t the same.
I turned one way, then the other. The houses were gone. The road was gone. The trees loomed closer, thicker, darker. A prickle ran down my spine.
There was a sign nailed to one of the trunks, its wood splintered and dark with age. Strange symbols carved deep into the surface swirled together in a language I’d never seen: except for one word, Carved and weathered into the wood that was plain and clear in English:
Help.
The voices come first. Low, rough, not English. The sound slides under my skin and makes my stomach tighten. I press my back to the tree, trying to make myself smaller, every nerve screaming don’t breathe too loud.
Carefully, I peek around the bark, just enough to see.
Two men in armor stand exactly where I’d been moments ago, their boots sunk into the damp earth, their eyes scanning the ground like they expect to find footprints. The light flickers off their breastplates, dull and battle-worn, not the shiny kind you’d see in a parade.
They speak in that strange language again, guttural and sharp, the syllables clicking and rolling in ways that feel almost too deliberate. My ears strain to pick something familiar out of the stream of sounds. Just for a second, I think I hear the words hounds and monsters - or maybe my mind’s just filling in blanks.
Either way, my instincts are screaming. Run.
But run where?
The forest looks ordinary at first glance: just trees, vines, and thick undergrowth- it feels wrong. The shadows are too deep, the gaps between trunks too narrow.
I peek again. The men are moving, walking back the way they came. My pulse slows a fraction. At least I know not to go that way.
I move. Not a sprint: because running would just crash me through the underbrush like a drumbeat- but quick steps, steady. My eyes flick left, right, over my shoulder, over and over.
Nothing follows. Nothing but the forest.
It’s beautiful in a way that makes my throat tighten. Neon-colored flowers glow faintly, petals like wet silk under the dappled light. Moss clings to the sides of trees in soft, pulsing green. Strange fungi jut out from stumps, their caps glistening as if coated in dew even though the air is hot and dry. Magic doesn’t just feel present here- it’s visible, curling and swirling faintly in the air like heat waves.
My mouth is dry. My water’s gone. I crunch the last piece of ice between my teeth, trying to pretend it’s helping. The heat presses on me like a second skin, worse than those summer days I’d sprawl naked in front of a fan just to breathe.
I push through another wall of brush, and suddenly the trees give way.
A clearing.
Small, almost circular, with a golden haze in the air that makes everything shimmer. Sunflowers and flowers that look like sunflowers sway in a slow, lazy breeze. Their petals glow faintly, like they’re lit from within. The tall grass around them moves in soft ripples, though I can’t see what’s stirring it.
Normally, I’d skirt around an open space like this. But the edges are cut off by pools of still, dark water. There’s no safe path around. The only way forward is through.
I step into the grass. It’s taller than I expect, brushing against my thighs, damp enough to soak into my socks. My shoes squelch faintly as I move. The heat intensifies without the shade of the trees, every step making the air feel heavier. I wipe the sweat from my brow, focus on the far treeline, and keep going.
I’m almost there when-
Thwip!
An arrow hammers into the tree ahead of me. I freeze, staring at the shaft still vibrating from the impact.
Another sound- quicker this time.
Thwip!
The second arrow is aimed straight for my face.
Time shatters into slow motion. My brain floods with images- my family, who would never know what happened to me; my friends, left to wonder if I just vanished; my own trailer, still messy from the morning.
And then- impact.
Not from the arrow. From a hand.
It slams around my stomach and yanks me backward, hard enough to make my feet leave the ground. I’m pulled into the treeline, the world blurring past me until I register that we’re no longer on the ground at all.
A palm clamps over my mouth. I gag at the sudden movement and the smell of leather and metal. The person holding me doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let go- just presses a finger to their lips in a silent order.
It’s only then that I realize we’re up in a tree.
I turn my head, eyes darting over my rescuer’s face. He’s… impossible. Brown hair, shoulder-length, feathered back in a way that catches streaks of copper when sunlight filters through the canopy. Green eyes- sharp, deep, almost glowing. His features are both delicate and strong, a strange mix of beauty and authority.
And then I see them.
Wings.
Soft, lightly feathered, the tips brushed with emerald green that almost sparkles in the light.
He finally takes his hand from my mouth, wiping it casually on dusty brown pants that look like they’ve stepped out of another century. I wipe my own mouth on my sleeve, still trying to catch my breath, when he points toward the meadow.
“Look,” he whispers. His voice is so gentle it feels like it might drift away before it reaches my ears.
The armored men from before are there, pulling their arrows from the tree. They speak sharply to each other, their gestures quick and impatient. After a moment, they turn and head the way they came. Others arrive, searching the ground, scanning the grass, but eventually they too leave.
“We wait,” he murmurs. I nod, the sound of my own heartbeat loud in my ears.
We stay still for what feels like forever before he says, “We move.” His wings open slightly and we drift down from the tree in a slow, steady glide.
On the ground, he gives me a once-over, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.
“Wings…” I mutter, still staring.
“Oh, yeah,” he says with a flick of amusement. “First time, huh? Based on your bag, this wasn’t planned. Well… welcome to hell.”
My eyes widen, but he laughs under his breath. “I’m kidding. Come on- walk and talk.”
I follow quickly, my steps crunching against the forest floor.
“You must’ve stepped right into a trap,” he says without looking back. “Millions of humans go missing every year. They’re just transported to the other side. Here.”
“Where is here?” I managed to croak.
“Fae territory.”
I start to laugh, about to call him crazy, but the words die in my throat. Old wives’ tales flash through my mind- warnings about mushroom rings, disappearing people, portals to fairy lands. “Oh,” is all I manage instead.
“Bad timing,” he says. “They were patrolling that area. Luckily you crossed into our territory, and I saw you.”
“But you look like them- just without armor. Aren’t you on the same side?”
“No. They’re the witches’ fae. We serve the Fae Queen and her kin.”
He glances back at me, his gaze lingering for a moment before he looks ahead again. “I’m a scout most of the time, but I also participate in the war room too.”
I nod. No reason to argue with the man who just saved my life. But one question burns at the edge of my tongue.
“Where are we going?”
“To an outer holding village,” he says, “where my family’s villa is.”
