Prologue
Mischief
Broadly, magic.
OR
A genetic predisposition or a capability bestowed upon an individual that can manifest as several supernatural abilities and skills; Mischief-based individuals are typically either mischief-born (mischief passed down by blood) or mischief-bred (mischief given by bite, curse, or contract).
OR
A shortened form of Mischief-Bound, the realm generally considered as earth, as in “We live in the Mischief-Bound, though I would love to visit the Fae-Lands one day.”
The message arrives from a great distance away, smelling of a metallic sea-wind and the heady pine of a Mischief-Bound coastline. It is not a refreshing scent, acrid and slightly off when compared to the smell of untamed wind and steel-sharp loam of the mountains. The Eventide is nestled firmly in spring, but the Mischief-Bound is rotting in summer’s breath.
The cream colored envelope is not an official missive, sent by a representative of the Mischief—the Order or the Bureau or whatever it is they call themselves these days. It comes with no sense of importance or urgency, and strictly speaking, it should be sorted into a different pile. One intended for the Royal Advisor who handles the less-important issues, like village disputes over goat ownership.
But the name of the sender causes some hint of alarm. Messages from this particular entity are either received with a warm smile or with a spark of anger, but they must always go directly to the queen.
The reluctant messenger tasked with delivering it is prepared for either outcome and hopes, for the sake of their highly flammable tunic, that it is the former.
The envelope is placed on a gold platter and carried through the winding hallways of the palace cut deep inside the mountain. The air grows colder as the messenger descends and finally, they reach the tall carved doors of the queen’s room.
The guard standing sentry nods at the messenger, who swallows thickly before pressing their palm to the door.
The queen lifts an eyebrow at the intrusion, but the messenger is spared any particular sort of ire as she spies the familiar scrawl on the envelope. She reaches out with delicate fingers to grasp the letter and flicks open the envelope with a small trifle of magic, the spark at her fingertips a powerful reminder of her abilities.
The note is simple and straightforward and it takes her mere seconds to read its contents, to assimilate the knowledge and understand the full implications of the words held within.
She dismisses the messenger and as the doors close behind them, she snaps her fingers, letting the paper fall to the polished floor in a pile of ash. She turns to her personal guard, who has taken up his customary stance behind her, hands folded patiently in front of him. His pale yellow wings flick up in anticipation, like two pieces of parchment caught in a wayward breeze.
“Aspen,” says the queen, “how do you feel about taking a trip to the Mischief-Bound?”
Aspen arches an eyebrow in confusion. “I feel ready to do anything you wish, Queen Meadow.”
The queen nods, pleased, yet distracted. “Make the necessary preparations. You’ll need to leave before the night descends.”
