Prologue
PROLOGUE
“In the silence between heartbeats, kingdoms fall."
The Lament of the Briar Court
The storm came without warning. Not the kind that howls through treetops or tears roofs from rafters, this one was quieter. It slipped like a blade through the heart of Taigh Fitheach, and by the time the sun rose, the royal line of Gevaudan was gone. All but one.
Caoimhe stood at the edge of the shattered courtyard, boots slick with blood and rain, her blade dull in her hand. She had not moved, not since the screaming stopped, not since she realised what her absence had cost. The King. The Queen. The child. All gone.
She had left her post for a kiss. One breath, one slip. Now the Glen and palace would never breathe the same again.
Somewhere beyond the Veil, a nursemaid was running. Her arms clutched a swaddled bundle. Her feet struck broken stone and twisted root, never stopping, never daring to look back.
Behind her, the palace burned. Ahead, the forest waited with ancient magic that slumbered in its roots, older than crowns, older than names can be remembered.
And then… The Veil stirred.
The ancient barrier between realms shivered and opened, just wide enough. The forest sighed, as if making a choice.
She passed through. But she was not alone.
Three shadows slipped in behind her, swift as knives, just before the Veil slammed shut. The old magic did not protest. Not at first.
The child would live, but not as a princess, and not as anyone remembered.
The few who glimpsed her flight would later say they forgot how to breathe, as they watched her run like lightning into the trees.
That night, the Fae world closed its doors, sealing behind it the scent of ash, the silence of ruin, and the name of a girl soon erased from every scroll, every song. All but one.
In a hidden apothecary between time and memory, a woman with moss-green eyes whispered to the dark, her kiss still burning with its cost,
“Come home, little star. The roots remember. The trees dream. And your name, your true name still lives.”
And far away, in the heart of a dying wood, something ancient stirred. Something unseen for a thousand years.
It had been waiting.
Breathing.
The myth had begun.
