Chapter 1: An Evening Unlike the Others
PLEASE NOTE: The entirety of this story will go live on Galatea on July 5, 2026. Thank you so much for your support and enjoy the excerpt in the meantime!
“Ale for the winged wonder!”
Ulrich’s shout echoed through the atrium a heartbeat before he stumbled on the dais steps and sent his tankard skidding across the stone floor. Foam streaked the marble, followed by a collective groan from the guests nearby.
Ella was still glowing — inside and out — when Conric bounded up after his brother with a grin wide enough to get them both into trouble.
King Mazale didn’t even blink. “In all my years,” he said calmly, “I have never seen ale sullied upon an atrium platform.”
“In my defence,” Conric replied, only somewhat sheepish, “this was Chef Gael’s idea.”
“Guilty,” Gael called from the aisle. “But Lady Moriella deserves a proper celebration.”
Ulrich straightened, beaming. “Exactly! And you made it look so easy, Ella!”
Her wings fluttered instinctively. “Easy?” she teased. “Was my screaming banshee impression not convincing enough?”
Laughter rippled through the small gathering — warm, relieved, a little frayed at the edges.
Sylvan joined them with a grin. “Ella, I swear your wingspan’s bigger than mine.”
“You know what they say about wingspans—” Conric began.
“Um… a little help?”
Gwenne was halfway tangled in her skirts on the steps. Sylvan extended a gallant hand; Ella reached for her next.
“Gwennie.”
Gwenne folded into her. “Ellie. You’re radiant. After everything… I don’t have the words.”
Ella pressed their foreheads together, closing her eyes for a heartbeat — a moment stolen from the noise. “I couldn’t have done it without all of you.”
When Gwenne stepped aside, Alaric slipped in at Ella’s side, his arm anchoring her, his presence settling the tremor beneath her ribs.
“Say the word,” he murmured, “and I’ll clear the room. You’ve earned peace, my love.”
She leaned into him, adjusting her wings so they wouldn’t jab his ribs. “As long as you’re next to me, I’ve got enough peace to go around.”
Ella raised her voice. “I’ll have one drink—one—but let me get through this line first.”
Even with a small guest list, the line of well-wishers felt endless. The mirrored atrium shimmered with candlelight, each surface quietly confirming identities and giving Ella glimpses of herself—newly winged, her orange aura radiant.
Puck reached her first.
His enchanted chair rolled to the dais edge, eyes shining with tears that did not fall.
“I knew you’d get your wings,” he whispered.
Ella laughed softly, the sound fragile at the edges. “And I promised I’d fly with you, remember?”
His breath hitched. “Yeah. I remember.”
She drew a magicked leather tether from her gown — the same one Lysander had used to keep her from falling when she first left home.
“Fancy a quick flight before I greet the rest?”
He swallowed, then nodded. “Just… don’t drop me, Ellie.”
“Never.”
She fastened the tether — snug, secure — and lifted him from the chair. His trust settled into the space between them as surely as his weight.
Alaric gave a nod. “Enjoy yourself, Puck.”
Ella’s wings flared — bright, steady — as they rose toward the skylight. The mirrored walls caught them in a thousand reflections, her aura scattering like dawn breaking through storm-clouds.
Puck let out a triumphant whoop, tears spilling free at last.
The guests below tilted their chins, hands over hearts, the hall hushed in awe.
“Proper flight later,” she murmured. “Open sky. Wind. Distance. I swear it.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” he whispered.
They touched down together, breathless. Ella eased him back into his chair as the crowd erupted in cheers.
Her parents followed, full of warmth and quiet pride. Tutors, attendants, and consuls—all came with formal praise and well wishes.
Harley and Lysander were last, just returning from dealing with the clergy.
“Did they leave without trouble?” she asked, eyes flicking to Lysander.
“They took the antidote without protest,” he confirmed. “We informed them that escorts will be sent for 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—then paled when he realized Lady Seraphina was within earshot. “I mean, uh, it was an honour to serve as your scribe, Lady Moriella.”
Ella laughed, tension finally breaking.
Sir Darin sidled in. “Might I suggest Rosalia travel through Drakensridge before the Kingdom? Safer during autumn storms.”
Ella’s smile softened, seeing through his thinly veiled excuse to be near Rosalia. “We’ll consider it.”
When the final guest stepped away, Ella turned to Alaric. “Now, about that drink.”
Right on cue, Chef Gael activated a mechanism. Wooden benches swivelled, tables rose from the stone floor, vines blooming around their bases.
Guests drifted into their seats, some gravitating to familiar faces, others striking up conversation with newfound acquaintances.
Then came a gleeful cry.
“Father!”
A wild-haired boy tore through the atrium doors, elven ears poking through his curls. His poor lady-in-waiting flailed behind him, wings and patience in tatters.
The boy reached Lysander and threw his arms around his waist.
“Well, well,” Lysander said, ruffling his hair. “If it isn’t the fastest sprout in the Realm.” He looked up. “Lady Moriella, meet my son, Caspian.”
Caspian’s eyes widened at her glowing wings. “Whoa.” Then, remembering his manners, he bowed. “A pleasure, Lady Moriella. You can call me Cas. That’s what Al calls me.”
Ella’s grin widened. “Then you may call me Ella. And… Al, is it?”
Alaric shrugged. “My full name was a bit much for a youngling.”
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 replied. “We’re about to celebrate Lady Moriella’s coming-of-age properly. There’s room for two more, I assume?”
“Of course,” Ella obliged. “It’s wonderful to finally meet your son — and his very patient lady-in-waiting.”
“One of three,” Caspian said proudly, puffing up. “They can’t keep up with me anymore. Father keeps hiring more.”
Briar shot him a look sharp enough to shear ivy. “That is not something to boast about, young sir.”
Laughter followed them to their seats. For a moment, Ella missed Gael’s round kitchen table — where everyone fit. But tonight, this would do.
The doors opened again, and silver platters streamed in — roasted pheasant, pear tarts, bowls of sugared berries. Steam rose in curls of rosemary and citrus and smoke.
Alaric slid in beside Ella just as her stomach gave a traitorous growl.
He leaned in, grinning. “Sounds like someone’s earned a feast.”
“It’s not just hunger,” she murmured, wincing faintly. Her courses had arrived early—of course.
His smile faded to concern. “Do you need—?”
She cut him off with a reassuring smile. “Just food and a pint.”
Harley, passing behind, dropped a tankard in front of her. “Handled.”
Ella caught it, grateful. “Perfect timing. Let’s eat.”
From a few tables over, Erannon stood, calloused hands gripping a mug.
“I am but a humble farmer,” he began.
“Best selming farmer in the Realm!” Tuck shouted.
The room erupted in laughter and clinking mugs.
Erannon smiled, but his voice was heavy with feeling. “And yet, every day, I find myself fortunate. Two remarkable children. A wife who’s my bedrock. And now… my Ella. Grown. Winged.”
The laughter quieted.
“You’ve become more than I imagined. Strong. Brave. Wise. But no matter where life takes you—you’ll always be our daughter. And we will always stand—or fly—with you.”
Ella’s eyes burned as her father nodded toward her.
Ulrich jumped up. “Enough tears — to Lady Ella!”
Cheers erupted. Mugs clanked. Even Wilia smiled, Sylvan’s arm draped over her shoulders.
And yet, beneath the celebration, a chill crawled down Ella’s spine. Twelve hours ago she’d been held captive by Quillen Waylocks. And now here she was—with wings, Quillen dead, and the clergymen unceremoniously cast out.
“You sure you’re alright?” Alaric asked softly.
“If you ask me that again,” she muttered, “I’ll step on your foot.”
He winced theatrically. “Lady Celeste would be proud.”
She sighed, waving a hand. “Sorry. Blasted emotions.”
He caught her fingers and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “You survived two trials today. One nearly broke you. The other gave you wings. You’re allowed a little fire.”
She opened her mouth to protest—then shrugged. “I suppose I am.”
Alaric’s grin turned wicked. “Good girl.”
Across the table, Caspian leaned in. “Are you two married yet? Where was my invitation?”
Lysander gave a smile. “Not yet, Caspian. Likely at the Winter Solstice.”
“That’s the plan,” King Mazale added. “But tonight isn’t about future unions—it’s about Lady Moriella’s present triumph.”
Ella dipped her head. “Thank you, Your Majesty. And for your commentary during the ceremony. It helped more than you know.”
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 presence 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 snorted. “Father thinks I’m innocent.”
“But we all know better, don’t we, Cas?” Alaric quipped with a wink.
Between forkfuls of food, Ella’s gaze drifted to Lysander and Caspian. So much had changed for them, too. Isabeau’s Withering Veil, once thought incurable, might finally have a cure — the antidote made with her aura.
Her wings fluttered behind her. Still glowing. Still warm.
Most Fae lost their aura within half a day. Hers pulsed like it meant to stay.
A loud scrape broke the moment — Conric leapt up, heading straight for the musicians. The band paused mid-note as he turned with theatrical flair.
“I have a confession!” he boomed. “I didn’t write a coming-of-age report for the clergymen. Sod ’em all!”
Lady Seraphina gasped — loudly — and was promptly ignored as laughter echoed across the hall.
Lysander made a half-hearted attempt to cover Caspian’s ears. Too late.
“But!” Conric continued, grinning. “I did witness Lady Moriella’s triumph. I just… composed something instead. A birthday gift.”
He turned to Ella, eyes gleaming. “May I?”
She eyed him warily. “It better not be awful.”
“I only used your full name once.”
“Treason!” Alaric declared with a laugh, raising his goblet.
The band, clearly in on the fun, struck up a bright, lively tune. Conric bowed low, parchment in hand, and began:
“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 exploded with laughter, mugs pounding tables, someone shouting “Encore!” before the song had even finished.
Ella buried her face in her hands. When she looked up, her cheeks were crimson — but her eyes sparkled.
“Did you seriously immortalize my weed-pulling?”
“It rhymed,” Conric said shamelessly.
King Mazale leaned toward Alaric. “If his aura doesn’t mark him as a minstrel, I’ll hire him myself for entertainment.”
Laughter rolled on around them, warm and wild — and Ella knew that this night would be remembered. Always.
