Chapter 1
Dewdrops clung to the strands in Amara’s mahogany braids. When she peered up at the sunlight, her lapis gaze widened—dizzied by the soaring redwoods, like titans, with their cinnamon-and-burnt-umber trunks deeply fissured with time. The air hummed with lazy, unseen woodpeckers and warblers, and even little chickadees that dee-dee-dee’d.
Allysia, her mother, knelt beside a patch of forget-me-nots, their delicate blue smiles bright against the slick, mossy logs.
“Amara, look,” she whispered.
Amara knelt beside her.
“These are called forget-me-nots. Don’t forget them,” she chuckled.
“Never.”
Amara’s delicate porcelain fingers grazed over them.
Allysia’s lips curled up softly, and she placed a hand on the flowers. Once she did, more sprouted up all around, surrounding the two.
Amara squealed with delight, which made Allysia chuckle.
“Magic!”
“The forest responds to those who respect it, Amara. Don’t forget it, and one day you will be able to do the same.”
“I won’t!”
“Good girl.”
Allysia placed a hand gently on Amara’s head. In her other hand, she plucked a single forget-me-not, and then they walked through the thicket.
“Can I make the butterflies come here, Mommy?” Amara pondered as they walked.
Allysia smiled.
“Perhaps not today, but maybe someday. The forest has its own rhythm, Amara. We just have to listen carefully.”
As Amara picked a particularly beautiful violet, Allysia brushed a stray piece of hair from Amara’s face.
“Look at that violet, Amara. So delicate, yet it thrives in the shade.” Her voice softened.
Amara smiled, and suddenly a glint of white caught her eye.
“Wow!” she squealed, pointing.
Following her gaze, Allysia smiled.
There, like a hidden treasure, the happy river tumbled over smooth rocks, its white-water cascades like a bride’s veil against the dark backdrop of the pines.
Sunlight dappled the mossy floor, casting dancing circles of light and shadow.
Allysia’s hand, practiced and sure, pointed out crimson bursts amidst the brambles.
Fat raspberries glistened with beads of condensation that shimmered like tiny jewels.
Amara made sure they found their way into her basket with soft, muffled plops.
Shy violets peeked out from beneath the ferns, their delicate fragrance a faint whisper mingled with the earthy scent of damp moss.
Each discovery—a berry cupped in a palm, a flower with a petal the color of a summer sky—elicited a delighted squeal that danced on the breeze, carrying with it the sweet tang of berries.
“There you have it, little one,” Allysia chuckled beside her, the sound like warm honey drizzled over sunbaked stones. “Those berries are the ripest this forest has to offer.”
Amara turned; a grin split her face wide.
“Look,” she exclaimed, holding up a fat, juicy blueberry. “This one’s bigger than my thumb!”
A soft laugh filled the air.
“It certainly is,” Allysia agreed. “Careful, though. Those tend to be the trickiest ones to keep on a grass crown.”
Together, they settled onto a moss-covered rock that felt cool and surprisingly smooth beneath their touch.
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a hidden bird.
Their fingers brushed as they wove—a calloused hand, strong and sure, intertwined with a smaller one, nimble and quick.
A tongue peeked out in concentration, the tip bright pink against sun-kissed skin.
A particularly plump blueberry, its skin taut and glistening with juice, threatened to topple from its precarious perch on a long blade of grass.
In the distance, a little frog jumped up, its emerald green a splash of life against the forest floor.
Amara gasped.
“Mommy, look!”
She quickly jumped forward and pointed, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes.
Amara spun around and searched for her mother’s reaction.
Instead, she saw a single crimson bloom stain the ivory of her mother’s dress.
Allysia crumpled to the ground, a single dark-fletched arrow protruding from her back, embedded deep within her flesh.
Her mother’s hand reached out as if for support, grasping at a giant forget-me-not, its vibrant blue petals now grotesque parodies, dusted with a cruel red as well.
☆ ☆ ☆
The flickering candlelight danced on the tapestries adorning Amara’s chamber, casting long, inky shadows that seemed to writhe and twist with her tormented sleep. A strangled cry escaped her lips, followed by a whimper that morphed into a heart-wrenched scream.
Gareth, stationed outside Amara’s door as was his morning duty, bolted upright at the sound. His hand instinctively flew to the hilt of his sword, the leather worn smooth from countless nights spent guarding Amara’s slumber. Without hesitation, he flung open the heavy oak door, its hinges groaning in protest.
Amara flailed on her silken sheets, her face contorted in terror, her voice hoarse from screaming. Her once-vibrant nightgown clung damply to her trembling form. Gareth, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, charged toward the bed, his drawn sword held high.
“By the heavens,” he roared, his voice thick with concern. “What foul beast dares threaten my majesty?”
He knelt beside her.
Amara’s scream died into a choked sob as she finally tore her eyes open. The tension that had coiled him tight, like a viper ready to strike, dissolved, leaving behind a tremor in his hands he couldn’t quite control.
“What troubles you, Amara?” His head bowed low, his whole body conveying a silent plea.
A handmaiden, awakened by the commotion, rushed into the chamber. A flickering oil lamp cast an orange glow upon her worried face. She hurried to Amara’s side, her touch gentle as she brushed a stray strand of hair from the queen’s damp forehead.
Amara, still shaken from the remnants of her nightmare, shook her head and forced a smile that did not reach her eyes.
“It is naught,” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper. “Only a foolish dream.”
Gareth’s gaze held hers, his brow furrowed. The terror lingered in her eyes, a stark contrast to the pale light peeking through the high window. A sliver of dawn had begun to chase away the inky blackness of night, painting the edges of the heavy drapes with a faint blue.
“Perhaps, Your Highness,” the handmaiden began, her voice a gentle whisper, “a steaming bath infused with calming lavender and chamomile would chase away the lingering chill of your night terrors?”
A flicker of interest sparked in Amara’s weary eyes.
The handmaiden continued, her voice a soothing balm. “I can prepare it for you, along with a cup of calming chamomile tea to ease you back into the waking world.”
Amara, her body trembling slightly, managed a weak nod.
Gareth pulled himself away from Amara’s bedside. His gaze lingered a beat too long, tracing the worry etched upon her pale face, the way her hand trembled ever so slightly beneath the silken sheets.
Gareth’s hand, a map of battles etched in calluses, lingered on the worn leather of his sword hilt.
With one final glance at Amara, he left the warmth of the chamber for the cool embrace of the hallway. There, bathed in the pale pre-dawn light filtering through a high window, he pressed his back against the wall.
A sigh escaped his lips.
The soft murmur of the handmaiden and the gentle clink of a cup replaced the ragged rasp of his breath, but not the familiar rhythm of his heart, hammering restlessly against his ribs.
He straightened his posture and steeled himself.
“Gareth.”
A man skidded to a halt, his chest heaving with exertion.
“What has transpired? Is Her Majesty unharmed?”
“Her Majesty is settled,” Gareth replied, his voice gruff.
Despite the turmoil within, his posture remained resolute, a shield against the storm brewing in the man’s eyes.
“Settled?” He glanced toward the ajar door, the murmur of the handmaiden a constant thrum in the air. “Night terrors again?”
Gareth, his face betraying a flicker of surprise at the man’s knowledge, cleared his throat.
“Something of that ilk, Sir Rhys.”
“An interesting post for a seasoned knight to find himself in,” he remarked, his voice dripping with cold amusement that sent a shiver down Gareth’s spine.
“Unless...” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more to this tale of ‘childhood friends’ than meets the eye, good Gareth?”
Gareth’s face flushed a deep crimson, a stark contrast against the pale stone wall behind him. He bristled beneath Rhys’ scrutiny, the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air.
“The Queen’s safety is my paramount duty,” Gareth retorted.
“Duty, of course,” Rhys conceded with a sardonic bow. “Though some might find it curious that a knight of your merit—a Captain of the Guard, no less—is assigned to such... tasks almost every day, wouldn’t you say?”
He gestured vaguely toward the ajar door, the murmur of the handmaiden a constant reminder of the scene within.
“There are many qualified guards,” Gareth pressed, his jaw clenching. “I’ve simply been requested to switch with a few who ask for me.”
Gareth couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else witnessing her vulnerability, the fear that twisted his insides whenever she cried out.
Rhys’ smile turned into a sneer devoid of warmth.
His voice, when he spoke, was laced with cold anger that sent shivers down Gareth’s spine.
“Indeed, Captain. Many qualified guards. Ones who wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at such a... curious detail in the morning watch schedule. Ones who insist on a convenient ‘switch’ from another post.”
He tilted his head, his green eyes narrowing to slits.
“Isn’t that right, Gareth? Or perhaps there’s something more to this dedication?”
