Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

White roses represent purity, innocence and youthfulness. Sometimes, they are referred to as bridal roses due to their association with eternal love and loyalty. Another possible meaning is a new beginning.

Prince Kurth of Belhalla peered down into the cradle that held the most precious bundle of joy in his life. His infant daughter, just a few days old, slept without a care in the world: true innocence sent down from heaven. If only the angels hadn’t demanded her mother in return. Kurth’s heart weighed heavy in his chest, but he knew he could not let it get in the way of his duties. He had to steel himself. Conflicts still waged on. Trades still took place. And, most important of all, he had to introduce the kingdom to their new princess.

Despite being a celebration, the festivities caused Kurth more stress.

It was not a matter of impressing anyone. The party couldn’t have been livelier. No expense was spared. A band of bards strummed at their lyres and lutes whilst others played woody flutes. Fine silks draped from every pillar. Nobles and commoners danced together without care, their spinning skirts painting a rainbow on the floor. Meaty aromas wafted from delicacy-lined tables. If it weren’t for his nerves, Kurth would have leapt up to claim himself a juicy pear pie.

A minor noble approached the dais and bowed to the prince. Kurth plastered a smile onto his face. He thanked the guest for his attendance and directed him to place his gift into the ever-growing pile. Once the nobleman disappeared into the crowd, Kurth sighed, returning to his previous melancholy.

There was no identifiable cause for Kurth’s anxious state. No matter how hard he tried, the prince could not shake the shivers that went up his spine. One of his advisors suggested it was grief from losing Cigyun. Not even a week had passed since her death; the people would understand his sorrow. It was a normal symptom of loss. But something did not sit right with the prince. He tried to explain how it felt as if he was being stalked: beady eyes upon his back, sharp claws scratching at his skin. His advisors dismissed this as more emotional folly. With defeat, he accepted their explanation as truth, but a sliver of doubt still remained. His father was his sole believer– but at the moment, the king’s head was up in the clouds, too busy dancing with maidens half his age (if not even younger).

Kurth looked down at his daughter once more. Every small detail on her delicate face reminded him of his late wife: Fair cheeks, smooth and unblemished; fussy tufts of lavender hair, bright lilac eyes closed in sweet slumber. How she slept through the boisterous noise of the party was beyond Kurth’s understanding.

It wasn’t long before Kurth saw yet another familiar figure approaching. He could recognize the man’s stark blue hair anywhere. More and more streaks of white peppered their way onto his mane each time he visited. Stubble lined his well-defined jaw. Beside him toddled a boy no older than three years of age.

“Prince Kurth!” said the man. He took a deep bow at the edge of the dais. “It is so wonderful to see you!”

“You as well, Lord Byron.” Kurth let go of a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. How long had it been since he saw his dear friend? “Oh, look at how Sigurd has grown since I last saw him. He’s beginning to look just like you.”

Byron let out a large, booming laugh. “Like father, like son! Maybe some of you ended up in your daughter.”

The joy drained out of Kurth’s face. He loved his daughter with all his heart, but her existence was a reminder of lost love. How he longed for more time with his beloved wife. “She looks like her mother, aside from the mark on her forehead.”

“And her mother was a beautiful, kind woman,” Byron said. He stepped up the dais and rested his free hand on Kurth’s back. “We will miss her, but we can’t forget that she gave us a gift before she passed on.”

The two stood there in silence (or at least what would have been silence if they weren’t at a grand gala).

Kurth spoke up first. “What if I lose my daughter as well? There’s a feeling I have deep down that I cannot rid myself of, Byron. Raptor and Lombard told me I was being irrational over my loss. Is this part of grief? Part of being a father? Or something else entirely?”

Byron’s face softened. “Yes, fatherhood brings new anxieties. The world can be cruel. You want to protect your daughter from any harm possible. Not to mention, she’s a princess with the blood of the dragons in her veins. That makes her even more of a target for evil intentions.”

“No offense, Byron, but that does not help one bit.”

“You didn’t let me continue,” Byron said, wagging his finger. “What I was going to say was that no matter what, you are a dear friend of mine, and I will come to you and your daughter’s aid when needed. Well, unless it’s within a few months from now, as I will be very busy.”

Kurth smiled. The tension in his back loosened. “You are a great help, Byron. I appreciate–” He paused. “Er, Byron, what is happening in a few months?”

“Well, considering the circumstances I wasn’t sure how to inform you of this, but…” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “Margrete could not attend today because she has morning sickness.”

Kurth’s eyes went wide. “Morning sickness… you mean…”

“Yes! Sigurd is going to have a younger sibling to play with!” Byron rustled his son’s messy hair. “Isn’t that right?”

The little boy wrinkled his nose at his father’s strange gesture. He squirmed out from under his grasp and toddled over to the cradle. Grasping the side with his tiny hands, he peeked in, eyes wide with curiosity and wonder. He leaned in further and prodded at the sleeping princess’ cheek. She did not stir one bit.

Byron yanked his son away. “Oh no! Don’t do that!”

Kurth laughed bittersweetly. “He’s just a child. He doesn’t know any better. It’s alright.”

“Well, your daughter sure is a sound sleeper,” Byron said. “I wish I could get Sigurd to be that peaceful. Especially now that his mother is in no condition to assist.”

Before Kurth could give a response, the boom of trumpets seized the air. The two men turned their heads to see servants opening the grand doors at the end of the hall.

“I believe that must be your special guest.” Byron winked at Kurth and stepped down from the dais. He bowed to King Azmur as he passed by. “I’m still amazed you got her to come to a party. Our family’s guardian dragon isn’t nearly as uptight as yours.”

The sea of partygoers parted down the middle. Light poured through the open doors, blinding everyone in the hall. The courier cleared his throat. “Presenting the Queen of the Divine Dragon tribe, Naga!”

An ethereal figure appeared in the doorway, dwarfing all those who stood nearby. Hair cascaded behind her back like a waterfall. Her petal-pink robes shimmered against her golden aura. Calm washed over the crowd as she strode by.

Kurth took a knee beside his daughter’s cradle. Once Naga was up on the dais, he placed his hand on his chest and bowed. “A great honor to be graced by your presence.”

Naga smiled. “It is my pleasure, descendant of Heim.” She looked down into the cradle. Her gentle fingers brushed the babe’s hair, revealing a glowing, golden mark upon her forehead. “I have thought long and hard about what blessing to bestow upon the princess.”

Numerous murmurs went up from the curious crowd. Naga turned her head to see what all the fuss was about, but once she set her eyes on the guests, they went silent. 

“Kurth,” Naga said, glancing back to the prince, “Years ago I bestowed upon you the gift of a just heart. Through this, you have served your people well, including the woman you took as your wife. May her soul rest easy in the heavens.”

The prince’s heart skipped a beat. How had she known?

“Now,” said Naga, “I will bestow my blessing upon the next generation.”

Deep thorns of fear pricked at Kurth’s heart. His own gift, while beneficial to ruling the country, brought about much unintended sorrow. He prayed for his daughter’s gift to be free of despair. 

“Daughter of Kurth, Descendant of Heim,” “By the grace of the dragon tribes, I bestow upon you–”

The braziers all went out in a swirl of smoke. Each curtain slammed itself shut. Darkness obscured the room, but not for long–  flames the color of wine flared up along the walls, one pair at a time. Guests gasped and squealed, their high heels and dress shoes forming a cacophony of frantic clicks as they scattered about.

A plume of purple flames unfurled in front of the dais. A man stood in its wake, hunched over a gnarled wooden cane. Skeletal fingers clutched the blood-red orb atop the staff. Crimson robes pooled at the man’s feet. A hood obscured his eyes, but Kurth could see the wrinkles around his devilish smile. 

Kurth’s heart leapt into his throat. His intuition was right. Something– no, someone – had been watching him, waiting for the perfect moment of vulnerability to strike. Naga’s presence did nothing to quell his surging adrenaline. He tried to lunge his arms into the cradle, but they would not budge. A chill seeped into his blood. It was as if his body turned into a statue of ice. Only his eyes remained mobile, and a glance around the room proved he was not the only one paralyzed.

Before Naga could intervene, tendrils of shadow erupted from the ground. They slithered around the queen’s wrists and ankles like snakes. A flick of the old man’s finger, and the tendrils yanked Naga down, slamming her against the dais. The old man gave a wicked grin as he creeped past. 

It was then Kurth’s mind clicked into place. Only one being could rival Naga’s power: the Dark Dragon Loptyr. Over a hundred years ago, the twelve crusaders sealed him away with the help of the dragon tribes. His followers fled into the harsh wilderness of the Yied Desert. Some said that Loptyr’s spirit resided deep below the dunes, whispering vile commands into the ears of his priests.

“Ah, just in time,” the old man crooned. “Didn’t want to miss the blessing.”

Kurth’s soul jolted out of his body.

The old man crept up the steps to the dais. “What a pretty little thing.” He reached into the cradle and ran a spindly finger along the babe’s cheek. “I could spirit her away here and now, to raise her as my own. A faithful priestess for my lord.”

No, no, please no. Kurth’s scream stuck in his throat. He choked on lumpy bubbles of breath.

The old man shook his head. “But alas, that is not what my lord asked of me.”

For a split second, Kurth felt a sense of relief. Then it dawned upon him something worse was to come.

“You see,” the priest said, an evil smirk upon his face, “My lord lent me some of his strength to bestow his own gift upon the princess.” He took his finger and placed a claw-like nail upon the babe’s holy mark. Upon his touch, the birthmark began to glow the same deep purple as the flames along the wall.

“The princess shall grow sweet and fair,

Rose red lips, lavender hair,

All the grace of a gentle fawn,

A voice as pleasant as birdsong at dawn.

But fate will lead to her final breath,

A rose’s prick shall bring her death.

With Naga’s blood, drawn by a thorn

The Dark Lord Loptyr will be reborn!”

For the first time since the party started, the princess’s eyes opened. She began to wail.

    A harsh, taunting cackle ricocheted off the chamber’s stone walls, remaining long after the priest disappeared in a whirl of flames. Gasps and screams arose from the crowd as they regained their ability to speak. The curtains relaxed, allowing light to fill the room once more. Soldiers scrambled to try and quell the masses. King Azmur directed the dukes to assist. 

    “Oh, no, no, please no!” Kurth scooped up his crying daughter from her crib.  He rocked her back and forth. “My daughter… my only daughter.” 

All the joys of fatherhood were taken away from him in a single minute. His poor child, doomed to die and bring about the destruction of everything holy in this world. What kind of a monster would curse a child with the resurrection of the devil?

“Kurth.”

The prince’s head darted up. Naga stood before him. 

“Please, you must save her,” Kurth begged. Tears streamed down his face. He didn’t care that Lombard and Reptor would scold him for his behavior. It wasn’t proper of a future king– but it was proper of a father.    

“I still have not bestowed my blessing, dear prince.” Naga put a hand on Kurth’s shoulder. “I cannot negate the curse entirely, but I can alter it.”

Kurth shivered. Anything was better than nothing. He shifted his daughter to cradle her in his arms.

Naga placed a finger upon the babe’s holy mark. 

“Sweet princess, Heir of Light,

Do not fear the dark of night.

At thorn’s prick, you will sleep,

No souls will Loptous come to reap.

Let it be known the curse will break:

With true love’s kiss, you shall wake.”

The princess ceased her crying. Her little eyes flickered, and soon she was sound asleep. Kurth hugged her tight against his chest.

“I cannot disclose who her true love is, as that is not of my domain,” said Naga. “But I will seek out the help of one who can assist you, even if it is indirect.”

Ah, yes. Kurth remembered the tales of a dragon that dabbled in the magic of love. He couldn’t remember which one it was, nor the family her blessings went to. Draconic laws prevented the dragons from meddling too much in human affairs, but if all went right, even the smallest of spells could prevent a disaster. If his daughter met her soulmate, then they would have a failsafe in case the cult was not apprehended.

“Just know this, son of Azmur,” said Naga. “We will do everything we are able to assist from afar. This I promise.”

“Thank you,” Kurth said, an exasperated gasp. “Thank you.”

Naga smiled. “Farewell, Prince Kurth. I shall see you again in the future.” A golden light overtook the room, and she was gone.

Kurth’s study was small for a man of his status, yet just the right size for his own comfort. Two massive bookshelves sat on the back wall, the contents strewn all over the room. Between the two bookshelves sat an unlit fireplace. An ornate couch with wooden framing sat in front of the fireplace. On each side was a matching chair, as well as a low table in the center. Sunlight poured upon his desk from the grand window on the right wall. 

The prince paced around his study. He held his chin in his hand, eyes locked to the floor. Thoughts raced around his head. His daughter had Naga’s protection, yes, but how were they to see it through? The priests of Loptous were ruthless in their methods. Plenty of plants possessed thorns. The odds of a cultist getting their hands on such a plant and massacring the guards were dangerously high. How would they fend off such fiends? Not to mention, what would happen to the rose garden his late wife loved? It reminded him too much of her gentle demeanor to demolish.

A knock interrupted Kurth’s contemplation. He looked up to see a page boy standing in the now opened doorway.

“Lord Byron wishes to see you, your grace,” said the boy.

Kurth nodded to the boy. “Let him in.”

The page boy bowed. As soon as he walked out, Byron strode in. He said nothing. Instead, he put his sturdy hand on Kurth’s shoulder. The two of them stood in silence. A painful, melancholy silence.

Kurth broke the silence with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Byron. “The fate of the world is at stake and so is your daughter. We should sit down. I’ll call in some tea.” He gestured to the page boy, who nodded and wandered off to fetch a maid.

“My stomach feels like it could burst at any second,” said Kurth. “I don’t think I can stomach any tea right now.”

“Nonsense. My wife drinks tea to cure her morning sickness.”

“You said she was too sick to come.”

“Er…” Byron scratched his head. “Being with child is complicated, from what I’ve heard. Nerves are easier to treat.”

After a few minutes, the maid came in with a porcelain tea tray. She set down a cup in front of each man, then poured steaming amber liquid in each cup. The pungent aroma of flowers filled Kurth’s nostrils. His stomach churned even more. He doubted his ability to hold the tea down, but trust came first. If he was going to take advice on such a dire manner from his friend, he had to drink tea as well. Cool china met his lips, soon overwhelmed by the warm tea. It filled his mouth with leafy tones and the bright taste of chamomile.

“Feel any better?” Asked Byron.

Kurth put down the teacup. “I think it will take a bit to kick in.”

“Good point. Onto the plan, then.” The duke slapped his hands on his thighs. “What have you considered so far?”

“Well, I thought about upping the guard, but you saw what the Archbishop did. Not a single soldier of ours could move a muscle.”

“True, true.”

“I also considered removing the rose garden from the palace and replacing it with something safer, but then someone could just bring their own.” 

Byron and Kurth went back and forth, discussing various means of security. But it was to no avail: with their cunning, the cult could break through every possible defense. 

The room fell silent once more. Both men fidgeted with their tea cups.

“Kurth,” said Byron, a sorrowful look in his eyes, “I think you will have to send away your daughter to keep her safe.”

The prince lowered his head. To argue would be in denial of the situation at hand. His heart weighed even heavier in his chest than before, something he didn’t think possible after the events of the party.

“Perhaps you could send her to live with her half-brother in Velthomer,” Byron said. “The duke-in-training would love to meet his sister.”

“The people of Velthomer don’t like me very much. I’d rather not make a seven year old deal with that. Besides, it’s the first place they’ll look once they realize she’s not here.”

“Ah, good point.” Byron stroked his stubble. His eyes lit up with inspiration. “I know Cigyun did not talk much about her past, but did she ever tell you about any relatives?”

Kurth scratched at the back of his brain. He remembered her talking about Victor and her son, Arvis (whom he felt sorry for, but could not do much about). He remembered something about Verdane and a forest, which did not narrow it down much. The forest had a special name…. What was it? Anima forest? Spectral forest? Something along those lines. It had to do with the mystical nature of the woods. He was so close, he could feel it, right there… Ah! The Spirit Forest!

Byron cocked his head. “Hmm?”

“Her mother lives in the Verdanian countryside, somewhere called the Spirit Forest. One of the few things she told me back then.” He’d no clue why his wife was so cryptic, but after all she’d suffered through at Victor’s hands, he knew better than to pry. “I’m sure her mother would love to see her granddaughter.”

“There is one issue there, though.” Byron took a sip of his tea. “Relationships between us and Verdane are rocky. King Batu is willing to seek a peace treaty, but the barbarians don’t follow his rule.”

“Unfortunately, Batu cannot do much about that. But I know he will help us how he can,” said Kurth. “He’s just as affected by this as we are.”

“I suppose I should fetch Ring, Lombard, Reptor, and your father to discuss this further?” Byron asked. “The borders with Verdane are in Ring’s dutchy, and your father is the final judge on any treaties… as for the other two, I feel they would be offended if we left them out.”

“I’ve had enough of people crashing my day,” Kurth sighed. “Better to invite them than to have them barge in mid-meeting.”

“That settles it, then.” Byron stood up and brushed his legs off. “One last thing, though. What name did you decide upon for your daughter? The Archbishop oh-so-rudely interrupted you before you could make it public.”

“Ah, her name. Cigyun actually chose it, not me.” Kurth looked at the tea set, sweet memories of the conversations they’d had flocking into his mind. “Her name is Deirdre.”

Chapter Text

Lavender roses are tied to wonder, enchantment, and mystery. One popular meaning for them is love at first sight due to their mysterious and mystical nature. They are truly a unique and beautiful sight.

Dawn slipped through the thick canopy of the Spirit Forest. Birds awoke from sweet slumber, cooing their songs alongside the thrum of cicadas. Rabbits and squirrels emerged from their nests. Dewdrops glistened upon blades of untamed grass. Nestled between a gap in the trees sat a quaint cottage, and within, the Maiden of the Spirit Forest lay fast asleep, a smile on her face as she roamed the land of dreams.

Tiny rays of light slipped through the slits in the shutters. Deirdre's eyes fluttered open at their touch. She sat up and opened her window, allowing a puff of morning air to enter the room. The world around her brightened in hue. A dove descended from the sky and perched itself upon the scratched up windowsill.

“Why, hello there,” Deirdre said to the bird. She hugged her knees tight to her chest, a vain attempt to retain warmth.

The dove tilted its head and let out another coo. A second dove swooped down-- this one darker in color with pink flecks around its neck.

Deirdre tilted her head. “Oh, is that your mate?”

Even though the dove could not speak, Deirdre knew the two birds were bonded. Doves were known for their life-long courtships. It warmed Deirdre's heart to think of such a romantic existence. Every night she dreamed of her own fairy-tale fantasy: A handsome prince from a far away land would meet her in a luscious garden, where they would play and dance and gallivant around without a care in the world. But one thing stood out as odd:

Her dream prince claimed he was real.

As much as she believed in the goodness of mankind, few would believe the stories of her dreams. The creatures of the forest, on the other hand, were innocent. They would not judge her for spinning tales of her soulmate. Not that it mattered in the end-- she was instructed to only leave the woods when necessary. Her grandmother claimed it was for her safety.

Oh, dear. Speaking of her grandmother…

What time was it? Was her grandmother already awake? A quick glance to the side revealed an empty bed. The blankets were tucked into the lumpy mattress.

Deirdre winced. Once again she'd slept through the rooster's call. She slipped off her mattress, yanking her lumpy pillow along. With a quick flick of her wrist, she hoisted her quilt into the air. The birds at her windowsill flocked away in a cacophony of coos. Deirdre uttered a silent apology, then went to smoothing out the sea of faded pink squares.

With her bed made, Deirdre tip-toed over to the small chest that housed her clothes. The dusty floor chilled her soles with each step. She unlatched the lock and pried the chest open. Inside lay a couple of folded-up garments, all solid in color. She plucked out a petal pink dress and an off-white sash. It took a bit to wrestle off her stubborn nightgown, but soon she slipped on her day clothes, tying the sash tight around her tiny waist.

Across from the two beds sat an old vanity. Deirdre pulled out the rickety stool from underneath and sat herself down. Little flecks of gold leaf chipped off the edge of the mirror. Large cracks split through the surface like lightning from a cloud of missing glass. Years ago, Deirdre asked her grandmother where such a vanity had come from. After all, the two of them were humble priestesses living in a remote wood. Her grandmother laughed and shook her head. She told Deirdre that the vanity, along with most of the worn-out furniture in their house, were from an era long gone by. Once, their golden hairbrush had belonged to a queen– now it was stashed away in a peasant’s cottage.

While it made sense, Deirdre wasn’t sure if it was true. How would priceless gold end up with a family of secluded priestesses? Was it part of the forest’s magic, or perhaps a gift from her mysterious father? All she knew about her father was that he came to the cottage one night with her in his arms. He feared that he could not keep her safe. Her grandmother was his only hope. Thus, he entrusted her to her grandmother, and left no trace but a book of fairy tales and a golden circlet.

Deirdre stared at her reflection in the mirror. Large lavender eyes stared back. She took the circlet and secured it behind her ears, making sure it covered her birthmark. The gold metal shone out against her pale skin. Once, a member of the church congregation told her she looked like one of the fey. Her grandmother laughed and thanked the man, but Deirdre could tell by the sad smile on her face that something wasn’t right. Even now, she wondered what troubled her grandmother then. She sighed and got up to start the day.

First came the garden. Deirdre thanked the goddess that there was a spring on their property. Heaving the watering can across the garden was hard enough as is. At this time of the year, the garden flourished. Pea blossoms popped out against a tangle of stalks and stems. Newly formed tomatoes and melons began to grow plump. Deirdre held the watering can over the delicate heads of lettuce. The water cascaded down like rain, merging with the dewdrops that rested upon the leaves.

Next came the chickens. Deirdre dug her palm into the sack of chicken feed. The fine grain sifted through her fingers. She sprinkled it onto the ground. As soon as she unlatched the coop door, the chickens burst through in a flurry of feathers. They squawked as they scrambled around. Deirdre took this time to sneak around the coop. She undid the latch on the hidden compartment and stuck her arm in. Two eggs sat amongst the coarse straw. She placed each in her basket, then closed the hatch. One of the hens poked at her leg. Deirdre apologized for taking its eggs, then gave it a pat on the head.

Back inside, she took the two eggs and cracked them into a pan. Little bubbles sizzled up from the whites upon contact with the hot iron. While those cooked, she hoisted a heavy pot above the fire. A bit of milk went in alongside some water. Then came a cupful of dried oats. She stirred the mixture and left it to stew while she grabbed two plates and two bowls from the cupboard. At that moment, the door creaked open behind Deirdre. Her heart jumped into her chest. She spun her head around to see her grandmother in the doorway. All the tension in her body faded with a sigh. “Good morning, grandmother!”

“Good morning.” Her grandmother hobbled over to the table and took a seat. “Smells wonderful in here.”

“Speaking of good smells, ” said Deirdre, “What kind of fruit would you like in your porridge? I’ve got some leftover berries, or I could pick a peach.”

“Hmm… how about berries?”

“Berries it is, then.” Deirdre put the plates and bowls on the counter. She then found the wicker berry basket and scooped the last of the contents into her hands. Drops of porridge jumped from the pot as the berries plopped in. A tiny bit of stirring and most of the berries burst, oozing red and purple juices that mingled with the beige oats.

Meanwhile, the eggs developed crisp, golden brown edges. Deirdre took a spatula and scraped each egg off the iron pan. She slid one onto each plate, then walked over to the table.

The two plates clunked down against the wood.

Her grandmother smiled. “Why thank you, Dee.”

“Oh, it was no problem,” Deirdre said. “But I am a little ashamed that I slept in again.”

“You’ve always been a heavy sleeper. I’ve come to expect it.” Her grandmother took her fork and sliced a bit of egg white. “I believe you got your dreamy attitude from your grandfather.”

“I thought you said grandfather was always focused.”

“No, no. Your other grandfather.”

“My father’s father?” Deirdre asked. If she recalled correctly, he had not come with her father all those years ago. “How do you know about that?”

Her grandmother smiled. “You’ll find out eventually.”

With no way to respond, Deirdre walked back over to the fire and grabbed the two bowls from earlier. She ladled porridge into each bowl and brought them back over to the table. Her stomach growled as she sat down, eager to munch into her breakfast. Steam rose from the oats to warn her against burning her mouth. She dug in, relishing the warm creamy oats and the powerful tang of berry juice.

“So,” her grandmother spoke up, “Did you have good dreams last night?”

Deirdre’s face grew hot. She was sure her cheeks turned red as the berries in her breakfast.

Her grandmother chuckled. “Oh, you were dreaming about that boy again, weren’t you?”

“Grandmother…” Deirdre glanced down into her breakfast.

“Oh, no need to be so shy about it,” said her grandmother. “I think it’s cute.”

“As cute as it may seem, I don’t think it’s normal for this to happen.”

“Well, of course it’s not a common occurrence. It would take powerful magic to uphold a dream link for years.” Her grandmother took another bite of egg. “What’s the boy like again?”

“Well, he said his name is Sigurd, and that he lives in Grannvale. He’s got messy blue hair and eyes that match,” Deirdre said. She thought back to all of their conversations from years past. They’d laid together in a field of flowers and made up stories and games with each other. There was a tree nearby with a swing hanging from a sturdy branch. Sometimes they’d sit in the branches and talk about their lives. Sigurd had a sister named Ethlyn. His father was a widower. He went to the Belhalla Academy with his best friends, one of whom became his brother-in-law. He liked horseback riding and sword fighting, and–

“Sweetie,” her grandmother said. “You stopped mid-sentence.”

Deirdre snapped out of her thoughts. “Oh, sorry.” She cursed herself for being so spacey at times. Daydreaming had its benefits, but when you had to help a churchgoer out with a problem and zoned out while they explained, it was more of a detriment.

“It’s alright.” Her grandmother reached across the table to pat her on the shoulder. “Now finish your food before it gets cold!”

Church went as usual. Deirdre and her grandmother prepared the altar with flowers and drapery. They knelt and whispered their prayers to the gods.

Please let me meet my prince, oh goddess, Deirdre prayed. I have been patient all these years, and I will be ever thankful if I do.

A small crowd filed into the sanctuary. The head priest recounted his sermon for them, then led them in worship and praise. Deirdre and her grandmother stood in the back, their voices melding into the chorus. They stayed afterwards to hand out a small lunch to anyone who wanted it. She handed bowls of fresh greens to an older man and a blond boy. The boy thanked her for the food, while the older man complimented her tiara. She smiled at the two of them before they sat to eat.

Deirdre's grandmother hobbled up behind her. Her cane thumped with each step. "More happy souls," she said. "It warms my heart to attend to them."

A light breeze blew through the doorway, ruffling both women's hair. Wild grasses swayed in the bright sun.

Her grandmother put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm going to stay here and help clean up. Can you go pick some more berries? I'd do it, but my knees can't handle all the walking anymore."

"Of course," Deirdre nodded. "I can't guarantee that the squirrels haven't gotten to them first, though."

Her grandmother chuckled. "I'm sure there will be some. Be careful out there."

"I will!" She waded into the woods, leaves crunching beneath her soles. Once she passed the threshold into the Spirit Forest, the boughs behind her thickened. Briars wove themselves into messy lattice walls. She stepped over bushes and ferns, low-hanging branches rising to clear a path. Once she found herself far from the church, she stopped and took a deep breath. The forest air cleared her mind.

And, out here, no one could hear her sing.

Her voice wasn’t angelic, nor was it discordant. It was nice and soft, somewhere in between alto and soprano. She reserved singing in public for church hymns. Sure, it wouldn’t bother anyone if she sang around them, but the attention made her stomach fill with butterflies. The only person she could sing comfortably in front of was her grandmother.

Little beams of light lead the way to a clearing. Inside, the sun beamed onto deep green bushes dotted with plump red and blue berries. Deirdre bent over and plucked them one by one, stopping to pop a few in her mouth between breaths. She continued to sing her wordless song up and down the scale. The lack of lyrics didn't matter to her. All that mattered was joy.

Something rustled in the bushes behind her. She hushed her mouth. Whipping her head around, she expected to see a rabbit or mouse. Instead, her soul jumped out of her body.

A man peeked out from behind the brush, mouth agape. With one white sleeved arm, he pushed aside a thick bush. His other held the reins to an elegant white steed. Wide blue eyes stared at her with wonder. Strands of similarly colored hair stuck out from his head. “Oh my goddess,” he crooned.

Wait.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Messy sapphire hair that matched his eyes. A well defined jawline. And that wonderful baritone voice... Deirdre knew this man. Her hands went slack. The basket fell and thumped to the ground. There was no way it was possible, yet he stood there in front of her. She opened her mouth as soft as she could. “Sigurd?”

The man nodded. “Deirdre.”

Deirdre’s heart leapt out of her chest. It really was him. Her dream prince was real. She sprinted over and tackled the man in a hug. He stumbled back upon impact, but returned her embrace as tight as he could. They rocked back and forth together.

“I thought you were a dream,” Deirdre said. Her head went cold when she realized how rude that must have sounded. But if he recognized her, that meant he also thought she was a dream, right?

Sigurd drew back from the embrace and looked her in the eye. “I think I might be dreaming right now.”

Deirdre let out a tiny sigh. No hard feelings. Of course, he did say he thought he was still dreaming. An impish idea popped into her head. She took her index and thumb finger and pinched his side as hard as she could.

“Ow!” Sigurd squeaked. He let go on one side and rubbed his torso. “That hurt!”

Deirdre giggled. “Still dreaming?”

“I suppose not.”

After placing her head on Sigurd’s chest, Deirdre broke the embrace. She squatted down to the ground and gathered the spilled berries.

“Sorry about that,” Sigurd said. “I didn’t mean to make you spill those.”

“It’s ok. I didn’t expect you to find me.” Of course, she didn’t expect him to actually exist outside her imagination either. If it weren’t for his surprised face, she might have thought she’d eaten a bad mushroom and started to hallucinate. “So,” She asked, standing back up, “How did you end up in this neck of the woods?”

“I heard singing, and I thought I recognized your voice. I was so startled I fell off my horse.” He took his coat in hand and moved it for Deirdre to see the side. Light brown dust and dirt stained the lower portion. “My sister is going to kill me.”

“But…” Deirdre tilted her head. The nearest town was half an hour away, and not many people frequented the path through this part of the woods— if they could even get in. “How did you end up out here?”

“I was out hunting with my friends, and, well...” He scratched the back of his head. “I got lost.”

Deirdre looked around. In this area of the forest the trees and briars grew so thick they blocked out most sunlight. Without prior knowledge of the woods, everything looked the same. What confused her more, though, was that the forest had let him pass. The spirits must have sensed his benevolence.

“Do you need me to guide you back to Marpha?” She asked.

“No, no, I’m good,” He said. “We’re actually staying in Verdane City, not Marpha.”

Ah, the capital, she thought. That’s an awful ways away. Sigurd had mentioned his father being a politician in the past. It made sense given his expensive clothing— not to mention the fact he had his own horse. Speaking of his clothing…

“Would you like me to clean your coat?” Deirdre asked.

Sigurd’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“I don’t live too far from here. We’ve got soda ash and a washbin at home. That way your sister won’t yell at you.”

“My sister is in Leonster right now, but I appreciate it,” Sigurd said. “My knights will probably tell her if they see it.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Deirdre pivoted around and gestured for Sigurd to follow. “My house is this way.” She led him and his horse past the berry patch. Light faded the further they ventured into the briars. Every time they passed a checkmark, she pointed it out to her newfound companion. First came the gnarled old tree a fox built a nest in. Then was the mushroom circle her grandmother said belonged to ancient fae. After that was the tiny stream the frogs lived in, the clearing filled with flowers, and finally, a fenced in cottage. Home. She opened the gate for Sigurd, who tied his horse up on one of the fence posts. Once they were both in, she latched it closed. No rabbits allowed in this garden.

Sigurd wandered over to the small grove of fruit trees. There were five total: one each of cherry, peach, pear, plum, and apple. Perpendicular to them were the vegetable garden and house itself, as well as the chicken coop and some pots full of strawberry plants.

“This cottage was built by my great-great-grandfather,” said Deirdre. “He moved here from Grannvale, but no one’s ever told me why.” She shuffled her hands. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. What she’d been told was that her great-great-grandfather fled Grannvale for his safety. When she asked what caused this, all her grandmother did was smile sadly and tell her she’d find out when she was older. “All the fruit trees we have were planted by his hands.”

Sigurd glanced at the peach tree and took one of its ripe fruits in hand. “That makes this tree over a hundred years old, doesn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

Sigurd plucked the peach from the tree. “Is it ok if I eat one?”

“Go ahead,” said Deirdre. There were too many for her and her grandmother to eat alone. Even after preserving them for the winter, they found themselves with a surplus of fruits. Most of the time they gave them to the poor who came to the church for aid. However, when money ran tight (which it often did in Verdane), they traveled to the city markets and sold what they had. She wondered if this was part of her great-great-grandfather’s plan, or if it was just an oversight he made when he planted so many trees. “Just give me your coat so you don’t get peach juice on it.”

“Oh, right.” With a lack of places to put the peach, he took a big bite and held it with his teeth. He used his free hands to unbutton his coat. When he handed it over, Deirdre swore she heard him mumble a muffled “here you go”.

Smooth white silk brushed Deirdre’s fingers. The gold trim scratched at her skin. Just the pearly shell buttons cost more than she and her grandmother collected in years. Did he truly trust her with something so expensive? She looked up, expecting Sigurd to watch her like a hawk. Instead she found him lounging on a tree stump, one foot up as he gazed around the clearing. Peach juice dribbled down his chin and dripped onto his chest. He’d unbuttoned his undershirt to the point where his pecs were visible.

Deirdre’s face went hot. Goddess forgive her for her sinful thoughts. She took the coat and laid it over the water pump while she went inside to fetch the laundry kit. When she returned, Sigurd was still there in all his princely glory. The sun’s rays shone upon him through the trees. It was as if the goddess herself sent him down from heaven. Flustered, she pumped some water into the washtub and splashed a tiny bit on her forehead. The chill snapped her out of her haze, and she proceeded to scrub Sigurd’s coat with soda ash. Dirt sullied the clean spring water in the washtub. Soon, the stain disappeared from the white silk, and Deirdre hung it to dry.

One of the chickens wandered over to Sigurd’s side. It pecked at his boot with its hard little beak. When Deirdre rushed to shoo the chicken away, it beat its wings and squawked before running in the opposite direction.

“I am so sorry about that,” said Deirdre.

“It’s ok,” said Sigurd. “I’ve never seen a chicken that close before.”

“You haven’t?”

“No. Usually when I see one that close they end up in my stomach.” He smirked, sending waves of serotonin through Deirdre’s body. “Oh, should I give my horse a treat? I think he might be jealous that I got fruit and he didn’t.”

Deirdre waded through the mess of stalks and leaves known as the vegetable garden. She put her finger on her lip and searched for the delicate white flowers of a carrot plant. Once she found one, she grasped the thin stalk and dug her fingers into the dirt below it. A little bit of digging later she felt the hard stalk of a partly-ripe carrot. With both hands, she ripped it out of the ground.

“Wow,” Sigurd said. He stood up from the tree stump and walked over to Deirdre. “You’re good at that.”

Deirdre handed over the carrot. ‘Thanks. I’ve got years of practice.”

Upon seeing the carrot, Sigurd’s horse whinnied in excitement. At least, Deirdre thought it was excitement. The horse chomped down upon the root vegetable. It took a grand total of five seconds before all that was left was the leafy top.

“Do horses normally eat that fast?” Deirdre asked.

Sigurd pat the horse’s mane. “This one has its quirks.”

“Would it be alright if I pet it?”

“Go ahead.”

Deirdre's fingers grazed the horse's thick, soft mane. Just as Sigurd never saw a chicken so close before, Deirdre had never seen a horse this close. She didn't expect the head to be so large, dwarfing her own. It reminded her of a big dog with its soft wet nose sniffing the air. The way it closed its eyes seemed to signal happiness.

Sigurd gazed up to the sky. His smile faded. “I should probably go soon. If I stay any longer, everyone will think I'm dead.” He unlatched the gate and untied his horse.

“That’s alright. I understand," Deirdre said. Part of her hoped he was just joking. She grabbed his coat from off the water pump and handed it over. “How long will you be here for?”

Since the coat was still soaking wet, Sigurd slumped it on the back of his horse. The horse whinnied and kicked back. “Only a few more days. Then we go back to Chalphy.”

Deirdre’s heart sank. Her dream came true and it wasn’t to last. She had to see him at least one more time. “By any chance, could you come back tomorrow? Not here, per say, but…” An idea popped into her head. “I need to go to the marketplace tomorrow and pick up some supplies. Perhaps I could meet you there?”

“Sounds like a deal,” said Sigurd. He hopped back up onto his horse. “Maybe I could bring my friends or my father if they aren’t busy.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Deirdre clasped her hands together. Getting to meet the wonderful people in Sigurd’s life for the first time made her ecstatic, yet her stomach flittered with butterflies. What if they didn’t like her back? She shook her head to knock the negative thoughts from her mind. “Do you need help finding the way back?”

“Well, it shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll just find the path and…” Sigurd glanced around. The longer he looked, the more distressed he grew. He turned back to Deirdre and gave her a sheepish smile. “Ok, maybe I do need help.”

Deirdre giggled. She extended her arm and pointed to her left. “You’ll need to travel straight that way. Then you’ll come across the path through the woods. Travel north from there.”

“Alright,” said Sigurd. He pat his horse with the reins. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Deirdre said.

Sigurd smiled and waved goodbye. He rode off into the woods clutching Deirdre’s stolen heart tight in his hands.

The sun took a bow across the horizon as Sigurd rode past groves of olive and fig trees. Up ahead towered Verdane Palace. Orange light glinted off the striped dome, threatening to blind the knight if he wasn’t careful. The guards raised the iron gate for him upon his approach. Upon entry, one of the stable boys met him in the front and helped him off his horse. The boy then guided the horse to the stables while Sigurd rushed into the palace.

Jamke, the youngest prince of Verdane, stood in the middle of the hall. When he saw Sigurd, his face scrunched into a scowl. “Where have you been?”

“I got lost,” said Sigurd. He wasn’t lying. Why was Jamke so cross with him?

“I know that,” Jamke said, blocking the path. “But what took so long to get back? There’s plenty of people you could have asked for directions.”

Sigurd pushed his way past the prince. “Well, it’s an interesting story, but I’d rather tell it after we meet back up with my knights.”

“Ah, right. They’re this way.” Jamke strode off down the hall. Sigurd followed. They passed walls lined with mosaics depicting the history of Verdane. Ancient pottery sat on display pedestals. Colorful glass oil lamps spread kaleidoscopes of light onto the intricate tiled floor. Jamke turned under an arched doorway with one of these lamps hanging from the center. On the other side was the palace courtyard. Short trees and bushy shrubs lined the brick covered ground. Pots of flowers dotted the area with bursts of vibrant color. Couches of crimson, olive green, and deep blue lined the arched alcoves. A fountain sat in the middle of it all, providing a cooling mist from the heat.

Each of Sigurd’s three knights sat upon one of the couches. Alec, the green haired casanova of the group, laid head back and sound asleep. His legs blocked anyone else from sitting with him, so dutiful Naoise and bulky Arden settled for the couch next door. With them was Sigurd’s baby-faced cousin Oifey, who turned from the conversation to see him.

“Hey!” Oifey waved. Arden and Naoise stopped talking and turned their heads. Alec popped an eye open and yawned. “Where have you been?”

Sigurd told them all about how he’d heard Deirdre singing in the woods. He told them about how he fell off his horse, and how she’d offered to clean it for him. And, most important of all, he told them about his dreams.

They weren’t as impressed as he thought they’d be.

“Let me get this straight,” said Jamke. “You got lost in the woods, heard singing, followed it, and met a girl who came straight out of your dreams?”

Sigurd smiled a big toothy grin. “Yes.”

Alec tried to contain his laughter, but ended up making noises akin to an overboiling teapot. The pressure built up inside until he burst into laughter. To his side, Arden snickered. Jamke kept his unimpressed stare.

"Hey, I swear it's true!" Sigurd said, wrinkling his nose. "I recognized her, and she recognized me."

Alec wiped a tear from his cheek. "And I'm dating the Princess of Issach."

"Hey, go easy on him," said Arden. "Maybe he really did find the girl of his dreams. I sure wish that could happen to me!"

"You can't prove he isn't telling the truth," Oifey piped up.

Sigurd relaxed his brow. At least Arden and Oifey were there for him. Alec and Naoise didn't mean any harm, they were just... dense. Yes. That was the word. Dense.

“Well, no matter what, if we stay here and joke around we’re going to miss dinner,” Jamke said, crossing his arms. “We already had to delay it because of you. Now let’s go.”

The knights stood and followed Jamke out the door. Oifey, on the other hand, walked over to Sigurd and pat him on the back. “Come on,” he said. “Food will get their minds off it.”

The five met up with Sigurd’s father, Lord Byron, outside the dining hall. With him was King Batu of Verdane, a pleasant old man who looked as if he couldn’t hurt a fly. Jamke’s two older brothers, however, looked like they could kill a man with one glare. Sigurd had no clue how such an innocent looking old man could produce three intimidating sons. Maybe their mother was a warrior queen?

The group walked into the gilded doors of the dining hall. A low table filled the room, perched upon detailed crimson rugs. Along the table sat hearty lamb stews, crisp cucumber salads, stuffed tomatoes, and vibrant yellow bowls of rice. The smells of meats and spices wafted through the air. Sigurd sat down upon a fluffy cushion and crossed his legs, just as the royals did. Oifey, Arden, and Naoise sat down beside him, while his father took the seat across from King Batu. That left the side with the beefy princes. Alec didn’t seem phased about having to sit next to a man that could punt him across the room.

As they ate, Jamke’s older brothers exchanged tales with the knights of Chalphy. Whenever someone got a bit too crude, King Batu would break his serene smile and give a death glare to the culprit. Everyone at the table shut their mouths until Batu returned to his peaceful disposition. Then the cycle started once more. No matter how many times the king scolded his sons, Sigurd did not see the man’s stern stare coming.

Once everyone had their fill of the entrees, servants came in to clear the table. New, smaller plates replaced the large dirty dishes. Cutlery was taken away in favor of clean silver forks. They were so small that Sigurd didn’t know how he was supposed to hold one without breaking it. A servant then brought out the last course of the night: a golden brown cake covered in a translucent white glaze. Sprinkled on top were green and tan nuts, as well as pink flower petals. Sigurd recognized the ring shape as something his sister once baked. A bun cake, was it? He wasn’t good with cooking or baking terms (not that it mattered).

The servants placed the cake down in front of King Batu. The king smiled and thanked the servant who brought it to him. He then pulled out a large knife and started to divide the cake into portions. “All right. Can everyone pass their plates down?”

Sigurd held out his plate to Batu, who plopped a slice on. Behind him, Oifey, Arden, and Naoise grinned as they held out their plates for Sigurd to take. Sigurd swapped the cake filled plate with Oifey, who swapped with Arden, and so on down to the end.

“Looks delicious,” said Sigurd’s father. “What is it?”

“It’s called Verdanian Love Cake,” said King Batu. He filled up the last plates and passed them down, then took the remains for himself.

Arden tilted his head. “Love Cake?”

King Batu nodded. He used his fork to cut a bite sized piece of cake. “Legend says the first Love Cake came about when a beautiful young maiden fell in love with a prince. She filled the cake with all the power of her love and presented it to him.”

The elder princes rolled their eyes, while Jamke kept his stern stare.

“Did it work?” Asked Oifey, munching on a bite of cake.

“Depends on the version of the tale you hear,” the king chuckled. “Sure worked on me though!”

Sigurd cut off a piece of cake, then took a bite. Sugary lemon glaze coated his tongue. Soft, moist cake melted in his mouth, leaving a floral aftertaste. The pistachios on top provided a nice nutty tone and crunchy contrast. He found himself taking bite after bite, piece after piece. Next thing he knew his plate was empty besides little cake crumbs and some of the decorative rose petals.

“Well, somebody liked that,” said Batu.

Sigurd looked around to see that everyone else still had large pieces upon their plates. His eyes went wide. So much for his manners.

Alec snickered. “I bet you it’s because of that girl he likes.”

“Girl?” Byron asked. He raised his eyebrows and turned to his son. “You’ve met a girl?”

A hot blush crept up Sigurd’s cheeks. He knew Alec was holding in a laugh. What was he supposed to say? ‘Ah, yes, that girl I've dreamt about for years showed up in the woods and she’s been having the same dreams as me’! There was no way his father would believe him. “I’ve met lots of girls,” he said. “Like Ethlyn and mother.”

“You know what he means,” said Alec. “The girl you supposedly met in the woods. And your dreams.” He said the last word as if he was taunting Oifey about ghosts.

This piqued King Batu’s interest. “What was this maiden like?”

“Well, she uh… she exists, for one,” Sigurd said, glaring at the blond haired cavalier a few seats down from him. “She’s got purplish hair that almost seems silvery or white at times, and big eyes that match. I fell off my horse and she cleaned up my coat for me. Don’t tell Ethlyn about that part.”

Byron smiled. “Ok, I’ll tell Ethlyn then.”

“Father!”

“I kid, I kid!”

The entire table went up into laughter. Even stoic Jamke cracked a smile. Sigurd, however, found himself thinking about Deirdre once more. He thought of her pale face, those beautiful big eyes filled with wonder and enchantment. He thought of how her sash accentuated her waist and how her wavy hair cascaded down her back. He thought of how kind she was to him, both in dream and out– how she took his coat and cleaned it up without complaining like Ethlyn would.

He was so lost in la-la-land he didn’t notice the cake slipping off his plate into his lap.

That night, Sigurd did not dream of the forest maiden. This didn’t phase him. The two of them missed some nights in the past. Never more than a week. Besides, he’d seen her in person for the first time, which trumped the need for a shared dream. He awoke the next morning feeling just as elated as the night before. One quick leap and he was out of bed.

Oifey poked his head up from the other side of the room. He blinked and squinted his eyes in the dim light. “Sigurd? What time is it?”

“Early,” said Sigurd, putting on a new undershirt. “But if I want to see Deirdre again, I have to head out.”

“Aren’t you going to stay for breakfast?”

“I’ll grab something on my way out.”

“Whatever.” Oifey slumped his head back into a pillow. “Your loss.”

With Oifey’s implied rejection, Sigurd waltzed out the room and peeked into the knight’s quarters. All three of his friends were sprawled out and sound asleep. Arden’s snores shook the floor. So much for them coming along. Sigurd then checked his father’s suite, but Lord Byron was nowhere to be found. While this disappointed Sigurd, he felt vindicated that someone else had the idea of waking up early. Take that, Oifey.

A walk down the hall proved that even the knights didn’t like morning shifts. Not a soul stood guard. The click of Sigurd’s boots on tile echoed through the empty corridor. It was so quiet he could hear the faint rumble of the courtyard fountain no matter where he was. That, and the rubbery thunk of a bowstring being released. Sigurd turned his head into a nearby door to see Jamke practicing his archery on a set of flour sacks. Little clouds of white dust poofed up whenever he hit one of the makeshift dummies.

“Hey!” Sigurd said, entering the room.

Jamke flinched and let go of his bowstring. The arrow ricocheted off the brick floor. He turned to Sigurd with a scowl on his face. “What was that for?”

Sigurd stepped back, hands up. “I just wanted to say good morning.”

Jamke sighed. “Good morning.” He turned back and notched another arrow on the bowstring.

"So…" Sigurd leaned on the doorframe. His finger flicked at the stucco. "Where is everyone?"

"What do you mean?"

"No one's in the halls."

"Yeah, cause they're all asleep."

Thwip. Another arrow lodged into a sack. Sigurd sighed. "Then why are you up?"

"Couldn't sleep." Click, stretch, thwip. "Something just feels off."

"That's fair." One time, before a final exam on battle tactics, Sigurd hadn't been able to sleep a wink. He wasn't nervous… At least, he wouldn't admit he was nervous. Quan and Eldigan scolded him the next morning for keeping them awake. "Anyways, you all let your guards sleep in this late?"

"I'm not sure if I'd call this–" Jamke lowered his bow. "Wait, the guards aren't out there?"

"No. It's empty."

"Lemme see that." The prince pushed past Sigurd, his bow clunking onto the tile behind him. Just as Sigurd said, not a soul stood in sight. "That's weird."

The two searched the palace’s east wing for ten minutes or so, then decided to check the other areas. It wasn’t until they got to the front hall that they saw a whole hoard of palace guards. In the middle was Prince Cimbaeth, Jamke’s oldest brother. He grasped a young blonde haired boy by the scruff of his ratty tunic. The boy gasped for air. Cimbaeth continued to manhandle the poor thing without remorse.

“Hey. Put the kid down,” Jamke commanded. “Father will have your head if he sees you treating someone like that.”

Cimbaeth scowled. “This little pest broke in.”

The boy squirmed in his grasp. “I had to! Someone’s in danger!”

“Yeah, someone’s always in danger,” said the eldest prince. He shook the boy, then slammed him to the ground. “Now get out and tell the local guard, not us.”

“Please, you have to listen to me!” Said the boy. “I swear I saw them! They were talking about the Dark Dragon and a priestess from the woods–”

Sigurd’s blood ran cold. His stomach flopped. Oh, goddess. He pushed his way through the guards to meet the boy. “Tell me. Which forest were they talking about?”

“I think they said the spirit forest,” said the boy. “I saw them at a church there. We both got food from the priestess.”

At that moment, Batu and Sigurd’s father entered the room. The king shuffled to meet his sons and the Chalphy noble. “What is going on here?”

“It’s the girl I met yesterday,” Sigurd said. “She’s in danger.”

Jamke’s jaw dropped. “What– Sigurd, you can’t just jump to conclusions like that!”

But it was too late. The knight ran out the door in a blur. His gut told him there was danger afoot, and he’d follow his gut to the end of the earth if it meant saving someone he cared about.

Chapter Text

Orange Roses are bold, fiery, and energetic. They represent desire, fascination, enthusiasm, and energy. If you send an orange rose to someone, it means you are proud of them.

Deirdre clutched her basket tight as she walked through the small market near the church. Colorful cloths on top of the rafters shielded her from the sun’s harsh gaze. Crates of fruits and vegetables lined the tables. Meats and sausages hung from wooden supports, filling the air with a salty smell. Jars of spices accompanied herbs and medicinal plants. While the bazaar in Marpha contained much more to choose from, it was too far away for Sigurd to make a day trip. The capital would have even more products, but only someone on horseback could make the round trip within a day.

The man behind the milk counter smiled as Deirdre approached. “Mornin’, miss.”

“Good morning, sir,” said Deirdre. She took a silver coin from her basket. “One jar, please.”

“One jar coming up.” The man turned to the cabinet behind him. He clicked a latch before opening the dual cabinet doors. They squeaked open, hinges in need of some oil. A puff of cold air burst out from the inside. Deirdre felt a jolt go up her spine. Whoever placed the chill spell on this chest sure knew what they were doing. She supposed it wasn’t the man selling the milk as she’d never seen him reinforce the spell. But, as he clunked the glass jar down on the wood, she saw little tips of frost upon his fingers.

“Here you go, miss.”

"Thank you,” Deirdre said. She plucked a small metal charm from her basket and tied it around the cork. The small snowflake embossed on the front glowed ice blue. Ice crystals formed on the glass, chilling her fingers as she plopped it into her basket. Her arm slunk like she’d just dropped a rock into the basket. Hopefully Sigurd would be willing to help her with the oats and the flour. She didn’t see why he wouldn’t. He was a kind man. Having a horse around would help even more. Perhaps she could buy double the amount of each and save herself a future trip… or would that be too hard on the poor horse? They did carry humans on their backs, sometimes two, so she figured it would be ok.

After paying for a jar of honey, Deirdre exited the market. The harsh sun bore into her scalp. She made a mental note to bring a cap with her next time as she walked to the northern edge of the village. A dirt path shot its way straight into the woods. Not her woods. It was the vast, unfamiliar stretch of forest she’d never tread in. Maybe since Sigurd was a knight, Grandmother would let her explore more.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a voice, old and raspy. Deirdre turned to see the same old man she’d given food to a day prior leaning on a cane. He smiled when they locked eyes, accentuating the wrinkles on his face. “By any chance, could you please help me?”

Deirdre blinked. Where did this man come from? He must live around here somewhere to sneak up on her like that. “What with?”

“My cow fell ill last night,” the man explained. “The poor thing is the only way I am able to make money. I figured since you work with the clergy, you might be able to help.”

“Well, I don’t have my healing stave on hand,” said Deirdre. “I suppose I could check to see if I can identify the problem, but I don’t have much time to spare.”

The man tilted his head. “Why not?”

“I promised someone I would meet him here today.” She gestured down the road. “He lives far away, and just happens to be visiting the area.”

All of a sudden, the thump of hooves thundered from down the road. Sigurd raced down upon his horse. Clouds of dust trailed in his wake.

“There he is right now,” Said Deirdre. What wonderful timing on Sigurd’s part, she thought. He could come and assist as well. She said a little prayer in her head to thank the goddess for this small blessing.

The older man grimaced. He swiped Deirdre’s hands and tugged on her arms. His bony hands seeped ice into her palms. “Ah, there’s no time for that. Come along now, we must get going.”

Deirdre blinked. She stumbled as the man dragged her along the forest floor. She couldn’t help but notice the absence of his cane as he pushed away the thorny branches in their path. Maybe the cane was for decoration and he didn’t need it. He was much stronger than he appeared. But even then, the man’s insistence that she go with him alone set off alarm bells in her head. She turned her head back towards the path and called out as loud as she could. “Sigurd!”

Sigurd’s trusty steed skidded to a stop right in the line of Deirdre’s sight. The white knight jumped off his horse and ducked underneath a tree branch. “Excuse me, sir!”

Deirdre heard the older man growl under his breath. When he turned around to face Sigurd, a serene smile graced his face. “Yes?”

“Where are you taking this fine young lady?”

“Just to my humble abode. My cow is feeling ill, you see, and I figured the priestess here would be able to provide assistance.”

“Well, if that is the case, is it ok if I come with you?” Sigurd asked. “There have been reports of suspicious figures in the area, and the two of you may need protection.”

“No need,” said the man. “Bandits don’t care about poor old beggar men.”

“And what of a beautiful young woman?”

Deirdre’s face flushed. Her brain struggled to process the reality of what Sigurd said. He thought she was beautiful. If it weren’t for the situation with the old beggar man, she might have gone and hugged him.

The man frowned. “I suppose you have a point. Come along, then.” He turned and continued on his way. His hands remained firm around Deirdre’s, leading her along like a shepherd with a sheep. Sigurd went back and fetched his horse. They all continued through the woods. Not a soul spoke. Only the forest ambience and the crunching of leaves underneath their feet broke the silence. The minutes dragged on and on. Eventually, they reached a clearing with nothing but a few fallen trees.

“Ah, I apologize,” said the man. “I seem to have gotten us lost.”

“That’s alright. We can just go back the way we came.”

“Is it fine if we take a rest here?” The old man sat down upon a fallen log. A few cracks popped in the air when he bent his knees. “These old, weary bones… time has not been kind to them.”
Sigurd looked to Deirdre. He raised his eyebrows and lowered them once, signaling her to respond. As much as Deirdre wanted to let the old man rest, Sigurd couldn’t stay with them forever. They had to get going. She nodded her head in the direction of Sigurd’s horse. He opened his mouth in a silent ‘ah’.

“Good sir,” He said, “You can ride on my horse.”

The man shook his head. “I cannot mount a steed with my brittle joints. Thank you for the offer, though.”

“If that is the case, then I understand.” Sigurd looked back to Deirdre. Her composure melted a little. “Deirdre, can you come over here? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Deirdre strode over to her dream knight. Of course she’d listen to him. However, the worried look upon his face filled her with a slight tinge of dread. Sigurd pulled her close. She felt puffs of his breath on her cheeks as he spoke.

“A young boy came to the castle yesterday. He claimed that he heard a conversation about a priestess and the dark dragon. This was near the Spirit Forest.”

Every inch of scalp on Deirdre’s head burned and froze at the same time. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what he said. I think he ran the entire way.”

“What did the boy look like?”

“Blond hair, green eyes, about yea high,” Sigurd said, lifting his arm level with his chest. “Ratty yellow tunic and green pants.”

Deirdre drew in a sharp breath. That was the same boy she’d fed after the service. Sigurd must have heard her, as his face fell. The two glanced over their shoulders. The old man still sat upon the log, his head lowered down to his knees. He muttered something low and constant under his breath. Neither Sigurd nor Deirdre could make out any of it.

Deirdre turned her head back. “Should I check up on him?”

“Be careful.”

Heeding Sigurd’s advice, Deirdre approached the log. The closer she came, the more she could make out the man’s rambling.

“Dämonen…”

Step.

“Beherzige… Befehl…”

Step.

“Geh raus…”

Step.

“Entfessle… Mächte… der Hölle…”

Pause.

Oh, Goddess.

Each hair on Deirdre’s body stood on end. She whipped her head around to see a glowing circular sigil appear at Sigurd’s feet. “Look out!”

The old man jolted up, eyes wide and crazed. "Jörmungandr!”

Sigurd dove to the side. Tendrils of dark magic burst from where he once stood. Darkness blocked the sun, filling the clearing with an eerie purple glow. Wisps slithered in the air, forming into hazy, wavering skulls. Hellish moans echoed from their mouths. With no victim to claim, they drifted to Deirdre, circling around her like a pack of wolves.

Deirdre’s blood curdled. Her basket fell to the ground. The sound of shattering glass rang in her ears. She tried to run, but her fear rendered her legs useless. All she could do was look upon the miasma with horror as it swirled around her.

“You…” It hissed. A skeletal hand emerged from the mass. It caressed her cheek, cold and “Maiden of cursed blood…”

Tears formed at the corners of Deirdre’s eyes. Her body shook all the way down to her bones.

The old man cursed. He swatted his hand and the spell dissipated. “Stay still, boy! Your death will hurt much less if you don’t struggle.”

Sigurd unsheathed his sword. He charged the man, swinging as far back as he could. Before he could attack, a blast of miasma slammed into Sigurd’s chest. The knight flew across the clearing and crashed into a tree. His sword clattered to the ground.

The cultist smirked and muttered another incantation. From his tome burst more tendrils of dark magic. Each shot forth like lightning. All at once they circled around Sigurd, binding him to the tree.

Sigurd grunted. He struggled against his bonds, wiggling his shoulders to try and slip through. This triggered a surge of energy that zapped through each coil. A guttural gasp erupted from the knight’s throat. He fell limp.

“The spider’s caught the pesky gnat in its web.” The cultist turned back to Deirdre. He grinned with wicked pleasure. “Come with me, my dear. The Dark Lord has special plans for you.”

Deirdre blinked. Did this man really think she would sell her soul like that? She looked down at her feet. Shards of thick glass lay scattered around her. Milk dripped off some of the larger fragments. An idea popped into her head.

“I apologize for this man’s behavior,” she said. “He does not speak for me. It is an honor to be chosen by our lord.” Bile rose in her throat as she finished the last word. She hoped that the cultist didn’t notice her swallow. She bit her lip. Goddess forgive her for what she was to do. “But, before we go, I have one request. I would like to see this man suffer for his impudence.”

“Deirdre, no!” Sigurd pleaded.

To this, the cultist curled his claw-like hands. Another bolt surged through the tendrils holding Sigurd down. He howled in pain. The cultist reveled in this, laughing harder and harder.
With the cultist distracted, Deirdre picked up the biggest piece of the bottle she could find. Each scream of Sigurd’s threatened to slip the shard from her hands. With each tiny tiptoe she creeped closer to the cultist. Once she stood behind him, she raised the glass above his head. Air sucked into her nostrils.

Three.

Two.

One.

Down came the glass. Shards flew from the cultist’s head. He dropped to the ground with a thud. Blood oozed from small nicks in his skin. His tome splayed out in the dirt.

Deirdre looked to Sigurd. He sat slumped against the tree. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. She rushed over and cupped her hand underneath his head. “Come on! We have to go!”

Sigurd pushed himself up with all the strength he could muster. Each jolt of his body made him moan. “Where’s my horse?”

“We’ll find him,” said Deirdre. She shot her head around. Sunlight started to break the veil of darkness. In the distance she heard a frantic rustling. Following the noise, she waded into the woods. Soon she saw the silhouette of Sigurd’s horse. It thrashed around, struggling to free itself from a thornbush. “There.”

It took most of Deirdre’s strength to hold Sigurd while he limped forward. She wrapped her arm over his shoulders. Her fingertips grazed firm muscle beneath his coat. Electric sparks surged through her veins. She chided herself. This wasn’t the time for feelings. Then again, getting rescued by the man of her dreams was quite romantic…

Sigurd rummaged through the thornbush. He fiddled with the horse’s reins until they came loose. “I was going to take you for a ride, but I didn’t think it would start like this.” Once the horse calmed, Sigurd hobbled back to Deirdre. His firm hands wrapped around her waist. “Can you jump for me?”

Deirdre nodded. She hopped off the ground with a light push.

Sigurd lifted her up onto the horse. The muscles in his face squeezed tight. Grunting, he pushed himself up and took the position in front of her. “Hold on tight.”

Deirdre hugged his waist as tight as she could. Behind them, the cultist struggled to push himself up. He locked eyes with Deirdre, and for a split second, she swore she saw them flash red. Frightened, she turned away and rested her head on Sigurd’s back. His heartbeat thumped against her ear.

They were safe-- for now.

As soon as her grandmother’s cottage came into view, Deirdre leapt off Sigurd’s horse and scrambled to the fence. Coarse wood pricked her hands as she clamped the gate tight. Sweat trickled down her forehead. She screamed for her grandmother, hoping she wasn’t out at the church. If worse came to worst, she figured she could fix Sigurd up, but having someone with decades of healing experience would be much better.

 The cottage door flew open. Deirdre’s grandmother clenched the handle. “Is everything alright?”

“Get some salve and a healing staff,” Deirdre called. “Now!”

Her grandmother’s eyes went wide. Without a word, the older priestess rushed back into the confines of the house. Deirdre launched herself off the gate and stood by Sigurd’s side. She eased him down from his horse. He put his arm around her shoulders for balance.

By the time the two made it to the gate, Deirdre’s grandmother held open the gate. In her free hand she clutched a purple ceramic jar. “Put him on my bed,” she said. “Where’s he hurt?”

The duo stumbled through the yard. Deirdre lifted her head to make eye contact with her grandmother. “His chest.” 

“Alright. Take off his coat and shirt.”

Deirdre blushed. Taking off his shirt to reveal those pecs of his sounded nice… But once again, it wasn’t the time to think like that. This was an emergency. Curse her romantic fantasies. Curse her for cursing herself. When would it ever end?

Once they were inside, Sigurd took it upon himself to help. He lifted his arms to his chest and grit his teeth. Trembling fingers slipped off the delicate buttons. “I’m not dying,” he said. “I can do it.”

“The look on your face says otherwise.”

“I’m just…” He drew in a sharp breath. “Sore.”

Seeing no point in further argument, Deirdre moved her hands to the bottom of his coat. She took it upon herself to undo the buttons faster than him. This wasn’t hard at all. He moved at a snail’s pace. How stubborn! She made her way up, meeting his hands near the top. The feel of his calloused hands against hers made her jolt.

“So much for keeping this thing clean,” Sigurd said. His coat plopped to the wooden floor in a heap. “At least this time I have an excuse.”

“I can’t see why she’d get mad,” Deirdre said. She started on his undershirt. Unlike yesterday, this one laced up. “At least not after you explain how you almost died.”

Sigurd sighed. “With my track record, she has a right to jump to conclusions.” He shimmied off his shirt. 

Deirdre’s hands shot to her mouth. 

Right in the middle of Sigurd’s chest was a bruise the size of a plate. At least Deirdre thought it was a bruise. She’d never seen anything like it. Dark, discolored skin, purplish in hue. Blue veins pulsing where red should be. A spider’s web of thin strings shooting from the center, intermingling with unblemished flesh.

Her grandmother loomed over the bed. She gazed down upon Sigurd’s chest. “That’s Fenrir, alright.”

Deirdre’s head whipped sideways. She forced down the bile rising in her throat. “You recognize this?”

“Yes.” Her grandmother popped open the jar. She dipped her fingers in, scooping at the insides. Out came an off-white cream speckled with green herbs. Sigurd winced when she rubbed it on his injury. Without looking away, she extended a hand to Deirdre. “My staff, please.”

Right. Deirdre grabbed the gold plated staff from the corner where it was propped against the wall. Her grandmother took it in both hands and raised it parallel with her chest. With a whisper she started to hum an incantation. 

“Heiliges Licht… heile diesen Mann…”

An ethereal glow emanated from the crystal atop the staff. Sigurd’s wound lit up with the same glow. It seeped through the corrupted skin, purifying it back to its former state. Purple faded into grey, then faded back to ivory. Veins sank back into their original places. 

Sigurd closed his eyes and parted his mouth. He moaned with quiet ecstasy. 

At this, something stirred deep within Deirdre, but she didn’t know what it was. 

Deirdre’s grandmother set down the staff. “Alright. The black magic should be out of his system.” She shuffled past Deirdre. “I’m going to go get the silence staff. You stay here with him.”

“The silence staff?” Deirdre asked. “But that’s only for emergencies.” 

“Dear, this is an emergency.”

The door shut behind Deirdre’s grandmother. Sigurd eased himself up and sat his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“I am so sorry,” said Deirdre. She handed him his undershirt. “It’s my fault you got hurt. If I hadn’t invited you--”

“Then you would be who knows where.” He took the shirt and fiddled with the laces. “You didn’t know that was going to happen. It’s not your fault.”

“I asked him to hurt you.”

“As a distraction tactic. It was clever. Painful for me, but clever.”

Deirdre wasn’t sure if she should feel better or worse. 

“You know, back at the academy in Belhalla, we had entire classes on fighting mages,” Sigurd said. “They were the hardest for me. Between long attack ranges and ability to set up traps, it’s difficult to get up close to them.”

That explained his seeming lack of a strategy. Of course, he also didn’t have much time to think of anything. Deirdre couldn’t blame him for that part.

“One time, Duke Velthomer came and taught a seminar in that class. After that, we played chess, and he crushed me,” Sigurd chuckled, coughing between laughs. "Between his blessing of intelligence and his mastery over the Valflame tome, dueling him sounds like it would be an absolute nightmare. Can you imagine all those tricks he would pull?"

Before Deirdre could even consider an answer, the door creaked open behind her. In her grandmother’s hands was the silence staff. The smooth silver rod flared out at the end like a fleur-de-lis. An emerald was inset between the two ‘wings’, and above it was a teardrop shaped sapphire. Her grandmother hobbled over and held it out to her.

“Take it,” she said. “Go without me.”

The weight of the situation hit Deirdre then and there. No, no, she couldn’t. There was so little notice or warning. Yes, she had to grow up, leave the nest, but like this? Not to mention the dangers of her grandmother living alone in the woods. “I can’t just leave you behind! They’ll come and hurt you!”

“I’ll be fine. I’m too old for their evil plans.” She handed her the staff and a sack of medicine. “All you need is your circlet and the staff. Where you’re going, they’ll give you everything else.”

Deirdre squinted her eyes. Tears started to form in the corners. “What do you mean?”

Her grandmother lowered her head. She smiled, but not with happiness. “I should have told you everything before it was too late.”

Deirdre looked back at the bed she’d slept in since childhood. Her book of fairytales sat upon the patchwork quilt. Gold and silver embossing shined against blue dyed leather. She thought back to the nights of her childhood where her grandmother would curl up beside her in bed and read the tales aloud. She’d admire the well inked illustrations, dragging her little fingers along the pages. Knights rescuing damsels from dragons. Elegant balls and parties. Maidens wandering the forests, assisted by friendly little animals. Between the enchanting tales and a mug of warm, honeyed milk, she would always fall into a deep, dreamy sleep.

If she left the book behind, she would never forgive herself. She grabbed it and stuffed it in the sack. 

Sigurd stood by the door, tightening the cuffs on his coat. “We better hurry before that cultist finds us,” he said. “Though in his state we can outrun him.”

Deirdre turned one last time to her grandmother. She sniffed. Salty streams of tears flowed down her cheeks. She didn’t want to leave. These walls might have been falling apart, but they were still home. All her memories flashed through her head. Spring mornings at the church. Summer afternoons tending the garden. The sweet smile on her grandmother’s face as she rolled out pie dough. It was all a thing of the past now, never to happen again. 

Her grandmother embraced her with a gentle hug. They rocked back and forth, just like when Deirdre was only a child. “When this is all over, you can come back and visit me, alright?”

Deirdre nodded. Words stuck like rocks inside her throat. She couldn’t thank her. She couldn’t say bye. She couldn’t even apologize for the mess she’d made. Instead, she wept, and wept, and wept. Tears soaked into the back of her grandmother’s shawl.

Her childhood was gone in the blink of an eye.

About a quarter of the way to Verdane Palace, two knights rode over the horizon. The bright red and green glint of their armor caught Deirdre’s eye. They waved their arms high in the air. 

“Lord Sigurd!” The knight in red belted. “We’re over here!”

“Naoise! Alec!” Sigurd pulled on the reins. His horse skidded to a stop beside the two knights. “No time to talk. We have to get back to the palace immediately.”

The red armored one frowned. “Wait, wha--”

Before he could finish, Sigurd flicked his horse’s reins. It whinnied and bucked its front legs. Deirdre tightened her arms around Sigurd’s waist so she wouldn’t slip off. The horse then dashed off, leaving the two dumbfounded knights in the dust.

Never in her life (that she knew of) had Deirdre set foot in a finer place than the chapel back home. Verdane Palace blew the chapel out of the water by comparison. Stucco walls towered high, connected by arches. Mist poured out from ornate fountains, providing cool relief from the arid sun. Elegant tilework glinted like jewels underneath her feet. Natural hues of crimson red, lapis blue, and forest green popped against the tans and oranges of the building. It was a palace from her storybook, and she walked within its walls.

It wasn’t long before she and Sigurd were taken to a small side room. They sat on a couch parallel to a low table. Another couch was on the other side, presumably reserved for whoever they were to meet. 

A server clinked down saucers and tea in front of the pair. Each glass curved in the middle like a woman’s torso. Pure amber liquid sparkled against the clear crystal. Deirdre’s tongue felt like leather in her mouth. The day’s stress sapped all the moisture from her body. She picked up the cup and took a sip. Sweet nectar coated her lips. She felt as if she was a hummingbird sipping from a succulent flower. Cool, refreshing nourishment slipped down her throat. Next thing she knew, the glass was near empty.

The server bowed. “The king will be right with you.” 

“Thank you,” said Sigurd. Once the server left, he looked to Deirdre. His lips curled into a smile. “I suppose I should have bought you something to drink.”

The door slammed open. Deirdre flinched at the impact. Standing next to the green and gold filigree was a thin man in a simple linen tunic. Brown hair jutted out from under a white bandana. A deep scowl lined his face, directed at Sigurd. His leather chest guard heaved up and down with heavy breaths.

“Sigurd,” he said, “What on earth were you thinking?”

Sigurd curled his lip. “She was in danger!”

The man slapped his palm to his face, then dragged it down slow and hard. “My gods, why didn’t those stupid dragons give you common sense?”

Deirdre’s eyes widened. What exactly happened here? She took another sip of her tea and averted her gaze.

“I handled it,” Sigurd said. “I’m strong and I had a horse with me. Easy escape.”

“Yeah, and I bet you could beat up Loptyr single handed.” The brunette crossed his arms and turned to Deirdre. “Anyways, is this the mystery maiden you were talking about yesterday?”

“Yes!” Sigurd nudged Deirdre with his elbow as soft as he could. He then pointed to the man with a flat palm.  “Deirdre, this is Prince Jamke. Jamke, this is Deirdre.”

Deirdre’s eyes widened. One of Verdane’s princes stood in front of her? She knew Sigurd had friends high up, but this seemed unreal. Of course, her entire day felt like a fever dream. This was one of the normal moments in comparison to earlier.

Jamke raised a hand and waved. Not what Deirdre thought a prince would do. Sigurd seemed to know him well, so maybe it was alright to be casual. She bowed from her seat. 

“I’ve never met anyone from the Spirit Forest before,” said Jamke. “You all are a secretive bunch.”

“Grandmother said it was for our safety.” Deirdre looked down to her shoes. “Now I understand why.”

This wasn’t the complete truth. She had plenty of questions regarding the situation. Was this why her ancestors fled Grannvale? If so, why did her mother travel back? Where was her father? Did her birthmark have something to do with all this? Same for her dreams with Sigurd. Her mind was a web of ideas and theories, untangling with every new clue.

“Deirdre.” Sigurd’s soothing voice snapped her out of her trance. Once again he nudged her side. “Deeeeiiiiirdre.”

She darted her head up. Standing next to Jamke were two older men. They must have arrived when she wasn’t paying attention. “Sorry, I was thinking about something.”

The man closer to Jamke smiled. Wrinkles lined his face. “That’s alright, dear. You’ve been through a lot.” He hobbled over to the other couch. Each time he took a step, his cane clacked against the ground. Verdant silk robes rustled around his legs.

Sigurd popped up to face the second man. He spread his arms wide like wings. “Father!”

Ah, so that was the Duke of Chalphy. Deirdre could see the resemblance between the two as they embraced. Similar nose structure and eye shape. Broad shoulders, long legs. Both towered over her (as well as the older man across the table). The two pat each other on the back, then split apart. Each smiled with the warmth of a thousand suns.

“Father, this is the girl I met in my dreams.” Sigurd said, gesturing to Deirdre. “I saved her life, then she saved mine.”

Jamke rolled his eyes.

“Ah, she’s beautiful!” The duke held out his hand for Deirdre. “Thank you for saving my son. I am Duke Byron von--” 

Pause.

All the movement in the duke’s body came to a halt. His mouth opened in a gasp. Each grey eyebrow arched high over his forehead. 

Deirdre’s scalp burned. Had she done something wrong? It was only a few seconds since she met him. She wasn’t that bad at manners, right?

“Father?” Sigurd asked. He shook his father’s shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

“I…” The duke blinked, trying to regain his composure. “By any chance, miss, are you of Grannvelian descent?”

Deirdre tilted her head. What an odd question to ask. “My ancestors moved here from Grannvale, yes,” she said. “My mother traveled back before I was born. That’s where she met my father.”

“And how did you end up here?”

“My father dropped me off when I was a baby. He was scared for my well-being.” He must have known the Loptyrians wanted her all the way back then. The thought of that creepy old man abducting an infant sent shivers up her spine. Spindly fingers and sharp nails upon youthful skin.

“And…” Duke Byron took a deep breath. He straightened his posture, arms stiff by his sides. “Miss, would you please take off your circlet?”

Deirdre pursed her lips. This must be what her grandmother meant earlier. But was it truly safe? She knew better than to show her birthmark to a stranger. The duke, however, was… well, a duke. And not just any duke-- he was Sigurd’s father. Perhaps he knew her father? Or it was a trap, and they were working with the Loptyrians, and--

No. Sigurd was here. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

She raised her hands to her temples. With her index finger and thumb, she grasped the golden circlet. Off it came. Cool metal slid against her skin. Once it was fully removed she took her hand and swiped up her bangs. Light shone in the corners of her eyes.

The duke put a hand to his forehead. He slumped down next to King Batu. “I need a moment.”

Deirdre looked down and away. She placed herself back on the couch. Was her birthmark that odd? Surely not, he’d asked her to take off her circlet. It was like he knew it was there. The phantoms back in the forest mentioned that her blood was cursed. Maybe the birthmark was a sign of that. It would explain why the duke’s eyes bulged out of his head. Why else would he look so horrified?

Or… was it awe ?

Below her, the couch cushion gave way. She sank as Sigurd plopped himself back down next to her. When she met his eyes with a silent question, all he did was shrug. Clearly he had no idea what was going on either. At least he didn’t seem upset.

“Sigurd…” Duke Byron leaned over. He set his arms on his calves with a heavy huff. Both of his hands intermingled, fingers wiggling. “The young lady sitting beside you is the Princess of Grannvale.”

Deirdre chose the wrong moment to finish her tea. As did Sigurd.