Art by Pk-Lovie
Morning arrived quietly, as if even the sun dared not disturb them. Pale light pressed through the veil of mist that clung stubbornly to the forest. The air was damp and heavy, beading on their cloaks and saddlebags. Jihye stirred first. She pushed herself upright from her bedding, feeling the ache of hard ground in her back and the cold that had seeped into her bones. Her breath left her mouth in a faint cloud. Across the clearing, Caleb moved silently, his face pale with lack of sleep as he scraped the ashes of the fire into a neat pile. Rafael was already awake, seated against a tree trunk, his eyes scanning the mist-shrouded woods with that same relentless vigilance Jihye was beginning to think he never set aside.
No one spoke. The silence was not the ease of friendship but the heaviness of dread, shaped by the road ahead and the things none of them dared to voice aloud. Caleb handed Jihye a small wedge of bread and dried fruit. She forced herself to chew, though each bite felt like dust on her tongue. She had learned long ago that hunger was the worst companion in dangerous places.
When the horses were saddled and their few belongings packed, they set off again. Hooves struck dully on the dirt path, the sound muffled by the fog that wrapped around them like a living thing. It swirled around the horses’ legs, curled higher, until even the nearest trees were pale shadows in a shifting sea of white.
The silence deepened. Each of them listened intently. Jihye’s fox-born senses prickled, sharp and uncomfortable. Though her ears and tails remained hidden, her instincts thrummed awake. Every faint snap of a twig or rustle in the grass sent her heart racing. She glanced at Rafael. His jaw was set, shoulders tense, one hand resting near the pommel of his sword. Caleb rode a little behind, his knuckles white on the reins, posture stiff with unease.
They all felt it. They were not alone.
Time dissolved inside the fog. They might have ridden for minutes or for hours, the path twisting endlessly into sameness. Jihye’s pulse pounded in her ears until she was sure the others must hear it too. Her throat was dry, and her breath came shallow and fast.
At last, the mist began to shift. First, threads of sunlight pierced through, then more. A breeze rose and tugged the fog into tatters. Slowly, the world revealed itself again. Meadowland stretched wide, rolling in waves of gold and green. Wildflowers bent under the sun’s warmth. The air was sweet with clover and grass. It should have been beautiful. Yet Jihye’s unease only deepened.
She noticed it first. At the edges of her vision, across the blades of grass, sparks of colour flickered. Tiny flashes like sunlight through crystal, tinged with pink, blue, and gold. Gone as soon as they appeared. She blinked hard and rubbed her eyes. Then another shimmer. Her skin prickled, and her gut turned cold. This was no trick of sight.
“Do you see—” she began, but the words died in her throat.
Rafael’s horse had stopped dead. He sat frozen in the saddle, body stiff, eyes wide and glassy. Caleb’s mount mirrored it, standing rigid with nostrils flared. Caleb himself stared straight ahead, lips parted, chest still. Neither blinked. Neither breathed.
“Rafael?” Jihye urged her horse forward, panic cracking her voice. “Caleb!” She grabbed Caleb’s arm and shook hard. His skin was cold beneath her fingers, his body unyielding. He did not stir. He might as well have been carved from stone.
The meadow held its breath. The wind ceased, the birds fell silent. Then the air before her rippled, like heat bending a horizon. Jihye’s gaze snapped upward.
A figure shimmered into being. She did not walk so much as glide, stepping between worlds with unearthly grace. Her hair spilt like silk in waves of violet. Her gown flowed as though spun from liquid light, purple and rose deepening into blue where sunlight struck the sheer organza layers. Gold filigree patterned her bodice, intricate and precise. Her very skin shone faintly, carrying its own radiance.
Jihye could not breathe. Beauty pressed upon her like a weight, crushing and irresistible. Her chest ached with the urge to kneel, to bow her head before this vision. Her body trembled, though her mind screamed to resist.
The woman tilted her head, violet hair sliding across her shoulder. Her eyes, bright and ageless, fixed on Jihye. Her voice came soft and melodic, yet it filled the air completely.
“Why are you here?”
The words struck Jihye like a command. Her mouth opened without permission. “I am fleeing,” she said, the confession spilling raw. “A criminal who would see me dead.”
Her chest heaved as though she had run miles. She had not meant to speak. The words had been torn from her.
The woman straightened her head. Her lips parted. “But you are not a heroine.”
It was no question. It was truth.
Jihye’s heart stumbled. Then the woman’s face began to shift. Slowly, agonizingly, the flawless beauty warped. Her lips stretched too wide, curling upward into a grotesque smile. Teeth gleamed within, far too many, all sharp points made for tearing. Radiance twisted into corruption, the mask of loveliness slipping to show the monster beneath.
“Good luck,” the woman said. Her voice had soured, sweet and mocking. Then she shimmered and was gone.
The world rushed back. Wind stirred the grasses. Birds shrieked overhead. Rafael gasped, his body jolting violently as breath returned to him. Caleb shuddered in his saddle, eyes blinking rapidly, chest heaving as though pulled from a drowning.
Rafael’s face turned pale. “Oh no.” His voice was hoarse with dread. “She found us.”
Jihye snapped her gaze to him. “Who?”
His eyes darted to the empty road ahead, then back to her. “Ellamerelda.”
The name fell like a stone. Caleb’s lips moved silently, murmuring a prayer. His face was drained of all colour.
“Who is she?” Jihye demanded.
Rafael’s expression hardened, carved with grim knowledge. “Ellamerelda is the heiress princess of the fae. Beautiful, yes, but terrifying beyond imagination. And worse, she is bored.”
Jihye’s brow furrowed. “Bored?”
He nodded once. “Her father still clings to the throne. She cannot rule until he is gone, and fae kings do not die easily. They live long beyond our reckoning. In that endless span of years, boredom is poison. To ease it, they meddle. To them, our lives are sparks in the dark, fleeting and fragile. Entire lifetimes are toys to be used and discarded when the whim passes. We are playthings to her.”
The word stung like a wound. Playthings. Jihye’s gut twisted. She remembered the smile and shuddered.
Rafael’s eyes were sharp, restless. “What did she say to you?”
Jihye forced herself to answer, her voice tight. “She asked why I was here. I told her I was fleeing Valerian. She said I was not a heroine. Then she wished me good luck.”
Rafael swore under his breath, low and bitter. He glanced quickly around the meadow as if expecting the air to ripple once more.
Caleb’s voice cracked. “Why freeze us? Why let us live? Could she not have destroyed us with a thought?”
Rafael’s jaw tightened. “Because destruction is dull. Survival is not. Fear is not. We are pieces on her board now. That smile was a promise. We will see her again, and it will be on her terms.”
The meadow seemed suddenly colder, the sunlight thin and weak.
Jihye’s hands clenched around her reins. “Then what do we do?”
Rafael looked at her, his expression grim. “We keep moving. Fast. The Lurines are our only hope now. If Ellamerelda has turned her gaze upon you, then every moment counts.”
He spurred his horse into a canter. Jihye followed, her chest tight, Caleb trailing close behind, his lips still moving in prayer. The meadow blurred around them, the wind whipping their faces. But no speed could erase the image of that grotesque smile, nor the weight of her mocking farewell.
Ellamerelda had seen them.
And once a fae princess took notice, there was no escape.
Yet as the wind tore past her ears and the grass bent beneath the thundering hooves, Jihye felt something stir beneath the fear. It was not courage exactly, nor the certainty of destiny. It was a refusal. A defiance as sharp as a fox’s teeth. She was no heroine, perhaps. But neither was she a plaything to be bent and broken for another’s amusement.
She clenched the reins tighter, her jaw set. If Ellamerelda returned, Jihye would not kneel. She would fight, or flee, or trick, or bite, but she would not break.
Not again.