Chapter ten: 1529
Malton, Sera Outskirts
Winnifred
The city moved around me, fast and indifferent.
I'd learned how not to be seen. Not by vanishing, but by blending—dressing like a commoner, walking like a servant, and never holding my head too high. Royalty had taught me how to enter a room. Exile had taught me how to stay unnoticed in one.
Still, there were mornings like this, when the past tugged at my sleeve.
The bulletin board near Malton's east gate was cluttered with the usual scraps: cheap scrolls, lost pet notices, a merchant's wedding announcement. But today, one posting stood out.
"Seeking skilled herbal specialist.
Familiarity with lunar flora required.
Inquire at Briar Apothecary –Helene."
Lunar flora.
The words pulled breath from my lungs. No one called it that outside Faeryn. In Sera, they called it gree flora. But I knew what the poster meant.
And I knew where it grew.
I took the slip and folded it carefully, like something sacred.
Malton lay at the edge of the empire, where stone softened and the streets turned crooked. Its gutters smelled of tanner's water and rose ash. But inside Briar, the air was clean.
Bundles of sage and fever-thorn hung from the rafters. Glass jars lined the shelves—some labeled, some not—filled with roots, crystals, dried skins, and crushed petals. A wall of tools gleamed faintly in the filtered light.
Behind the counter stood a woman, arms folded, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
"Looking for a cure or a coin?" she asked without looking up.
"Neither," I said. "I saw your notice."
She looked up then—once, then twice. Her eyes were sharp. No smile. No welcome.
"You familiar with lunar flora?"
"It doesn't like iron-rich soil," I replied softly. "Or sun. The stem will curl if touched with sweat. You harvest it while the petals are still closed."
She paused.
"Most folk call it Gree and kill it with salt. You're not from here."
I didn't answer that.
Instead, I reached into the pouch at my waist and removed a folded cloth. Inside was a single pressed petal—silver, delicate, translucent. Faint blue veins ran through it like ice beneath glass.
She leaned forward.
"Where did you find this?"
"It still grows," I said. "If you know where to look."
She took the petal reverently, like it might disintegrate.
"What's your name?"
A pause.
"Miriel," I said. "Just Miriel."
A beat passed.
Then she nodded. "I'm Helene. And if you're not lying, you're hired. Come back tomorrow. Before first light."
I stepped back into the alley. The wind had shifted—cold, dry, rising from the hills. I pulled my cloak tighter and turned north, away from the harbor.
The apothecary would pay little, but I didn't care.
It wasn't about coins.
It was about memory. About proof that something from Faeryn still lived.
And if I was honest—something in me wanted to be known. Even just a little. Not as a princess. Not as a symbol. But as someone who remembered how things once bloomed beneath the moon.
I didn't notice the figure watching me from the opposite roof. Didn't hear the breath held too long. The steps that didn't follow.
But I would feel it soon—that familiar weight of a gaze I could not place.
A shadow I thought I'd left behind.
Malton Wilds – Before Dawn
The forests beyond Malton were thin at first—more bramble than bough, scattered with old shrines and farmer's paths. But deeper in, the trees grew ancient. Their silence had depth.
I moved quietly, boots wrapped in linen, the satchel Helene had given me slung over my back. I'd left before dawn, following the deer trail that twisted like a half-told tale.
Mist curled low across the undergrowth. The cold rose from the soil, and the moon—still full—broke through the branches like something watching.
I slowed when the moss thickened and the wind no longer spoke. gree would be near.
And then, I saw them.
They grew where the forest bowed to a shallow stream. A loose crescent of blooms near the water's edge, petals curled inward, kissed silver by moonlight. They didn't shimmer—they remembered.
I crouched.
Didn't reach for the shears yet. Just looked.
Twelve blooms. No iron nearby. The soil was clean.
I pulled on the velvet gloves and whispered—not aloud, but within, the way my mother had taught me. Then I cut the stems, one by one.
Each felt like pulling a thread from a wound. Not painful. But careful. Remembering.
When I sealed the last bloom in the dark jar, I sat by the stream and let myself breathe.
It had been years since I'd done something this quiet. Years since I'd touched something that wasn't soaked in fear or made of escape.
Here, I wasn't hunted. Not a princess. Not even Miriel.
Just a girl who remembered the old flowers.
But I was not alone.
A bird startled in the trees. Then nothing.
Not forest silence—watching silence.
I rose, slipped the jar into my satchel, hand resting on the dagger at my hip.
I saw nothing. Heard nothing.
But my skin prickled. Not from the cold.
You've been found, something whispered in my bones.
I turned and walked fast—quiet, deliberate—disappearing between the trees like I'd never been there at all.
By the time I returned, the mist had burned off, and Malton's streets were warming with footsteps.
I kept my hood low, eyes on the cobbles. I didn't speak to the fruit sellers or the fishmonger who called out near the well. I walked like someone with no name. No history.
Briar sat quiet, its shutters half-latched. A crow watched me from the roof, its eyes unnervingly still. I didn't blink at it—just knocked twice and stepped inside.
Helene was already grinding bark at the back table.
She didn't look up.
"Close the door."
I did.
I reached into the satchel and withdrew the sealed jar, setting it gently on the counter.
"Six full blooms," I said. "Two unopened. Four partial. One stem broken from frost."
That made her pause.
She turned, wiped her hands on her apron, and lifted the jar.
The moment the lid cracked, the scent slipped out—faint, cold, and unmistakable. The petals inside were pale as ghostlight, their silver veins intact.
Her brows rose. Just slightly.
"You cut them clean," she muttered. "Didn't bruise the crowns. No rot at the base."
Then she looked at me, sharper now.
"Where'd you learn that?"
I kept my voice flat, neutral. "My mother grew gardens."
"Not here, she didn't."
She didn't press. Just sealed the jar in beeswax and tucked it onto the second shelf.
"You'll stay," she said.
"What?"
"You're not just a gatherer. You're better trained than half the hands I've taught. If you're willing to work, I need someone who doesn't faint at bloodroot or shiver at worm rot."
I blinked. The pause that followed stretched a breath too long.
She didn't fill it. Just waited.
"You can sleep in the back if you need. I don't ask questions," she added, her voice softer now. "We all come here running from something."
That caught me.
I nodded. Slowly.
"Then I'll stay."
She turned back to the bark and resumed her grinding.
"Then start by sweeping. Floor first. Then restock the violetroot. Baskets are labeled. Try not to misplace your past in the shelves."
There was no smile in her voice. But no edge either.
Just work. And maybe something like trust.
And that, I thought, would be enough. For now.
During the midday break, I asked Helene—quietly, careful not to draw the attention of the others—if she would allow Raphael to remain with me. My words were measured, but my fingers curled tightly around the edge of my shawl. Even if only I could be paid, I told her, that would be enough. I could no longer watch him bend his back to scrub stables or haul crates for the butcher, not when his hands were made for a sword, not when he had once walked beside me in halls lined with banners and gold.
I could no longer bear the sight of him in that tattered cloth, his nobility dulled by sweat and mud. He said nothing of it—he never complained—but I saw how he flinched when the stablemaster barked orders, how his gaze faltered each time someone mistook him for a common boy.
"He does not belong there," I said, quieter this time. "Let him rest. I'll work enough for two."
Helene regarded me with the same weary eyes she wore each morning, neither cruel nor kind. She said nothing for a long moment, only turned to skim through the list of tasks on the table beside her bread. The silence stretched thin between us.
Finally, she nodded once. "If he keeps to himself, and you keep your word, I'll not send him back."
Gratitude itched in my throat, but I swallowed it. I merely inclined my head and left it at that. I would not weep for scraps of mercy.
I found him behind the coop, where the shade held onto the cold and the chickens scratched at the earth like they hadn't eaten in days. He was sitting on an overturned bucket, sleeves rolled, a smear of dirt across his cheek. There was hay in his hair. He didn't hear me approach.
"You won't be going back there," I said.
He looked up, blinking against the sun. "What?"
"To the stables," I clarified, standing a little too straight. "I spoke with Helene. You'll stay with me during the hours. She's agreed."
He said nothing for a moment. Just stared at me, as though trying to read something hidden in the folds of my voice.
"You didn't have to do that," he said finally. "I can manage."
I ignored that. "It's decided."
"Wiin—"
"I said it's decided." I turned my gaze toward the coop, watching a hen peck at a piece of string like it might turn to grain. "Your place isn't in filth. Not anymore. I'll work."
His jaw clenched, as if he might argue. But then his eyes softened, and he stood.
"Then I'll stay nearby," he said. "If not working, at least watching. That's something I can still do."
I said nothing. Let him have the last word. The wind caught at my sleeves as we walked back toward the garden shed, side by side. No victory in this—only the faint relief of knowing I had pulled him, just slightly, from the mud. And I would keep doing so, until we found something like dignity again.
—----
Today, I was tasked with gathering sapflora. I didn't ask why, but it's a plant known for its color—a violet, five-lobed flower used as a dye in cloth and other things I don't know much about.
I left just after the second bell, The mist hadn't yet lifted from the cobbles, and my boots soaked through before I even reached the edge of the trees. Helene waved me off goodluck, said to keep out of the deepbrush, and not to come back with thorns in my skirt.
Raphael caught up with me at the gate, coat half-buttoned, hair still wet from washing.
"You should have waited," he said.
"I didn't see the point," I replied, not slowing. "We only need a few sprigs. It grows in shade."
The woods east of Malton weren't dangerous, but they were old. The fog there clung heavier. The sound moved strangely. We didn't speak much as we walked. I listened to the shift of his steps beside me, steady and deliberate, a habit he hadn't unlearned despite the weeks of labor. When we reached the fork where the cobbles gave way to dirt, I unrolled the note again, tracing the crude drawing of the flower's shape.
"I don't know if it will still be blooming," I murmured."Then we'll find something close enough to fool her," Raphael said. "You were born to sound convincing."
I didn't smile at that.
We found the Sapflora near a fallen log, petals slick with dew, their color so vivid it looked like ink. I knelt beside it, brushing away the moss, when a voice rang out from behind.
"Careful. It's mana-bound."
I turned fast, hand instinctively moving to my side, though I had no blade to reach for.
The woman who stepped from the thicket wasn't armed. She wore a dark scholar's cloak, the hem embroidered with silver-thread glyphs. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, stained faintly with green, and a thin-lensed monocle hung from a chain at her neck.
"Miriel, is it?" she asked, though she didn't wait for a reply. "I've seen you at the apothecary. You sleep in the back room."
"And you are?"
"Nayla," she said. "Resident scholar. I study residues. Mana traces. Things Helene won't touch unless she's desperate."
She stepped closer to the flower, crouched beside me without ceremony.
"This one's been drinking from something. Not just rainwater. Something older. See how the petals curl inward like a fist? That's a sign."
"A sign of what?"
She gave me a look, not unkind, but measured. "That it remembers."
I stared at her. "It's a plant."
"All things carry memory, in their way," she said. "You're not from here, are you?"
"No."
She touched the earth beside the stem, murmured something low and steady. I felt the air shift—only slightly, but enough to taste copper at the back of my throat.
Raphael stepped forward. "Should we not take it, then?"
"Oh, you can," Nayla said, rising. "But wear gloves, and don't let it bruise. Mana like that sinks into skin fast if it's startled. And if you have a headache later—boil salt. Inhale the steam."
She turned away then, just as sudden as she'd arrived. "I'm heading back to the shop. If you bring it alive, Helene will give you a coin. If it's dead, she'll send you out again."
The fog stirred around her cloak as she walked, swallowing her shape between the trees.
I stared at the flower. "Do you believe her?" I asked.
"I don't know," Raphael said, kneeling to cut it with a cloth between his fingers. "But I believe you'll want to."
We wrapped the flower in damp cloth and tucked it in a clay jar, cushioned with moss. I carried it with both hands, careful not to let the stem bend or leak. I couldn't tell if it was beautiful or unnerving—violet like bruised sky, with edges too perfect for something grown wild.
The walk back to Malton felt longer. The fog had burned off, but the trees still leaned too close, and I had the sense of being watched. Not by men or beasts—but by the land itself.
I didn't speak of it.
By the time we reached the apothecary, the shutters were thrown open, and the front room hummed with low conversation. An old man sat hunched over a steaming poultice by the hearth, mumbling to himself. Someone was coughing behind the curtain, a wet, hollow sound.
I slipped through the door without looking at them, moved to the worktable where Helene kept her measuring stones and ink pots. She was in the back, I could hear her arguing with a supplier—again about dried myrrh, again about price.
Nayla sat in the corner, cross-legged atop a stool, scribbling into a worn ledger with fingers stained violet. She looked up the moment I unwrapped the jar.
"You brought it whole," she said, as if she'd doubted I would. She stood, quick and fluid. "Let me see."
"I thought you didn't want it," I said, guarding the jar just a moment longer.
"I said Helene would pay for it. I didn't say I wouldn't study it."
She held out her hand, expectant. I gave her the jar, slowly.
Nayla didn't touch the flower. She just leaned in, breathed once near it. Then she frowned. "Still alive. And whispering."
"Whispering?"
She tapped her ledger with one ink-stained finger. "There's residue in it. Not from the flower itself, but something it fed on. Something buried, maybe. The forest in that part of the trail is... old."
Raphael came up beside me, arms crossed. "Is it dangerous?"
"Only if you're reckless." Her tone was flat, not unkind. "Mana isn't poison. It's memory. But if you carry too many things that remember, sometimes you forget which thoughts were yours to begin with."
I glanced at the flower, suddenly uncertain of the way I'd touched it.
Nayla took a small strip of clear parchment and laid it across the petals. A pale light bloomed beneath it, then faded. She nodded, satisfied. "You'll want to wash your hands with lime ash. It's not strong enough to hurt you. But it may make you dream oddly for a few nights."
She looked at me then—really looked.
"You should come see my workroom sometime," she said, almost idly. "If you're staying long. I could use someone who knows how to handle things without flinching."
"I haven't agreed to anything," I said.
"You will," she replied, already turning away. "The city doesn't leave much room for those who want to keep their hands clean."
Helene returned then, grumbling about thieving vendors. She paused when she saw the flower.
"That'll fetch good coin," she said. "Well done. Leave it with the scholar. I'll have your pay tonight."
I nodded, but said nothing. As I turned to go, I glanced once more at Nayla. She was already writing again, her fingers moving fast, as though she were transcribing something dictated from elsewhere—some voice I couldn't hear.
Helene gave me the task like it was nothing.
"A root called Lantara. Pale blue tendrils, waxy leaves. It only grows near the old wells east of the forest bend. You'll know it by its scent—copper and frost."
"That far?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Why not send one of your apprentices?"
She didn't look up from the scales. "Because they'd faint before reaching the glade. You, at least, know how to keep quiet."
She wrapped the list around a vial and shoved it into my hand. "Nayla and Krinta will escort you. Try not to embarrass yourself."
We left before the fourth bell. The road to the glade was no road at all—only a trail the wind remembered. The trees were thicker the deeper we went, their trunks tight with moss, their branches bare even in late bloom.
Krinta led, sword on her back and jaw clenched. I'd barely heard her speak a sentence since we left, and every step she took said she didn't want to be here.
Nayla walked beside me. She'd brought her notes, her lenses, her usual smell of ink and dried flowers. "The Lantara grows near collapsed wells," she said, "but you'll need to be fast. The roots rot quickly if unearthed too long."
"And the danger?" I asked.
Nayla gave a humorless smile. "There are things that also like rotting roots."
We reached the glade before noon. The air shimmered slightly, as though too many memories had stained it. I found the plant quickly—it was as Helene described, silver-veined and pale, its tendrils curled over wet stone.
I knelt. Drew my knife.
That was when the ground shifted.
Not much. A tremor, no louder than a breath—but I felt it in my teeth. Something below cracked.
"Move!" Krinta shouted.
But I was already sliding. The stone shelf I knelt on gave way beneath me, and I dropped into the hollow below.
I landed hard. My shoulder hit rock, vision blurred—but I didn't cry out. The only sound was breath and something hissing in the dark.
There was something else down here.
A creature—half-buried, skin like tree bark and eyes glowing faintly blue. Drawn to the scent. Drawn to me.
"Miriel!" Nayla's voice above.
I raised my hand instinctively.
And it happened again.
Not like last time—not quiet, not gentle. This time it ripped through me. Mana flared raw from my chest and spilled out in a sudden, burning wave. It struck the creature full across its face. Light carved into its side like teeth. It shrieked, staggered back, and vanished into the stone.
Silence returned, but not peace.
Above me, I heard nothing. Then—scrambling, boots, and rope thrown down.
By the time they pulled me back up, the glade had gone too still.
Krinta stared. Her hand rested near her blade. "You didn't cast. That wasn't spoken magic."
"No," Nayla murmured, eyes sharp. "It wasn't."
I stood, brushing moss from my skirts with trembling fingers.
"You shouldn't be able to do that," she said. "Not untrained. Not unbroken. But you did."
"It was an accident," I said through my teeth.
"No," Nayla said. "It was instinct. That's worse."
She stepped closer. Her eyes searched mine.
"You need to come to Orion," she said. "To the academy. We take in those with raw power like yours. We train them before the court notices. Or worse—before someone else uses you first."
"I'm not going to Orion."
Nayla tilted her head. "You already are. You just haven't said it yet."
The glade wind stirred again. This time, it carried the faint smell of iron and ash.
And I knew—even if I returned with the root in hand, even if Helene paid me double—I would not be staying in Malton much longer.