Chapter Text
If you fall—get up angry. Her mother’s words rang in her head, louder than any pain, any exhaustion she could have felt. It was like a blessing. Always keeping her on feet. Not only in the fight.
“Again.” A sound so low escaped her mouth, it was more like a growl.
Manon’s eyes twitched in the sunlight. “One more and you’ll pass out.” She extended her hand for Eranthe to take, but the blonde pushed it away. A smirk appeared on her face—wicked, raw and challenging. Manon could not step down from it.
Faeryn lingered at the edge of the training ring, only half-listening, as her fingers searched through the flowers laying on the ground. She was making flower crowns. One for each of her sisters, her parents, her brother Andras and the littles witchling Rune. The last one was almost complete.
“Try not to sulk when you lose,” the taller female said, her wine coloured hair were completely soaked from the sweat, “again.”
A slow, wolfish grin answered her. “Don’t count on it.”
They moved at the same time. Steel rang in the air, Faeryn shuddered at the sudden noise.
“Okey, but if you die,” Faeryn called brightly, “can I have your boots? Not both of you, obviously, that’s inconvenient, but, let’s say, whichever dies first?”
“Faeryn,” Eranthe snapped between the strikes, “we’re sparring.”
“Yes, clearly,” she rolled her eyes, picking up red rose from the ground, “but I’m planning ahead. It’s called being practical.”
“Something you know little about.” Manon teased Eranthe, who gave her a sharp look, determination shining in her green eyes, gold flickering inside them.
The first clash was fast—testing. The Spring’s heir struck high, then pivoted low, her footwork grounded, rooted, like she drew strength from the very soil. Manon parried easily, stepping back into shadow, her blade turning with lazy precision. Too easy.
Faeryn’s fingers twitched. The rose slipped from her fingers. It wasn’t grand, but it was still a cut—and it bled.
“Oh…” She whispered, as something tightened in the air.
Again—faster this time. A flurry of strikes. Eranthe pressed forward, relentless, strength behind every swing. Her blade cut the air like a storm breaking—wild and powerful. She didn’t look tired, not in the slightest, even though they spent the whole morning doing the same thing over and over again.
The redhead yielded ground—and then, didn’t.
Shadows snapped. They lashed upward, not touching, but distracting, shifting the light just enough for Eranthe to lose the sight of her sister. Manon’s sword slipped through the created opening, gliding toward her sister’s side. Unexpected, but blocked—barely.
“Cheating,” Eranthe snarled, shoving her back.
“Adapt,” came the cool reply.
They circled. Observing.
Faeryn exhaled slowly. The air tasted wrong. Too salty. Like something waiting. Then came the wind, but the trees did not move, the leaves didn’t even wrestle, yet, she felt the breeze.
Eranthe lunged again—but this time, she changed. Her stance lowered, her movements less predictable. An instinct. Not brute force—but precision. Something her mother taught her early on.
Her blade twisted at the last second, aiming not where her sister was—but where she would be. For the first time, Manon faltered.
A nick. Just a shallow cut along her arm—but it bled. Silence fell for half a heartbeat. Then—Manon smiled.
“Oh,” she murmured, almost delighted, “there you are.”
The shadows deepened. This time, when she moved, it was no longer lazy.
She vanished. A flicker. A distortion. She reappeared behind her sister, blade already descending. Eranthe spun, as if she felt it coming. Their swords crashed together again, close now—too close.
Breath to breath.
“You’re slowing.” Manon whispered, her voice raspy.
“You’re predictable.” Eranthe spat out, her golden hair curled loosely around her head.
“You hesitate.” Manon pushed harder, but Eranthe stood her ground.
“This isn’t war,” the blonde’s brow arched, eyes flickered dangerously, “unless you want it to be.”
They broke apart, both breathing harder now, both smiling wide.
Faeryn stepped forward before she realised she was moving. Her gaze drifted away. She wasn’t seeing her sisters, wasn’t seeing the wild greens of the Spring Court. Not anymore. The world has lost all its colours.
“The iron does not sleep.” Two heads turned in their sister’s direction, sudden drop of her voice scared them. “The old blood remembers.”
Manon’s grip tightened on the sword.
“Faeryn—” Eranthe took a step towards her older sister—she didn’t look herself, not fully.
Her dark eyes were lost, gleaming slightly, not from the tears, not from the sun, but from within. Her lips lost its colour, and so did her skin, she was paler than usual—pale like a corpse. She did not smile anymore, her mouth was trembling and the look on her face was completely emotionless. It hurt to look at her in that state, it always hurt.
“I see thirteen shadows, where there should be none,” Faeryn whispered, “I see chains that are not worn,” Faeryn took a step forward, barefoot on the grass, “And a crown with no head to bear it.”
Eranthe dropped her sword and rushed to her sister’s side, only to be held back. A gentle touch, but strong enough to stop her in her tracks. Manon’s hand rested on her arm, a slight tilt of head was telling Eranthe to keep still, reminding her what happened the last time someone tried to bring Faeryn back too soon.
“What died didn't stay dead. What was made will be unmade. The doors will reopen. They will be able to walk again.” Faeryn’s head tilted, her lips barely moved. “Lords will call it treason. Fae will call it curse. Mortals will call it war. But the Land—” there was a pause, during which the world seemed to get smaller, “the Land will call it balance.”
Silence pressed in. It was overwhelming. Heavy. Ancient.
“It will gather all their own,” they all held their breaths for far too long, “or—”
Faeryn blinked. Hard. The first thing she saw were her sisters’ eyes, piercing through her. There was no aggression in there gazes, just concern.
“Oh, Gods,” Faeryn brought her hands to her face and smashed them hard against her skin, “I did it again, didn’t I?”
As if just woken up from a dream, with their consciousness back, the females rushed to their sister’s side. Each grabbing hard, trying to make sure she’s here, healthy and herself.
“Just go on with it.” Faeryn breathed out, wishing she had the power to speed the time.
“You just said something utterly horrifying Ryn.” Manon whispered, still clinging to Faeryn’s arm and hand.
“I say lots of things,” the girl rolled her eyes, “most of them are delightful.” She rose her hands up in a gesture, breaking free from her sisters’ claws. “You just focus on the creepy ones, which honestly, feels unfair.”
Eranthe stared at her, disbelief blinding her features. “You said that blood remembers!”
“I did?” Faeryn looked concerned for a bit, then her face relaxed. “Well, that sounds like me. Very dramatic. Very cryptic. Very obscure.”
Manon’s gaze was sharper now. “Unworn chains, a crown with no head?”
“Oh no,” Faeryn said immediately. “See, that sounds symbolic. I hate when I get symbolic. It’s never something normal like—‘you’ll trip tomorrow’—it’s always chains and crowns.”
Eranthe stepped in front of of her, arms crossed. “Do you remember anything?”
Faeryn scratched her head, thinking it through. Her hand disappeared in the flood of black hair.
“…smashed potatoes? I think I saw them being served for tonight’s dinner.” She offered with a shy smile playing on her face.
Eranthe did not look amused, which made her afraid to look up at Manon.
“Oh! And something about people being mad about it. But, like—when people are not mad, am I right?” She widened her smile, avoiding their gazes.
“You said,” Manon brought her hand back on Faeryn’s arm, forcing her to look up, “Lords would call it treason.”
Faeryn winced. “Yeah, honestly, that sounds like them problem.”
“You said—” Manon pressed.
“I said a lot of things!” Faeryn said quickly, her voice too high. “Most of them already forgotten and now useless. It’s a gift.” She clapped her hands together, sudden and bright. “Anyway! Are we still in the competition of whose boots I get, or shall we free Rune from the pains of her studies and place the only crown I currently care about on her pretty, little head?” She sunk down, grabbed all seven perfectly composed flower crowns and smiled sweetly.
They remained quite for a while, but Faeryn’s smile lingered.
“You’re insufferable.” Eranthe breathed out.
Faeryn’s face brightened. “I know.” She picked one of the wreaths—the wide one, made of roses, ferns and jasmine—and placed it on Eranthe’s head. “I thought it’s too early for jasmine, but turns out it’s perfectly right on time.” Her nose wrinkled, as if someone just tickled her, and she held off a laugh.
“Thank you.” Eranthe bowed lowly, a royal curtsy. It made Faeryn giggle.
Faeryn picked another crown, this one was made of daisies, ivy and marigolds. She lifted it in the air, waiting. Her black eyes, met Manon’s. She always liked those exchanges, drowning in the delicate shimmer of her violet eyes. So unusual. So her.
Eranthe elbowed Manon in the ribs, forcing her to act.
“I’m still mad.” She murmured, hands on her hips, but she bent down, just enough to give Faeryn comfortable access to her head.
Another crown was placed—daffodils, poppies and lavender. Faeryn jumped in the place, her smile bright as ever. “We look so pretty!” She said.
Manon chuckled—unable to remain composed, she rarely could with them.
“So,” Eranthe trailed off, slowly stepping towards the mansion, “about that rescue party…”
“I’ll distract Mrs. Hollis,” Faeryn was already running, “you sneak her out!”
Eranthe chuckled soundly. “Don’t be too vicious to her.”
A smirk answered her before the words did, it was sharp and cunning. “Always.”
Faeryn was lost with the wind, humming a soft song to herself. Eranthe tore her gaze off her sister the moment she felt Manon at her side, their swords at the sides. She didn’t need to hear her say it, she already knew.
“It’s gonna keep happening,” Eranthe fixed the wreath, pushed it slightly back to get a better view at her sister, “We can’t do anything about it.”
Manon shot her eyes to the ground, her feet playing with the rocks on the ground. “I know,” she whispered, “It’s just,” her eyes found Eranthe’s again, “they happen more often now and are so much worse than they used to be.” The blonde’s brows dropped low. “More tragic, drastic. And those goes for the words alone, it makes me wonder how horrible the visions must be. What she sees, what she can’t unseen.”
“At least, she forgets.” Eranthe hoped to be reassuring, to herself included. “She’s still herself afterwards.”
“How long? How long until she isn’t?”
Eranthe’s jaw tightened, and she pressed her hands together to keep from shaking. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly, almost to herself. “I can’t promise she won’t…drift away, or that the visions won’t take pieces of her. But I do know that she comes back. Every time.” Her voice faltered, but she forced herself onward. “Faeryn—she’s not defined by our fear, or the magic itself. She doesn’t let it happen. She keeps choosing herself. Choosing us. Choosing life.” Manon’s features were relaxed, but tired. “And maybe that’s enough. For now, at least.”
“When did you get so wise, little one?”
“Careful,” Eranthe slipped her hand around Manon’s neck, “I might start charging for lessons.”
Manon’s chuckle was deep and delightful, given so rarely that Eranthe wished to bottle it up and keep to herself. “I do wish she was right though,” Manon’s eyes were sharp, full with concern at her words—Eranthe kept her head high, “I’d love to eat mashed potatoes tonight.”
“Impossible.” Manon pushed her away playfully. “You’re worse than her.”
But there was mischief shining in her violet eyes, a smirk playing on her face, a laugh held off. They fell into similar speed, step by step, headed in the direction of their home. But something inside Eranthe shrugged. She felt watched, observed, followed. Her head turned around, looking at the forest spreading wild and free, the leaves rustled, peacefully and slow. Her eyes focused, senses sharpening. The wind has called her name—it always had an odd tendency to do so.
“Coming?” Manon called out, already ahead of her. Her voiced edged with confusion, ever so slightly, barely noticeable.
Eranthe shook her head, and smiled gently. She said nothing, as she ran towards her sister, this earned her a pointed look, questioning. “It’s just wind.” She said, and when Manon looked towards the forest, she knew it was answer enough.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The table was set outdoors beneath an arched trellis covered in blooming wisteria and roses. Candles were levitating above their heads—their father’s work. Lanterns glimmered as the sun dipped low, casting golden shadows across the table. The wind was gentle, barely brushing the petals of flowers from their wreaths. Plates were piled high with fresh fruits, roasted vegetables, sweet breads, and various kinds of meats.
“I told you there will be mashed potatoes.” Faeryn said, biting her lower lip, hunger shone in her eyes.
Manon’s sharp gaze landed on her younger sister. “Excuse me, for not paying full attention,” the redhead’s hands were pressed tightly around her chest, “I was distracted.”
Tension rose between the two, Manon’s gaze was daring, Faeryn smiled awkward, eyeing her parents seated at the other side of the table, too focused on little Rune fighting an imaginary dragon with her spoon to notice their exchange.
“Subtle.” Andras leaned closer to Manon, his whisper lingered in her ear. He had the way of saying things, that sounded much like scolding. Even at his young age, fifty six years old, far from being an adult yet, but he was mature. Too mature. Too aware and serious, too quiet and calculating, too much of him was constantly trying to prove—anything, to someone—even though none of them ever gave him reason to.
It made them all slightly disappointed, and he must have sensed that, their family wasn’t all that subtle, anyway. They were disappointed, because Andras did not let himself be a kid, a boy—to Manon it seemed, that at the very young age, he simply decided to be a male. His childhood was cut short. And it made Manon angry, because he didn't have to, he had a choice. Not all are granted it.
It was one of the reason Rune was being so spoiled these past five years. She was a babe, a careless, happy babe.
“I wasn’t trying to be.” Manon said swiftly, throwing a grape in the air, which landed perfectly inside her mouth. Andras smiled, but it didn’t show his teeth.
“I want my mashed potatoes to be a mountain!” Rune cheered, loading another spoon on her plate, nearly knocking it off to the ground.
“Start with the hills, little witchling,” Asterin said, putting her daughter’s plate back on its rightful spot, “so you can turn carrots into lakes, and broccoli into wild, wild forests.” She placed so many kisses to the babe's cheeks, she started giggling.
“Yes, mama!” Rune put the potatoes back in the bowl and reached for carrots. “Lakes, lakes.”
“The day she drinks water from the lake and eats leaves straight from trees,” Tamlin smiled gently “it will be your fault.”He placed a kiss to his High Lady’s cheek.
Asterin smirked. “I shall drink to that.” She rose the golden goblet in her hand.
“Can someone—” Andras started, but Faeryn already held out a bowl for him to take. “Always one step ahead,” he lifted it from her hands, “thank you Ryn.” He smiled at her fondly, everlasting softness lingered in his gold-flecked black eyes.
“I can hear my carrots talking.” Rune exclaimed soundly, playing with the vegetable instead of eating it.
“You know Runny,” Eranthe said, still chewing bread in her mouth, “in this family,” she gestured around the table, “it’s a dangerous thing to say, we might actually believe you.” It earned her a wave of chuckles, murderous look from Manon and Faeryn’s tongue sticking out at her.
Rune seemed to be thinking it through, then she looked down on the mess placed on the plate. “They got quiet now.” She looked distressed for a moment. “Why are they quiet? Should they be quiet?”
“There nothing wrong with silence, dear.” Tamlin reassured her, reaching out for one slice of carrot from her plate and putting it inside his mouth. “Sometimes, silence is answer enough, waiting to be accepted.” Rune nodded her head slowly, mirroring her father’s movement and biting her carrot.
“Let’s not get philosophical so early on,” Faeryn murmured, “the soup has yet to get cold.”
“Oh, yes, this reminds me,” Eranthe moved uneasily in her seat, a sudden burst of energy went through her, “do you ever wonder,” she placed her elbows on the table, “if a ship has all its parts replaced over time, is it still the same ship?”
“Dear Mother.” Faeryn sunk in her chair, her mashed potatoes still untouched. Eranthe grinned satisfied.
“Life of Theseus.” Tamlin said, a little smile playing on his face, acknowledgement of his daughter finishing the book by mortal philosopher he gifted her a few weeks ago.
Manon’s brows furrowed. “If all the original parts are gone, then it’s a new ship. From the outside it might look the same, but on the inside it’s not.”
“I hate ships.” Faeryn muttered, shovelling a generous portion of potatoes in her mouth.
“The ship’s identity isn’t just about the individual parts—it’s about its continuity over time,” Andras carried on, unfazed by Faeryn’s dramatics, “the ship that sails today is the same ship that set out yesterday, because there’s a story linking them.”
“Well then,” Eranthe took a sip of wine from the goblet, “it’s the same ship to some purposes, but not to others.”
“Imagine you saved all the old planks and rebuilt the ship.” Tamlin’s weaved his hands in the air, his tone calm, but curious. “Are there now two ships claiming to be the same?”
There was a beat of silence, disturbed only by too loud exhale of Faeryn’s.
“…yes?” Andras answered, unsure, but curious.
“What we mean by ‘the same thing’ is highly subjective.” Eranthe held her head high, hiding her own need for answer.
“Well, shouldn’t it be objective, given we talk about similarities?” Andras brows rose up, challenging.
Eranthe’s lips opened, prepared for an answer. “I can’t believe I raised up a bunch of weirdos.” Asterin murmured, more to her wine than anyone else.
“Thank you!” Faeryn’s hand flew up, supporting her mother.
Asterin grinned at her wickedly, her iron teeth shining through.
“Maybe the ship has a tiny, little heart that remembers everything!” Rune said loudly, trying very hard to remain active in conversation, even though she lost the track of its meaning.
“Not you too, little witchling.” Asterin’s claws tickled the babe lightly, her blonde curls swayed, as her laughter overtook her body.
“That’s my favourite take.” Eranthe said sweetly, her voice more gentle than usual. “Exactly what I hoped to hear.”
“Excuse me,” a low voice cut in, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, although Princess Eranthe made it quite clear to bring any letters at once.”
Julian was one of their servants, a mortal helping around with correspondence and managing the estate. Eranthe worked closely with him, instructing and guiding, if needed. Twenty years ago it was the other way around.
“It came?” Eranthe rose to her feet and rushed to his side.
The older man smiled at her gently, bowed lowly and handed the envelope. “Fingers’ crossed for you, Princess.” Eranthe thank him enthusiastically, barely keeping her hands from hugging him tight.
“Is that what I think it is?” Manon asked, her head automatically turned to Faeryn.
“Don’t ask me!” Black haired girl’s hands rose up in defence. "If I knew everything, I'd be insufferable," her black eyes rolled quickly, "besides, I like surprises."
“You’re too excited for your own good, witchling.” Asterin couldn’t help, but smile as Eranthe’s big eyes scanned the envelope, it was humming in her hands, glowing. The young female looked completely mesmerised. “Read it already!”
A chuckle escaped Tamlin’s mouth.
“I wanna hear to!” Rune smashed her little hands on the wooden table, pure determination knotted between her tiny brows.
Eranthe tore the envelope open, not caring which way was the right one. The gold paper resisted her claws easily, silver ink gleamed like stars spread on the night sky. A smell of citrus surrounded her—hard and unyielding.
To The High Lord and High Lady of The Spring Court,
By the grace of the Courts and in remembrance of the peace hard-won across our lands,
the Dawn Court extends to you its formal invitation to attend the Centennial Concord Ball,
to be held within the eastern halls at first light on the appointed day.
This gathering celebrates the anniversary of one hundred years
since the fall of Hybern and the restoration of balance to Prythian.
Marking the century of peace across out lands.
It is our hope that, in honouring what has endured,
we may also look with clarity toward what lies ahead.
Following the opening celebration,
a private council shall convene among the High Lords and their chosen representatives,
that we may speak on matters of shared concern
and safeguard the continued stability of our lands.
These proceedings shall endure for the fortnight.
At the Concord’s close,
a final ball shall be held,
that we might celebrate not only our history,
but the unity that yet binds us.
Your presence is requested among the assembled courts,
that bonds between us may be renewed and strengthened in a time that calls for unity.
We trust in your attendance, and in the enduring place of The Spring Court among us.
In light and in accord,
The High Lord of The Dawn Court
Eranthe was glowing with both anticipation and delight. Her family thought it quite sweet, but also utterly mad. She looked like a starved animal, with prey in the mouth.
She started pacing, her slender hand scratching her chin, her head already coming up topics for conversations with Lords, Ladies and people of influence. This was big, not only for her as it wa her first formal appearing among other leaders, but for her Court.
Perfect moment to show them the truth. Make them forget the Spring they used to know and present what Spring became, how it changed, and why it’s worth their trust. But it wasn’t just for the good of her Court and her people. It was for something else entirely, growing tightly inside her. It came to her from her mother’s past and tangled itself around her future. After all, she wasn’t just Spring’s daughter, she was also a witch.
Eranthe started counting, mentally cataloguing every Court in her head. Who holds grudges, who craves leverages? Autumn, Day, Dawn…Night. She needed strategy for all of them.
“A ball!” Rune shouted, hands risen up. “There will be a ball! With dresses!”
“Two balls, Runny.” Faeryn said, her eyes shone brighter, something swayed inside, something young, which was rare. “Two balls! Oh, we are absolutely going!” Her hands clasped together, Tamlin laughed soundly at the view.
“It’s not about balls!” Eranthe wild gaze reached her sisters, Rune momentarily focused, listening solemnly. “There will be a Concord,” she came closer to Rune, kneeling right beside her, something took over her speech—raw and pure emotion, “a council gathering leaders of our land, all of them, together, united. Talking about future, change, progress, alliance.” Asterin’s hand extended in silence, her dark eyes focused on the golden parchment, Eranthe gave her the letter, her eyes never leaving her sister’s. “We don’t just attend—we set the tone.” She said firmly, confidence slipping down her teeth.
“Set the tone.” Rune repeated, gawking, eyes wide.
“Easier said than done,” Tamlin said gently, “not every smile at the court is a friendly one.” Her nod was sure, quick acknowledgment shone in her eyes.
Something shifted in him—something like reluctant pride. He knew she understood the game, better than he did at her age, or even when he was a century younger than now.
“Peace.” The word sounded bitter in Asterin’s mouth, she dropped the letter on the table, as if it wa just a piece of something useless. “It’s always the prettiest lie told before the storm.”
“Then I’ll treat it like a battlefield,” smirk appeared on Eranthe’s face, “but with fancier outfits.” Asterin’s laugh pierced the air.
“Two weeks of talking in circles, while calling it progress.” Andras murmured, eyeing the golden glow radiating from the letter, but not touching it. “Typical.” He hissed. “It won’t differ from all of the meetings you had to attend during the last one hundred years.” Andras eyes slide toward his parents, Tamlin’s face shifted, fearing the same thing.
“Two weeks,” Manon turned the words slowly, tasing them, “it’s too long,” her head shook slowly, “too many chances for something to go wrong.”
“Then it’s not a formal gathering,” Faeryn swing the goblet in her hand and leaned against her chair, “it’s a festival with arguments.” Her smile was sharp, cunning even. “Which makes it so much better.”
“A hundred years of peace,” Asterin eyes rolled, she seemed too far away, somewhere else than where they were seated, “and they still need it.”
Tamlin’s hand found hers and slowly, gently, with barely any pressure at all, his thumb circled the inside of her palm. Bringing her back. Her eyes met his, a silent thank you shining among the gold light.
“It’s a good idea.” Tamlin mumbled, Asterin’s fingers tangled in between his. “Something’s…shifting—we’ve all felt that.”
He meant The Middle. The very heart of Prythian. A place of unclaimed dominion. It has always been…quiet.
Not peaceful, not entirely empty—just simply there.
For centuries, it had remained untouched in the way wild things often are—not because they are harmless, but because something in them discourages most. Trespass wasn’t an option. Travellers skirted its edges. Beasts avoided its deeper paths. Even magic, when cast too close, had a way of thinning, as if unwilling to linger.
But for years now, that quiet began screaming.
At first, it was the animals.
They came from every direction—stag and wolf, fox and hare, creatures that should have scattered at the scent of one another. Yet they did not hunt. Did not flee. They gathered instead, forming slow-moving clusters along the borders, then deeper within, as though drawn by a call too faint for any but them to hear. They did not cry out—they watched.
Then came the growth.
It began in patches—green pushing through soil that had long lain still. Shoots unfurled overnight into twisting vines, their leaves an unfamiliar shade, their reach too eager. Flowers bloomed that no Court could name, petals opening wide to a sun that seemed, somehow brighter over that land, than anywhere else. As if it was meant to be theirs alone.
But after some time, the beauty of it turned… wrong. Too fast. Too deliberate.
Roots cracked stone that had not shifted in ages. Branches bent not toward the light, but toward something unseen beneath the earth. Where the ground split, even slightly, there was a sense—not of decay, not of ruin—but of something stirring.
Magic followed. It always did.
Spells cast near the borders warped, slipping from their intended shape, as though another will brushed against them. There was no pattern to it. No intension, not the one of its wielders at least. Power did not vanish—it simply refused to obey as it once had.
In the Dawn Court, scholars spoke of light refracting in impossible ways when turned toward the center. In the Winter Court, scouts returned with frost clinging to them in the shape of spirals, their breath shallow, instincts uneasy.
Nobody knew what was going on. And nobody dared to get too deep in the woods. Elsewhere, the reports were quieter—but no less telling.
A shift in the air.
A hesitation in magic.
A feeling, brief and difficult to name, that something deep beneath the world had turned in its sleep.
And still, the land in The Middle continued to bloom. Unafraid. Untended. Unclaimed. Not afraid of what surrounded it, not willing to yield to those in power. It didn’t wish to be ruled, but to other Lords and Ladies it seemed, as if something else had already begun to.
And yet, not everything about the land’s stirring was left to rumor or fear. Something was still a secret, carefully tended. Understood and protected.
Far from the prying eyes of the other Courts, in hidden hollows where moonlight rarely touched the soil—a coven of witches had claimed the heart of Prythian. Not as a Kingdom, but as their home. They did not meddle openly. They did not seek power, or blood. They waited, guiding the land with careful hands, whispering to roots and stones, nudging the bloom along the paths only they could see. Their eyes traced every ripple in the growth, every subtle pulse of magic that shivered through The Middle. The change, the growth—it was their doing, until it wasn’t.
What truly stirred beneath the soil remained a question even the witches could not fully answer. They turned The Middle into a home of their own, inviting those who dared to step inside, but the rawness that followed, the unpredicted leaks of magic—they could not account for it, as its origins and reasons were unknown to them too.
They knew it, because they've seen it, they've lived it.
Asterin knew about it the moment it happened, and so she told Tamlin. Ninety five years had passed since The Middle breathed again, since Briar Blackbeak brought it back to life. Since she became the matron of the Witches' coven located exactly there.
The eight, the shadow, her fellow Witch—her friend.
“We need to talk to Briar.” Eranthe whispered, digging into the core of their fear, the fear of reveal that endangered Briar’s coven. “If the Courts start to wander around The Middle—”
“Yes,” Asterin nodded, “we’ll go tomorrow.”
It wasn’t an order, it was a decision made out of fear she wouldn’t show—not because she didn’t worry, but because she didn’t want them to do.
The existence of witches was still a delicate subject to dwell on. And even though Eranthe spent half her life rising in the safety and wildness of the Middle’s woods—she had to be careful stepping in, they all did. The shift in The Middle growth wasn’t sudden, it took years to evolve, to caught up on Prythian—but recently it increased. If they could feel it from Spring, then all other Courts did too. Which could only add up to the list of matters discussed during the Concord. They had to be cautious, careful with the words they chose to speak, but still ensure The Middle’s safety. They were not only representing Spring, but also the Witches from the Bog of Oorid.
The other Courts might spoke of threat and omen, of death and fear—but Spring knew the truth was more delicate, more dangerous, and far too fragile to reveal. Not yet, at least. Not when half the world both hated and feared Witches, not for what they were, but for what they could become.
And Eranthe always thought it alluring—the becoming.