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We were told the fae were gods.
Not the kind of gods that sat on thrones of marble, distant and untouchable. No, the fae walked among the trees, breathed the same air as us, their steps so light they barely touched the ground. They were beings of endless life, untouched by sickness, untouched by death. They did not wither as men did, did not wake with aching bones or brittle teeth or fears of famine. Their hands, we were told, could heal or destroy with a mere touch. And if they loved you—if they chose you—you would never know suffering again.They could make you beautiful. Make you strong. Make you eternal.I grew up on these stories, whispered to me in the quiet dark of our cottage, murmured like prayers over bowls of thin soup. My mother said them with reverence, my father with certainty, as if speaking of them often enough would summon them to our doorstep. We would stare at the stars and wonder if they were watching, if they had already chosen us, if we only had to prove ourselves worthy.And we believed—because believing was easier than facing the truth.The truth was hunger. The truth was cold nights and the sound of my mother coughing until she spat blood into a rag. The truth was the heavy hands of a landowner who looked at my sister like she was something he was owed. The truth was that we were dying, slowly, like a candle burning too low, and there was no one to stop it.But the fae—the fae could.
The
Children of the Blessed
told us that those lucky enough to be taken by them lived in palaces spun of moonlight. That humans chosen by them would never feel pain, never know hunger, never be afraid. That all one had to do was
cross the Wall and pray to be found.
And so, when the last of our crops failed, when my father’s shoulders hunched in defeat, when my mother could no longer stand without swaying, we decided.We gathered what little we had. We left our home behind.And we went to find the gods.We found monsters.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It was my father who suffered first at their hands.
I had always thought my father was unbreakable. He was a man of quiet strength, with calloused hands that had built our home, hands that had carried us when we were too weak to walk, hands that had held my mother’s trembling fingers in the dark when she whispered her prayers to the fae. He had never been afraid. Not when the crops failed, not when the landowner demanded more than we could give, not when my sister said it was time to seek the gods beyond the Wall.
But gods do not weep . And when the fae came, my father did.They descended like a sickness, like something that had always been waiting in the dark for us to arrive. I remember the moment they stepped into the light— inhumanly beautiful , just as we had been told. But there was no warmth in their beauty, no kindness in their sharp, sculpted features. They were creatures made of hunger, and we were the feast laid bare before them.The tallest of them—the one with eyes like frozen water— chose my father first .I had expected magic. Some whisper of power that would make it painless, that would show us the divinity we had been promised. But there was no magic. There was only his bare hands and my father’s screams .He didn’t kill him outright. No, that would have been merciful . Instead, he played. He started with the fingers —one by one, twisting them until the bones cracked and splintered through the skin. My father howled, thrashing, but they held him down with a single boot against his spine, laughing, amused.Then came the teeth . The fae pried my father’s mouth open, humming as they examined them. “Human teeth are so fragile,” one mused before gripping one and yanking it free . My father choked on his own blood. They plucked out another, then another, like it was a game, like they were pulling weeds from the earth.His nails were next . Torn away. Ripped clean from the beds with slow, deliberate precision. The screams were endless .I remember my mother shrieking, begging. I remember Maren lunging forward, only to be struck down so hard she hit the dirt and didn’t move again. I remember my father’s eyes locking onto mine— wide, wet, desperate. And then I remember the moment they tore into his stomach , their sharp, perfect hands vanishing inside him, searching for something they could take, something they could claim .His intestines unspooled like thick ropes , glistening in the moonlight. They yanked them free, coiling them around their fingers, admiring the way his body convulsed as if he still thought he could survive it. I wanted to close my eyes, to look away —but I didn’t .Because my father didn’t. Because until the last moment, as they peeled him apart like fruit , he was looking at me .And then he was gone .
Then it was my mother.
She had always been frail. She had always walked with a slight unsteadiness, her body weakened by years of hunger and hard labor, her breath always just a little too shallow, her hands always just a little too cold. But that night, when she saw what they had done to my father, when she saw his body split open like a gutted animal , something in her broke.She didn’t beg this time. She screamed . A raw, feral sound, unlike anything I had ever heard from her before. My mother, who had always whispered prayers to the fae, who had always told us to be kind, to be patient, to believe in their mercy —she cursed them . She damned them .
And they smiled.
One of them stepped forward, a female with hair like spun silver and eyes like a cat’s , and knelt before her as if listening, as if intrigued. But my mother’s voice failed her . The moment the fae reached out—just the lightest, softest brush of fingers against her cheek—her body seized . She gasped, her breath coming in sharp, strangled bursts, and the fae only smiled wider.“You’re so fragile,” the fae whispered, stroking her trembling lips. “So soft. I wonder how much of you can break before you stop screaming.”She found out.They started with her legs , snapping her shins as easily as snapping twigs. The bones splintered through the skin , jagged and wet. My mother’s cry was so high and thin it barely sounded human. When she collapsed, unable to support herself, they took hold of her arms next — twisting, twisting, twisting until the bones in her wrists gave way, until her arms hung limp and useless at her sides.Still, she was alive .So they moved to her skin .They took out a blade , so small and delicate, like something meant for embroidery work. They started at her fingertips , peeling back the flesh in slow, curling strips, revealing the wet, glistening red beneath . My mother had no voice left. No breath left. She twitched and spasmed, her lips forming soundless pleas, her body shrinking in on itself as if trying to disappear.They didn’t let her.One of them yanked back her head , exposing the thin, delicate line of her throat . Her skin there was already marked— bruised from hunger, from years of exhaustion, from time itself. The fae sighed, almost mournful.“Mortals fade so quickly.”Then they sank their teeth into her neck.They didn’t kill her right away. They let her bleed , let her body convulse as they took long, slow sips from her veins, savoring the way she shuddered in their grasp . I could hear the wet, awful sound of them drinking , the way their lips curled around each greedy pull, the way my mother’s fingers twitched weakly , reaching for me even as she faded.She was looking at me, just like my father had.Then her body went still.And then it was Maren .If my father was strength and my mother was faith, Maren was fire.She had always been the fiercest of us, the one who stood tallest even when she was starving, the one who never flinched when the landowner leered at her, the one who dared to dream beyond the dirt and the hunger. She was the one who dragged us to the Wall, who told us we would be saved, who had believed in the fae even more than my mother did.And now she hated them.She was still on the ground from when they had struck her, her dark hair matted with dirt, her lip split and bleeding, her ribs rising and falling in sharp, pained breaths. But when she lifted her head to look at them, there was no fear in her eyes.Only rage.She spat blood at their feet.The silver-haired fae, the one who had drained my mother dry, laughed . A soft, delighted sound, as if this was a gift . As if this was entertainment .“Such fire,” she purred, stepping closer, tilting Maren’s chin up with a single, claw-tipped finger. “Perhaps you’ll scream the loudest.”Maren snapped her teeth at her.The blow came so fast I didn’t see it—only the sickening crack as the fae shattered her cheekbone with a flick of her wrist. Maren’s head whipped to the side, blood splattering against the dirt. But when she turned back, her eye already swelling shut , she smiled.“That all?” she rasped.The fae’s expression darkened.She grabbed Maren by the hair and dragged her forward, forcing her to kneel. Another fae stepped up behind her, gripping her arms, forcing them behind her back. Holding her down.The silver-haired fae pulled out a dagger —thin, elegant, wickedly sharp.“Shall we start with your eyes?” she mused.Maren went still.Not with fear.With anticipation.She turned her face toward me— toward my wide, horrified gaze, toward my shaking hands, toward my silence.“Run,” she whispered.I couldn’t . I wouldn’t . But Maren— Maren smiled at me, soft and unafraid, the way she had when we were children and she told me stories of the fae, of the palaces spun from starlight, of the magic waiting beyond the Wall.That dream had died.But I was still here.“Run.”And then the dagger plunged into her stomach.She choked on her own breath, her body jerking against the hands holding her down. The fae twisted the blade, slowly, deliberately , tearing through muscle, through flesh, through life.I think I screamed.I think she laughed.And then— then they sliced open her throat.The blood poured like a river, thick and dark and endless.Her eyes were still open.She had been looking at me.And then it was me.I could still hear Maren’s shallow, gurgling breaths as her body convulsed, her ruined throat spilling thick, hot blood onto the dirt. My mother lay beside her, eyes wide and unseeing, her body a mangled heap of torn flesh and broken bone . My father— what was left of him —lay in a wet, glistening pile , his insides twisted like discarded rope, the earth beneath him dark and sticky. The smell of copper and bile and piss filled the air, thick and suffocating, pressing against my tongue.
And then hands were on me.
I thrashed, my heart hammering so violently it felt like it would rip through my ribs , but there was no escaping them. They were too strong. Too fast. I was nothing more than a doll in their grip, tossed between them as they laughed, amused by my struggle.“Look at this one,” one of them murmured, running a clawed finger along my jaw. “Still fighting. Still hoping.”“That will change.”The female who had taken Maren stepped toward me , her silver hair shimmering in the moonlight, her sharp, delicate smile painted with my sister’s blood . She reached for me, her nails lightly grazing my cheek , and I flinched , bile burning up my throat .Her smile widened. “Strip her.”Hands gripped at my dress , clawing, tearing, ripping the fabric away in jagged strips. The cold night air kissed my skin , and I screamed , kicking, biting, thrashing with every ounce of strength I had left. Laughter rippled around me. They liked it. They liked my fight, my useless, pathetic fight.I was left in nothing but my underthings, my body exposed beneath the hungry gazes of monsters. My chest heaved as I gasped for air, as I tried to cover myself , my fingers shaking as I clawed at what little fabric was left.The female crouched before me, tilting her head as if studying something rare, something precious.“Humans,” she mused, running a finger down my throat, trailing lower. “So soft.”Her hand dipped further, and I shrank back , my skin crawling beneath her touch. My breath hitched as her claws scraped over my collarbone, so gentle, as if she was memorizing every inch of me before she destroyed it.
“Such a pretty little thing.”
Her nails pressed harder , breaking the skin , leaving behind thin, stinging lines of beaded red . I clenched my jaw, refusing to cry, refusing to let them see the terror that clawed through my ribs, through my throat, through my soul.
But they could smell it.
I felt the warm breath of another against my neck , felt teeth graze the skin there , testing, teasing. A sharp inhale , a pleased hum.
“Fear smells so sweet.”
More hands. More laughter. A grip in my hair, yanking my head back , exposing the delicate line of my throat. Another tug at the fabric over my chest, a slow unraveling , thread by thread.“Scream for us,” one of them whispered, pressing their lips to my ear. “It makes it better.”
I was going to die.
I was going to die like my mother, like my father, like Maren.
But not quickly . Not mercifully. They were going to break me apart piece by piece, and there would be nothing left to bury when they were done.I squeezed my eyes shut. I clenched my fists so tight my nails bit into my palms , desperate for any kind of control, any kind of pain that was mine . I thought of my father’s hands, steady and strong, lifting me onto his shoulders when I was little. I thought of my mother’s voice, singing softly as she stirred a pot of thin soup. I thought of Maren’s laughter, bright and full of belief .I thought of all the things I would never see again .A hand shoved me down , my back hitting the blood-drenched earth.
And then they began.
I floated.
Not in my body, not in the dirt, not beneath their hands. Somewhere else.Somewhere beyond the heat of their breath against my skin, beyond the bruising grip of their fingers, beyond the way the air felt too sharp, too cold, too full of something sick and unholy. My mind detached, slipping away like mist, retreating, retreating, retreating —because to be here, to be present, to be aware of every touch, every laugh, every glinting, inhuman eye— was unbearable.
So I wasn’t here anymore.
I was back home. Before the hunger, before the cold, before the journey. I was curled up beside the hearth, my mother’s fingers threading through my hair, humming that soft, lilting song she always sang when she thought we were asleep. Maren was beside me, her body warm, her breath steady. My father’s voice rumbled from his place by the table, speaking of the next season, of the repairs he needed to make on the roof, of the good things that were still coming.Good things are coming, my mother had whispered to me once, tucking me in. Just wait, my love. The gods are watching. They will not forget us.I wanted to ask her now— where are they? Where are the gods?Why had they not come when my father’s ribs were cracked open like a slaughtered beast ? Why had they not come when my mother’s blood soaked the dirt , when my sister’s screams shattered the night ?I wanted to tell her she was wrong.The gods were here.And they were ripping my dress from my skin , forcing my body open like something meant to be used , licking their lips as they waited to break me apart.
The gods were here.
And they were monsters.
A hand slid along my thigh.
I was not here.
I was not here.
I was not here.“She’s gone,” a voice murmured, amused.“Not for long.”Then the pain came.Pain.It dragged me back. It tore me from the warm memories of home, from the scent of the hearth, from my mother’s song. The moment their fingers dug in , I crashed back into my body, into the dirt, into the horror of it all.I gasped— a choked, strangled sound —as hands gripped my thighs, as fingers pressed into places they should never touch , as laughter curled through the night like a song from the depths of something evil.I wanted to go back. Back to the dark. Back to the place in my head where I couldn’t feel, couldn’t hear, couldn’t know what was happening to me.But they wouldn’t let me.A slap— hard, sharp, ringing against my cheek. My head snapped to the side, my vision exploding in white, and when I blinked, I saw my sister’s lifeless body in the dirt beside me , her mouth open in a frozen scream.She was still warm.I was next.Another set of hands grabbed my jaw, my chin, my throat. Forcing me to look up, to look at her.The female fae knelt between my splayed legs, her silver hair gleaming like moonlight, her smile full of hunger and cruelty.“Stay with me,” she purred, dragging her fingers up my stomach, over my ribs, pressing lightly against my sternum. Like she could feel my heart hammering beneath the skin.Like she enjoyed it.“It’s no fun when they go too quiet.”I didn’t know I was crying until she wiped away a tear with her thumb, slow and taunting. I flinched, and she laughed, her fingers slipping lower.They were going to take everything from me.I wanted to scream. I wanted to thrash, to bite, to fight the way Maren had. But I was so tired. So weak. My arms trembled, my legs wouldn’t move, my body felt like it was already surrendering, breaking before they could finish the job.And then—The laughter stopped.The hands on my skin tightened, stilled, froze.I could still feel them, still feel their claws digging into my flesh, but suddenly they weren’t moving . Weren’t breathing .The female fae’s lips parted slightly , her silver brows knitting together in something like confusion.A moment later, a sharp, wet gurgling filled the silence.And then— her head dropped from her shoulders.It tumbled into my lap, eyes still open, still watching, still smiling.Her body slumped forward, landing across my stomach, and it took my brain a moment to understand, to process, to realize —That she was dead.And the others—The others were screaming.
Because something else was here.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He stared at me.And I stared back.I should have said something. Asked who he was. Asked why he had done this. Why he had saved me.But the words wouldn’t come.I didn’t even feel like they existed anymore.The world around me—the ruined bodies, the smell of spilled blood and bile, the sickly warmth of the head still resting in my lap—felt like it was melting away, like I was slipping back into that empty place in my mind where nothing was real.But then he moved.Not a step. Just a shift of weight, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he were deciding something. The blade in his grip was still wet, still dripping, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.I knew I should have feared him.There was something in the way he stood, in the way the darkness clung to him, curling around his shoulders like it had been made for him. He didn’t belong in this world. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t like the fae who had hurt my family, either. He was something else, something worse.Something far more dangerous.But I had nothing left to fear.I had nothing left at all.So I just sat there. Silent. Empty. Waiting.His eyes didn’t leave mine. Dark. Unreadable. Distant.Then, in one smooth motion, he crouched.I barely registered it, barely processed the way he moved toward me, the way his presence seemed to press against the air itself. He was too close. Close enough that I could smell the blood on him, the steel, the leather of his armor.Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.I flinched. Not much, but enough for his head to tilt slightly, as if studying me.Something flickered in his gaze—not pity, not mercy. Something colder. Sharper.He was still holding the blade. He could have finished what they started. Could have cut my throat just as easily as he had theirs.Maybe he should have.But instead, he reached for me.His movements were slow, deliberate, careful, as if he knew I would bolt the second he touched me. But I didn’t.I couldn’t.I just sat there as his hand brushed against my shoulder, then down my arm. His fingers barely skimmed my skin, but the contrast was jarring. His touch was warm—not cruel, not lingering, just real. A reminder that I was still here, still breathing, still alive.I didn’t know if I wanted to be.His hand moved lower, toward the scraps of my ruined dress. I barely felt it when he draped the fabric back over me, covering me as much as he could. As if it would make a difference. As if it would erase what had almost happened.It didn’t.It never would.But he didn’t look at my body. He didn’t stare like the others had. His gaze stayed on my face.And then, in a voice low, quiet, edged with something I couldn’t name, he asked:“What is your name?”I blinked.My name.The question felt foreign, as if it belonged to another life, another girl—someone who hadn’t watched her father be ripped open, someone who hadn’t seen her mother bled dry, someone who hadn’t felt her sister’s body go still beside her.I had been someone before this night.But now—now I didn’t know who I was anymore.So I just stared at him.And I said nothing.His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, as if waiting, as if expecting me to answer.I didn’t.I couldn’t.I wasn’t sure I even remembered my own name.There was a silence between us, thick and heavy, filled with things unsaid. The smell of blood and death curled around us like smoke, clinging to my skin, filling my lungs with every shaky breath.Then, slowly, he moved again.I flinched again—small, barely noticeable, but he saw. He hesitated, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides before he reached behind himself. There was a soft rustle of fabric, the shifting of leather and metal, and then something warm and heavy was being placed around me.A cloak.His cloak.The scent of him—cold wind, steel, something deep and smoky—filled my senses as the fabric settled over my shoulders, draping over my bare skin, covering what little was left of me. It was too big, the edges pooling around me where I sat in the dirt, but I didn’t move to adjust it.I just sat there. Frozen. Watching. Waiting.He didn’t speak as he knelt fully, lowering himself to my level, his movements slow, careful, controlled. As if I were a wounded animal that might lash out, as if he knew that one wrong move might shatter whatever fragile thread was keeping me upright.Then, before I could react—before I could decide if I wanted to fight him, to scream, to run, to die—his arms slid beneath me.Strong. Solid. Unrelenting.And in one smooth motion, he lifted me off the ground.A breath hitched in my throat. My body was weightless, limp, my head lolling against his shoulder as the world tilted beneath me.For a moment, panic surged through me. A deep, primal fear—because I had been held down before.But his grip was different.Firm, but not cruel. Steady. Certain.Like he had done this before.Like he had carried broken things before.I wanted to tell him to put me down.I wanted to tell him that I didn’t need to be saved. That he was too late. That I was already gone.But I said nothing.Because deep down, in the hollow, ruined parts of me—I knew the truth.There was nothing left here.No home. No family.Nothing but blood and death and the screams still ringing in my ears.So I let him carry me.And I didn’t look back.I did not know where we were going.The world around me was a blur, my vision swimming in and out of focus as he carried me, his steps silent, steady, unrelenting. The warmth of his cloak pressed against my bare skin, but I still felt cold. Empty. My head rested against his shoulder, but I did not lean into him. I did not resist, either.We moved through the trees, past the carnage he had left behind, past the blood soaking the earth where my family had died screaming.And then—the Wall.It loomed ahead, dark and endless, stretching into the sky like something ancient and unknowable. My breath hitched at the sight of it, but he did not stop.He carried me forward, toward the invisible boundary between my world and his.I should have feared crossing it.I should have feared what waited on the other side.But I had nothing left to lose.So I closed my eyes.And then—shadows consumed us.It was like being pulled under the surface of a lake, like stepping through something that was not entirely of this world. Cold, weightless, endless. The scent of blood and earth vanished, replaced by something older, deeper, like ink and stone and smoke.When I opened my eyes—we were somewhere else.It looked like it had been built inside a cavern, carved from the bones of a mountain itself.The library.The space stretched infinitely, levels upon levels of shelving stacked high, filled with books whose spines gleamed in the golden light of the lamps lining the walls. Narrow hallways twisted between the shelves, some vanishing into hidden alcoves, others leading to grand, open reading rooms where tables were arranged in quiet circles, their surfaces covered in parchments and ink pots.Fireplaces flickered in the corners of the larger rooms, their warmth casting soft, golden light over the stone walls. There were no windows, no view of the outside world—only the library.A place of silence and shadows and knowledge.And he had brought me here.I blinked up at him, my lips parting slightly, but no words came.Not to ask where we were.Not to ask why.He did not look at me. Did not explain.He simply kept walking, his grip on me unwavering, his pace never slowing.And in the depths of my hollow, shattered mind, one thought echoed.I was not in my world anymore.I had been taken.And I did not know if I would ever escape.A movement caught my eye.A figure—**tall, graceful, and bathed in golden light—**appeared in the corridor ahead, stepping from the shadows like she had always been there, like she had been waiting.She was beautiful.Not in the way my sister had been, not in the way the fae who had torn my family apart had been. No, this woman’s beauty was radiant, effortless, the kind of beauty that came with power, with knowing exactly what she was. Her hair fell in golden waves over her shoulders, catching the warm glow of the nearby lamps, her eyes sharp and knowing, framed by lashes too long, too perfect.She stopped when she saw us—saw me, wrapped in his cloak, held in his arms like something fragile and ruined.And for a moment, the silence stretched.Her gaze swept over me—assessing, searching, calculating. I knew that look. I had seen it before. On the landowner when he had looked at my sister. On the fae who had grabbed me, who had decided what would be taken and when.But her eyes—they did not gleam with hunger.They only softened.Her lips parted, and I thought she might say something—who was she? What was this place? Why was I here?But she turned her gaze to him instead.A sharp, unspoken conversation passed between them. Something tense, unreadable. I could feel it vibrating in the air between them, could see the flicker of something like concern in her golden eyes, the way his jaw tightened slightly before he gave a short, barely-there nod.And then her attention was back on me.She took a step closer.I tensed.It was small, barely a movement, but she saw. She stopped immediately, her expression shifting—not pitying, not cruel, but something else. Something I did not understand.Then, in a voice soft as silk, she said,“You’re safe now.”Safe.The word was foreign. Distant. Meaningless.I did not know if I believed her.I did not know if I could.But my body was too weak, too broken to fight. So I only stared, only let the weight of exhaustion drag me further and further into the dark.And as the shadows of this cavernous, endless place wrapped around me, I let myself fade.The man holding me did not speak.He only shifted his grip, the warmth of his body momentarily tightening around me before, without hesitation, he passed me to the golden-haired woman.I didn’t resist. I couldn’t. My body was too heavy, too limp, too drained of whatever strength had kept me upright this long.But as soon as she took me into her arms, I stiffened.She was warm—so warm. Not like him, not like the cold steel and shadows that clung to him like a second skin. This woman was firelight and gold, silk and strength. She held me with an ease that made me feel small, breakable, something delicate and already shattered.I did not like it.I did not like being held, touched, carried like I was something in need of saving.But I said nothing.She turned, carrying me through the towering shelves and quiet corridors, moving deeper into the vast, endless expanse of this place. Her steps were silent, the soft fabric of whatever she wore whispering against the stone.I did not know where she was taking me.But I watched as we moved down.Down steps, down winding corridors, deeper and deeper. The golden glow of the library’s lamps flickered along the stone walls, throwing shadows that danced and stretched with every turn we took. In the distance, I caught glimpses of fireplaces tucked away in alcoves, the flickering flames casting pools of warmth against the cavernous cold.Still, she kept moving, never pausing, never hesitating.She knew exactly where she was going.And then, finally, she stopped.Before us stood a heavy wooden door, carved with symbols I did not recognize, symbols that looked ancient, intricate, important.The woman shifted her grip on me, balancing my weight effortlessly in one arm as she pressed her free hand to the door.A heartbeat later, it opened.The room beyond was smaller, quieter, warmer.A fire crackled in a stone hearth against the far wall, its glow illuminating a softly made bed, a simple wooden table, a chair tucked into the corner. The walls, carved from the mountain itself, seemed to press inward, enclosing the space in something that felt… safe.Or at least, as safe as anywhere could feel now.The golden-haired woman stepped inside, carrying me toward the bed.She moved gently, carefully, as if afraid that any sudden movement might break me further.But I was already broken.And no softness in the world could fix what had been taken.The door shut with a soft click, the sound barely a whisper against the crackling of the fire. It should have meant nothing, the simple act of someone leaving a room. But it did. It did.Because I was alone.Truly, utterly alone.For the first time since the attack, since my father had screamed and my mother had wept and my sister had fought with everything in her, I was alone. No hands holding me down. No bodies pressed too close. No whispered threats, no laughter curling like poison in the air.Just… silence.I swallowed, but my throat felt raw, tight, like it had been scraped hollow. I hadn’t spoken. Not since it happened. Not since I had been carried across the wall, through the shadows, into this place beneath the mountain where the air was thick with ink and dust and old magic.My fingers curled weakly into the fabric of the cloak still wrapped around me. It was too big, too heavy, but it was warm. It smelled like steel and cold wind and something I couldn’t name. It smelled like him. The man with shadows in his eyes. The one who had pulled me from the dirt and carried me here.I should have asked who he was.I should have asked where I was, what this place was, why I was still breathing when the rest of my family had been ripped apart.But the words wouldn’t come.There was nothing left to say.I shifted slightly, just enough to feel the ache that ran deep through my bones. It wasn’t just pain—it was exhaustion, a weariness that had sunk into me so deeply I wasn’t sure I would ever be free of it. My body felt foreign, unfamiliar. Ruined.Because it wasn’t just mine anymore.They had touched me. Torn at me. Marked me.Even now, in the quiet of this room, I could still feel them. Hands that weren’t there, laughter that had long since faded into silence. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing them away, willing this new, hollow version of myself to disappear.But I was still here.And so was the blood.Dried now, flaking against my skin where it had soaked through the torn remains of my dress. Not mine. None of it was mine. My father’s, my mother’s, my sister’s. All of them gone, and I was still here, wrapped in a stranger’s cloak, sitting in a room that smelled of books and firelight.I didn’t understand.Why had I been spared? Why had he saved me?I had nothing. No home. No family. No name that still belonged to me.I pressed my face into the thick fabric of the cloak, inhaling deep, as if it might anchor me, as if it might do something to pull me back from the hollow place inside my chest.But there was nothing left to hold on to.So I did the only thing I could.I curled into myself.And I let the dark take me.I didn’t know how long I slept.Or if I had truly slept at all.It was a restless, empty thing, a black void stretching through my mind, swallowing time and thought and feeling until I barely existed in it at all. There were no dreams, no flickers of home, no echoes of laughter from my sister or my mother’s voice humming a song to chase the nightmares away.Just the dark.Then, a soft creak.My eyes fluttered open at the sound, but my body didn’t move. I stayed curled on my side, still wrapped in the too-large cloak, my limbs stiff, my muscles aching with exhaustion.The door had opened.Two figures stood there.I blinked slowly, my vision still hazy with sleep, my mind sluggish, as if my body hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to wake up yet. But I looked at them.And that was when I noticed.The ears.Fae.My breath caught in my throat, my pulse slamming through me so fast it left me dizzy. I didn’t move, didn’t dare shift, but my muscles tensed, locking like a trapped animal’s, instinct screaming at me even though my body was too weak to obey.They were fae.The golden-haired woman—the one who had carried me down here, who had told me I was safe—she was fae, too.I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe because I hadn’t been looking. Maybe because I hadn’t wanted to see.But now, with the lamplight spilling into the room, illuminating them in that soft, golden glow, there was no mistaking it. The delicate point of their ears, the inhuman sharpness to their beauty, the quiet grace in the way they stood.I had spent my entire life praying to creatures like them.And I had spent the last hours of my family’s life watching them be torn apart by creatures like them.My fingers clenched into the fabric of the cloak, gripping it tight, tight, tight, as if it could somehow shield me, as if it could keep me hidden from them, from what they were, from what they might want.Because I had already learned the truth.The fae were not gods.They were monsters.And I had just woken up surrounded by them.The golden-haired woman took a step forward first, slow and careful, as if she could see the panic crawling under my skin, the terror rooting me to the bed.I didn’t move.Didn’t breathe.The last time a fae had come close to me, they had ripped my father open like a butcher dressing a carcass. The last time one had touched me, they had torn the clothes from my body, pinned me down, laughed as I screamed.My heartbeat slammed so hard against my ribs it hurt.But she didn’t grab me. Didn’t lunge.She only held up her hands, palms open, voice soft, slow, careful.“You’re safe.”I flinched. The words meant nothing.I had been told safety was in the hands of the fae once before. I had believed it. Believed it right up until I saw my mother’s throat split open, right up until I felt their hands press me down into the dirt, their breath hot against my skin.Safe.They had lied.I swallowed hard, my throat tight, burning, but I said nothing.The second woman—the healer, I realized—stepped forward next, her presence less commanding, her movements even more delicate. Her dark hair was braided over one shoulder, her robes simple, flowing, clean. A healer. That’s what the golden-haired woman had called her before she left.And now she was here.For me.The healer knelt slowly beside the bed, close enough to touch me but leaving space between us. Space I could barely breathe in, space that felt like it was collapsing too quickly.“I know you’re scared,” she murmured, her voice gentle, too soft for the sharp terror gripping my chest. “I know you’ve been through things no one should ever endure.”I clenched my jaw, but still said nothing.The healer only continued, “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to help.” She hesitated, then added even softer, “May I check your injuries?”I didn’t know how to answer.I didn’t know how to speak anymore.For a long moment, there was only silence. The healer didn’t move, didn’t push, didn’t reach for me.The golden-haired woman exhaled quietly. I couldn’t tell if it was frustration or understanding.Then, slowly, she spoke, her voice still calm but holding something firmer underneath.“You’re in Velaris,” she said. “Do you know where that is?”I didn’t.The name meant nothing to me.She must have seen it in my face because she continued, still keeping her voice low, soothing, as if I was something fragile about to break.“It’s a city in the Night Court. You crossed the Wall. You’re no longer in the human lands.”My stomach tightened.I had known. I had known I was not in my world anymore. I had known from the moment I woke up and saw the endless shelves and stone corridors, from the moment I saw the man who had killed with such terrible efficiency.But hearing it aloud—it made it real.I was not in my world anymore.And I was trapped in a place full of fae.My breath came too fast, too shallow.The healer’s eyes softened. “You’re safe here,” she said again, and even though I didn’t believe it, even though I couldn’t believe it, there was something in the way she said it that made my pulse stutter for just a moment.Not a lie.Not a promise.Just… something true.She did not say the word like the fae who had hurt my family. She did not say it like a taunt, like a joke, like a cruel game waiting to be played.She said it gently.Carefully.Like she knew I wouldn’t believe her, but she would say it anyway.And for the first time since I woke up, since I saw the sharp points of their ears and felt the panic coil tight in my ribs, I wondered if I had been saved just to be broken again.Or if, somehow, in some impossible way—I had been saved at all.The golden-haired woman sighed, shifting slightly where she stood, but she didn’t look frustrated, didn’t seem impatient. If anything, she just looked… tired. Not the same exhaustion clawing its way through my bones, not the same kind of hollow, endless grief swallowing me whole. But tired in a way that said she had done this before. That she had stood in front of broken things and tried to put them back together, whether they wanted it or not.Still, she didn’t move closer.Instead, she gestured toward the healer beside me, her voice steady but still soft, still careful.“This is Madja,” she said. “She’s a healer. One of the best.”Madja.The name meant nothing to me. Nothing did anymore.The healer—Madja—remained still, her dark eyes watching me with an unreadable expression, waiting, waiting, waiting. For what, I didn’t know.The golden-haired woman continued, voice smooth as silk. “And I’m Morrigan. But you can call me Mor.”Morrigan.I felt the name settle in the air between us, like she expected me to take it, to hold it, to say it.I didn’t.I only kept staring, my fingers still curled tightly into the fabric of the cloak wrapped around me, my breath still too fast, too shallow.Mor didn’t seem surprised that I didn’t respond. She only tilted her head slightly, studying me the same way I was studying her.“You don’t have to be afraid of us,” she said after a pause, voice gentle, but firm, as if she knew the words were useless, but needed to be said anyway. “We’re not going to hurt you.”Not going to hurt me.I had heard that before. I had believed it before.And then I had watched my father be ripped apart, my mother bled dry, my sister torn open and screaming as her body was shattered piece by piece.I had felt their hands on me, pulling, grasping, tearing.I had heard their laughter.I had lived through it.I had survived it.And I had learned, in the worst way imaginable, that fae were not meant to be trusted.That fae were monsters.Morrigan didn’t push, didn’t press, but I could feel her watching me, could see the way she was measuring my silence, weighing the emptiness in my face against whatever she had expected when she stepped through that door.Madja, still kneeling beside me, finally spoke again, her voice calm, warm, unwavering.“Will you let me help you?”I didn’t know what to say.I didn’t know how to say anything.So I did the only thing I could.I closed my eyes.She must have taken that as a yes.Because a moment later, her hands were on me.Cold. Not like death, not like the chill of a night spent in the dirt, covered in the blood of the only people I had ever loved. Not like the icy grip of the fae who had held me down, who had smiled as they prepared to rip me apart.No, this cold was different. Clean. Steady. Precise.Madja’s fingers pressed lightly against my arm, the touch firm but impersonal, as if she was careful not to startle me. As if she knew that even the smallest movement might send me crashing back into the dark, into the horrors I had tried to leave behind in the void of sleep.And then—something pulsed through me.A slow, sweet, cooling sensation, spreading from where her hands touched my skin, rushing through my veins like a river of ice and honey. It was warm and cold all at once, tingling and heavy, like sinking into a deep bath after a lifetime of shivering.Magic.I knew it instantly.Even though I had never felt it before, even though I had only ever heard whispers of it in old stories told by candlelight, I knew.This was fae magic.It hummed through my body, settling deep in my bones, pressing against my ribs like something searching, something reaching. I twitched, my fingers clenching in the fabric of the cloak still wrapped around me, but I didn’t move away.Didn’t pull back.Because for the first time in so long, the ache—the one I hadn’t even realized was there, the one that had sunk so deep I thought it had become a part of me—eased.Just a little.It wasn’t enough to erase the memories. It wasn’t enough to make me forget the pain, the terror, the way my body had felt as it was taken from me, piece by piece.But it was something.Morrigan stayed quiet, standing nearby, watching, waiting. Not hovering, not pressing, just… there.Madja murmured something under her breath, something I couldn’t quite hear, and the cooling pulse of magic deepened.I swallowed hard, my throat still sore, still raw from screaming that had gone unheard.Soon enough, Madja pulled back.The loss of her touch was immediate, the absence of her magic like stepping from the shade into the full glare of the sun—jarring, too sharp, too sudden. The lingering coolness still pulsed faintly beneath my skin, but already it was fading, already slipping away, leaving behind a hollowness that had nothing to do with magic.I swallowed hard, my throat still raw, my limbs still heavy.Madja exhaled softly, shifting beside me. Then, in that same calm, measured voice, she spoke.“You’re badly bruised, but nothing is broken. There are scratches and some deeper cuts, but they will heal.” A pause. A careful pause. “The rest… will take time.”I did not need to ask what she meant.I felt it, the weight of it pressing down on me, the invisible wounds, the kind no magic could mend.I did not respond.I wasn’t sure I could.Madja didn’t seem to expect me to. She only studied me for a long moment before glancing toward Morrigan. Another silent exchange passed between them, one I could not decipher. But whatever Morrigan saw in Madja’s expression made her lips press into a tight line, her golden eyes flashing with something like understanding.Madja looked back at me.“You need rest,” she said simply. “Your body has been through more than it can handle. You should eat something soon, even if you don’t want to.”She did not touch me again, did not try to offer false reassurances or comforting words that would mean nothing.Just facts. Simple. Direct.I found that I preferred it that way.Madja hesitated, then finally pushed to her feet with a grace that did not belong to mortals. Even the way she moved was otherworldly, efficient, too smooth to be human. She adjusted the folds of her robes, giving me one last look before she turned toward the door.“I will return later to check on you.”She said it like a promise. Like a certainty.And then, without another word, she was gone.The door shut quietly behind Madja, leaving only the golden-haired woman and me.She did not sit, did not crouch by the bed or reach for me the way Madja had. She only stood there, arms loosely crossed over her chest, her gaze steady but not piercing, as if she knew I could only handle so much right now.For a long moment, she didn’t speak.She only watched me, her expression unreadable, her golden hair catching the firelight, making her glow like something that belonged to the stories I used to believe in. The stories that had told me fae were beautiful, benevolent, merciful.Lies.She must have known what I was thinking, or maybe she didn’t care, but when she finally spoke, her voice was careful, even.“There are people here who will listen,” she said, tilting her head slightly, measuring her words before continuing. “If you ever want to talk. About what happened. About anything.”I blinked.Not because I was surprised by the offer. Not because I had even been listening properly.But because the words barely registered.Talk?There was nothing to talk about.Nothing that could be spoken, nothing that would change anything. No amount of words could bring back my father’s hands, calloused and strong, reaching for me in his final moments. No words could rebuild my mother’s body, pieced back together from where they had drained her dry. No words could make my sister’s screams fade from my head, could wipe away the memory of her blood pooling beside me, warm and sticky, cooling far too fast.There were no words for what had been done to me.No words for what I had lost.So I just stared at her.And said nothing.The golden-haired woman did not press.She exhaled softly, barely audible, before adding, “You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. But if that changes… there are people who will listen.”Her voice did not hold pity.And that, more than anything, made my throat tighten.She didn’t look at me like I was fragile, like I was a bird with broken wings, waiting to be gently pieced back together. She looked at me like she knew what I was feeling, like she had seen it before.Like she had lived it before.And that terrified me more than anything else.Because if someone had looked at my sister like this, if someone had offered her the same words, she would have laughed, she would have said something sharp, something reckless, something full of fire—But she was dead.And I was not.I swallowed, staring at the fire, not at her.The golden-haired woman did not sigh, did not shift, did not move closer.She only stood there for a little while longer.And then, just as quietly as Madja had, she left me alone.