The trek had been longer than expected—roots snatching at her feet like greedy hands, trees whispering things in a language older than blood. Wether walked ahead, unconcerned, as if the entire forest bowed only to him.
Odessa, half-blooded daughter of the High King, gritted her teeth and followed.
When the trees thinned, they came upon it: an iron-wrought gate, clawed over by ivy and crimson bloom. Beyond it stood a towering manor wrapped in time's silence, its windows dark, its spires jagged like broken teeth. Knights in dark armor stood like statues near the entrance, the crests on their breastplates long since scratched off—as if their loyalties had been severed just like the name of the place itself.
"You brought her here?" a voice called out—measured, weighty.
Wether smirked without looking back. "She followed. Blame her curiosity."
Odessa lifted her chin, ignoring the ache in her legs from training earlier. She had questions, and if this so-called general had answers, she'd bleed them from him if she had to.
The doors creaked open like reluctant lips, and inside, the hall was low-lit, lined with blades—real ones—each mounted as if they'd tasted war and were now retired on display.
And then she saw him.
Madoc.
He didn't look old, not really. His hair was storm grey, but his body still spoke of battles won and lost. Scars peeked from his collar. His eyes were sharp amber, and he looked at her as though he'd been watching her long before she'd ever stepped foot inside his den.
"You're smaller than I imagined," Madoc said, voice smooth and deep, "but no less loud."
"I didn't come to impress," Odessa said, brushing stray strands from her face. "Just answers."
Wether leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes amused.
Madoc stepped forward. "Tell me… do you dream of a woman bathed in blood, crowned in shadow?"
Odessa stiffened.
Madoc noticed. "Then the path has opened."
Her hand moved instinctively to the hilt of her sword. "Who is she?"
Madoc didn't answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward a table where an old map was spread. Dusty. Torn. Ancient.
"There was a time when the fae lands were ruled by fire and frost, light and rot. But before that... before your king and queen, there was another. The one who wore the Forged Crown."
Odessa's breath hitched.
"She wasn't a tyrant," Madoc continued, "not at first. She was betrayed. Slaughtered. And her story erased."
"And you think… I'm her?"
"No." He looked at her then—really looked. "I think you carry her blood. I think they fear you. That's why you've been caged in gold and glass your whole life. They fear what the half-blood princess might become if she ever knew the whole truth."
Odessa swallowed hard. "Then tell me."
But Madoc simply turned and gestured toward the stairwell. "There's a room upstairs. You'll sleep there tonight. You'll train here. You'll listen."
"And if I don't?"
Madoc's smile was brief and without humor. "Then the court will come for you before sunrise. I've already risked enough bringing you here."
Wether finally pushed off the wall. "Look at the bright side," he drawled. "You get a haunted house, sword lessons, and a charming roommate."
"Which is you?" she asked flatly.
"Obviously," he grinned.
Odessa stared at them both—Madoc and Wether, the shadows and the blade—and felt the weight of choice press down.
She could go back. Return to the palace. Pretend none of this ever existed.
But she didn't.
Instead, she stepped toward the staircase, her boots echoing softly.
Because something deep inside her—the place where dreams bled red and queens screamed in silence—was waking.
And it would not sleep again.
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