My twelfth birthday was the best day of my life.

  It started normally enough. I woke at dawn to the smell of burnt bacon and freshly made oatcakes. Durst was grimly at work in the kitchen, his bushy black eyebrows furrowed as he measured out a spoonful of golden honey.

  He wished me a happy birthday and smeared the portion of honey onto my pewter plate. I smiled and thanked him, dipping one too-salty cake into the rare treat, and we ate in relative silence.

  Relative silence was typical. Familiar. Our home was a small one-story affair nestled in the witchwood grove encircling Fellbrook. You could see most of the town from our front door, past the young silver trees. Townsfolk spent their days bustling about in the distance, doubtlessly making all sorts of noise, but inside the thick walls of Durst’s stone home it was nearly silent.

  I didn’t mind it. Not usually, at least. Durst spent most of his days hunting and trapping in the woods. One day in five we would go into town together to trade furs and meat for whatever it is we might need; thread, wire for one of Durst’s snares, a new dress for me, flour, sugar, seeds. Simple things.

  My time was spent tending to the guardian witchwood. I don’t think the grove actually needed me to care for it; the trees never lost their leaves when the weather turned cold, and during storms they always seemed to remain entirely undisturbed. But I at least knew my efforts were appreciated. Most days a night-black, velvet-soft leaf would brush one of my hands in what I liked to think was appreciation, or a branch would stretch itself up to give me shade while I worked.

  Sometimes the quiet would stretch on just a bit too much, so I would sing, albeit poorly, or talk to the empty air. The trees didn’t seem to mind that, either. Every now and then some leaves would rub and twine together, rustling out whispers in response to my chatter.

  I could never quite make out what they were trying to say.

  Shortly after breakfast, Durst took his hunting gear and headed out for the day. I had just finished lacing up my boots when there was a knock at the door. Opening it revealed a tanned, broad face framed by unruly hair the color of river sand.

  Royce’s blue eyes were sparkling, and his smile was wide.

  “Mom baked you a cake!”

  Before I could respond, he had grasped one of my hands, and I was being unceremoniously tugged from the quiet sanctity of Durst’s stone walls.

  “And I got you a present,” he added proudly as I managed to close the front door behind us.

  I grinned and allowed myself to be pulled along. The narrow dirt path leading from Durst’s house to Fellbrook was overshadowed by gleaming witchwood. Dangling black leaves hissed softly, but not unkindly, as we walked past. A few reached out to brush at my shoulders.

  I tangled my fingers into the velvet as we walked. They curled around my hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Royce snorted and ducked under a low branch, which ignored him. This was typical; my beautiful silver trees ignored anyone and anything besides me. “‘Course I did, Brin! You’ll like it, too! There was a merchant in town a while back, don’t know if you saw him from your hole.” He gestured behind us, towards the small stone house, with an exaggerated eye-roll.

  I gave him a playful swat on the arm, which earned me a grin.

  “He had lots of stuff! And I’ve been doing really good about saving my coppers, you know. And I got- well, you’ll see! You’ll love it,” he promised, beaming at me.

  Walking from Durst’s house to the town proper was always a bit of a surreal experience. It felt a bit like stepping into a painting; my world of silver-grays and night-blacks and mud-browns was replaced with bright green grass, burnt oranges and reds from flowers dotted along the ground, and cheerful blues and yellows from shuttered windows and brightly painted signposts.

  And the sounds. It was still early, but already there were townsfolk trotting up and down the cobblestone streets, calling out greetings to each other and stopping to chat. Birds twittered happily from their perches, chickens clucked and babbled, hunting hounds bayed their greetings, and I even heard the distant bray of a donkey. Royce and I walked unhurriedly, returning smiles and waves from the people passing by.

  It didn’t take long to reach Royce’s house. The wooden door was propped open, and the enticing smell of fresh bread alongside something sweet wafted out onto the cobblestones.

  Royce bounded in, then rounded with a dramatic sweep of his arm. Behind him, on the Freth’s small kitchen table, sat three cracked copper plates. Between them there was a wooden board laden with still-steaming bread, bright red strawberries, and what appeared to be a small cake garnished with dawn-pink frosting.

  “Happy birthday!” He gestured for me to have a seat.

  I felt my mouth stretch into a somewhat embarrassed smile. His mother must have gotten up well before dawn to do all this.

  As if on cue, Marion Freth flurried into the kitchen. Her apron was spattered with pink and she was wiping her hands with a rag.

  “Brin! Good morning, dear. And happy birthday!” She swept forwards, all dimples and curly brown hair, and wrapped me in a warm embrace.

  I returned it somewhat awkwardly. Life with solemn Durst was generally devoid of warm embraces.

  “Thank you, Miss Freth. This is really… you didn’t have to do all this.” I peered through my lashes at the warm bread and sweet treats.

  One plump hand swatted through the air. “Nonsense, sweetheart! It was my pleasure! Have a seat, and you, Royce, there we go. Have you already had breakfast, Brin?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I felt my cheeks grow warm, thinking back to my black bacon and salty cakes. Durst’s cooking was all I’d known for many years. I’d spent most of my childhood believing that food was purely for sustenance. I could still remember the first time Royce had invited me over for supper, years ago, and I’d tasted a meal that… well, that Durst hadn’t prepared. It had been eye-opening, to say the least. “But, um, I’m definitely still hungry.”

  “Good! ‘Cause I’ve been waiting all morning!” Royce was fidgeting in his chair. His mother gave a sing-song laugh and reached her dimpled arms out to cut and serve us each a portion of bread, berries, and cake. The two of them made easy conversation while we ate.

  The bread was warm and thick, and the sweet berries were still wet from morning dew. I saved my cake for last. It tasted like strawberries, and smelled like the honey I’d had earlier. As soon as I finished, Miss Freth plopped another slice onto my plate. I grinned and took a bite.

  “Hey, I almost forgot- your present!” Royce, who had finished eating long before me, jumped up and ran out of the kitchen. He returned, looking unusually flushed, with a small piece of scarlet cloth clutched in one hand. “Uh… here.” He placed the small bundle before me.

  Miss Freth stood, scooping up the empty plates and moving towards their kitchen washbasin. Wood and copper clattered from behind as I gingerly pinched one corner of the soft cloth and unfolded it.

  Nestled in folds of lush rose-red was what appeared to be a piece of witchwood. But, though I’d spent every day of my life looking at the sacred trees, this was unlike any I’d seen before.

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  The wood was ash-gray, polished smooth and cool as glass. It had been bent into a graceful arch and fastened to itself by a small metal clasp. Along the wood were strands of split, night-black leaves that wound and twisted into thin, feather-soft vines.

  “It’s a bracelet,” Royce mumbled. His cheeks were red. He was rubbing one hand back and forth through his unruly hair.

  “Is it… dead?” I whispered, peering almost fearfully at the ornament. It was beautiful. Perhaps the prettiest piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, much less owned, but something about it made me very sad. The ashy wood, maudlin gray instead of proud silver, the broken leaves that didn’t reach out for me… save for Durst’s gleaming arrows, I had never seen witchwood that wasn’t unmistakably alive.

  “What? No!” His voice rose an octave, and then he turned an even deeper shade of crimson.

  I felt a stab of guilt. My own face grew warm. Oh, well done, I chided myself silently. That probably wasn’t the response he’d been hoping for.

  Royce glanced towards his mother, looking uncertain. “Of course it’s not dead.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “It’s a Fae ward, dear,” Miss Freth added softly from behind me. “I suppose Durst doesn’t keep any, what with where your house is.” One gentle hand reached past my shoulder. Her knuckles brushed against the bracelet. “Travelers take them, Brin. They’re for people who don’t… well, who don’t live in a place like Fellbrook. Not like it is now.” Her voice became a bit softer, sadder, and I felt my stomach curl into a knot. Royce’s father had been killed by Fae.

  I slid one fingertip along the polished wood. Miss Freth made a small ‘mm’ noise from behind me and withdrew her hand from the bracelet. I pursed my lips thoughtfully. I supposed it wasn’t so different from when Durst would carve slender silver arrows from the grove.

  I glanced up towards my red-faced friend. “It’s beautiful. I’m sorry, I just… I haven’t seen it, er, like this. The wood and the leaves, I mean. But it’s beautiful. Thank you, Royce.”

  He ran a hand through his sandy hair again. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, eyes downcast.

  I wondered how much the bracelet had cost. How long he’d been waiting to surprise me with it. The knot in my belly tightened.

  “Will you help me put it on?” I tried to force enthusiasm into my voice.

  His blue eyes flicked up, squinting a bit. I held out my wrist and met his gaze, offering a smile. Behind us, I heard his mom chuckle and drift out of the kitchen.

  “S-sure.” He took two quick steps forward and reached down.

  I watched the unmoving witchwood as he fastened it around my left wrist. It felt pleasantly cool against my skin.

  “It’s really pretty,” I said, and I meant it.

  Royce swallowed. “You really like it?”

  “I do.” I stood and gave my friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s probably the prettiest thing I own.” Durst was one for practicality over embellishment, and the habit had thoroughly rubbed off on me over the years.

  Royce flushed beet-red as I gave him a hug. He mumbled something unintelligible.

  “I love it,” I assured once more, then pulled back and added with a wry grin, “Promise. And this- all of this,” I gestured to the now-bare table and the dirty dishes, “Was a wonderful surprise.”

  He ducked his head. “Thought you’d like it.”

  “I do. Best birthday morning ever.” I turned towards the wash basin and picked up the horsehair brush beside it.

  Royce huffed and snatched the brush away from me. I tugged it back, and we devolved into several minutes of good-natured arguing about who would help his mother do the dishes. He won, because it was my birthday. Before long I was out the door with a full belly and a happy grin plastered across my face.

  The quickest way home brought me through the town square. Townsfolk bustled by and chatted to each other in cheerful tones. I waved at the familiar faces, then found my gaze being drawn upwards. It always was.

  The morning air had turned warm with sunshine, and the little fountain in the center of town sparkled merrily. But that wasn’t what drew my eye. It was the statue crafted with utmost care atop the fountain, that of a hooded figure raising a sword in triumph.

  The hero. ‘Divine,’ people called him. ‘Sent from the fallen gods’. His sword shone in the sunlight. It was wrought of sheer whitestone with a jagged, palm-sized shard of what looked like liquid fire embedded along the blade.

  No one knew his name. But he’d come when the mortal realm had needed him most.

  Durst had told me the story. Or at least, pieces of it, through fumbling lips and long pauses and distant, grief-stricken eyes. When I was just a baby, a monstrous Fae had clawed its way into the mortal realm. People called it the Nightmare. And other Fae had followed it; shadowy monstrosities and creatures wrought of wicked magic.

  Every city in the realm had sent forces to combat the monsters; runekeepers and paladins and clerics and knights. But it wasn’t enough. The sun itself was choked away by darkness, mortal armies falling before the Nightmare.

  All hope was lost.

  And then the sky split open.

  A hooded warrior appeared in a flash of light.

  He strode fearlessly into battle, wielding a sword of burning gold.

  No evil could stand before him.

  My gaze wandered away from the shining figure, down to the ground nearby. Scorched earth. A gash along dulled cobblestones and once-green grass that was charred black as pitch. Like a hideous wound had been carved into the earth.

  The place where the hero and the Nightmare had dealt each other fatal blows. And then, when the smoke cleared… they were both gone. Nothing remained save a few shattered shards of blazing steel.

  The tale was one of victory… but also of sorrow. Durst’s wife had been killed by the monsters. And Royce’s father, and countless brave knights and paladins and…

  And my mother.

  Durst said she’d been found on the ground nearby. Curled around me. And it was always at this part that his voice would grow thick and he’d turn away, thoroughly finished with the story.

  I swallowed. Sometimes on my journeys through town I would let my eyes roam across the ground and wonder with vague horror where she had been.

  I felt myself wondering now, and shivered.

  Distant thunder broke my reverie. The townsfolk nearby glanced up, noted that the sun was still out in cheery force, and apparently decided that there was no rush to leave. I, having a much farther walk back home, disagreed.

  The rain started just as I reached our little cottage. It was the kind of warm summer downpour that turned the sky to steel and made everything smell like fresh earth. I stayed outside with my beautiful trees, reveling in the scent and weeding contentedly as branches stretched up to give me shelter. For a while. Distant flickers of lightning and growling thunder eventually sent me indoors with a resigned sigh.

  Our kitchen was cast in shadow. I lit a candle for light, and my eyes fell on Durst’s bedroom door.

  It was open.

  He never left it open.

  I didn’t see his boots or bow anywhere. No sign that he was home. I crept to the door. Peeked into the gloom.

  He wasn’t inside.

  I looked around. Rain drummed against the roof. A flash of lightning illuminated a low bedframe with two squat nightstands on either side.

  My curiosity swelled. I prodded the door open further and dared to step inside, holding up the candle. There was a small table beside the door with a large, heavy-looking book on top of it. On the room’s far side sat a wooden rocking chair propped beside a window. There was a wooden trunk next to it, and a sturdy black armoire in one corner.

  My eyes wandered to the bed. One side was rumpled, with a large depression in the mattress. The other side was smooth. Untouched.

  I felt a wash of guilt. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be snooping. I should go.

  My gaze lingered on the untouched side of the bed for a moment. Then I turned to leave. My knee bumped into the small table, jostling the wood and doubtlessly leaving a bruise on my skin. There was a heavy thud as the book fell.

  I winced and rubbed my throbbing knee, then stooped to retrieve the fallen object. Lightning flickered, casting everything in vivid silver. Rain thrummed as my fingers brushed the spine.

  It was bound in thick brown leather. Gleaming golden thread embroidered the cover in waves and swirls. I inhaled. It smelled richly of warmed earth and smoky wood.

  It was an unusually ornate possession for Durst to have, never mind the fact that I hardly ever saw him with a book. He’d taught me how to read and write, often by candlelight after a day’s hunting, but they weren’t skills he exercised often.

  I scooped the book up, curious but resolved not to pry further. A small piece of folded yellow parchment slipped out and fluttered to the ground. I knelt to retrieve it.

  And then I froze.

  Scrawled along one side of the parchment in tidy, unfamiliar handwriting were the words “To my beloved Brin, the light of my life.”