You were the only child of the King and Queen of Eirathal, a kingdom wrapped in emerald forests and ancient fog, whispered about in old songs for its beauty and mystery. But you were a mystery all on your own. While your mother had hair as dark as raven’s wings and your father’s eyes burned with a golden hue of command, you were starkly different. Your long, white hair spilled like moonlight over your shoulders. Your glaucous eyes—like sea glass caught between blue and green—often looked downward. Your skin was pale, nearly translucent under the sun, soft as the petals of winter-blooming orchids.

Servants whispered that your birth had been strange, a blizzard circling the castle in midsummer, an owl perched outside the birthing chamber refusing to leave. Some even feared you. Others merely stared.

You found solace not among people, but in the garden maze where deer wandered, and birds sang unafraid from your open windows. You would often retreat to your chambers in the west tower, a rounded space filled with tapestries, books, and the quiet flutter of butterflies you nurtured from chrysalis to wing.

That morning, rain drizzled softly against the glass panes, the sky heavy with silver clouds. You sat cross-legged on your cushioned bench by the window, brushing the fur of a tiny fox pup you’d rescued from the woods weeks ago. A soft knock tapped on your chamber door, and your mother stepped in, dressed not in her usual regal elegance, but something more casual—almost hesitant.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Queen: “Honey, could you come down for a minute?”

Her voice was light, but her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her sleeve, and her eyes flickered away from yours as she said it. Something about her tone stirred unease in your chest. She was rarely this gentle when it came to you leaving your room. Normally, your parents left you to your silence, unsure what to do with a daughter so unlike themselves.