Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the last few days, Pixie Hollow had not known proper night time. The Star that had plummeted down into the Spring Quadrant had bathed Queen Altherion’s queendom in its divine light. Days had been brighter and night had turned to day. Now, thankfully, the night was dark and quiet once more. All fae were asleep in their homes, exhausted after wrangling confused and panicked animals. No one roamed the streets or skies save for the scouts on patrol through residential areas, workstations, paddocks, and seasonal borders. There were no more sightings of the hawk that had terrorised the Sunflower Fields in Summer in the late afternoon.

That was what Lieutenant General Nightshade had reported to her. Altherion trusted that it was true.

With all of her other duties suspended until further notice, or delegated to a competent member of her court, Altherion, great shimmering wings taut with stress beneath the confines of her cloak, paced at the edge of the shrunken pixie dust basin. Her armour—scorched and dirtied from her mission to retrieve her Star-sent heir—clanked with each step, the sound accompanied by the swish of her cloak. Clarion had Fallen in the mine-lands of the Spring Quadrant and getting her out of there—especially during the dust drought—had been no easy feat, even for her.

But that—and the lieutenant general's report—was not why she now paced with such acute agitation before the pixie dust basin.

She paced because the Stars had sent her an heir and she was certain that she had performed the bathing ritual incorrectly. Yes, she was worried even though she had access to thick swathes of written instruction and documentation from her predecessors. Yes, she was worried even after having witnessed Queen Tallennion bathe and guard her sister. But bathing Selennion had taken less than forty-eight hours; Tallennion had recorded Altherion’s own bathing time—before Selennion’s—as twenty-four hours; Maevion had recorded Tallennion’s as thirty hours. Bathing Clarion had, so far, taken ninety-six hours.

Four days.

The Star-forged shell protecting Clarion was only thin, but it was impervious against all but The Tree’s influence. Atherion worried that The Tree, in its starved state, had consumed more than just the shell. So, her last four days had been filled with pacing. She had stood vigil at the basin’s edge, ready to help her heir out of the Gold Dust that the shell had aided the Tree in producing much, much more of. She had had little to no sleep in that time, which had not changed her mood. These days, she was often ill-tempered, which really should not have come as a surprise to anyone, but somehow still did to those who thought that their high rank spared them from her wrath.

“My Queen, both Queen Tallennion and Queen Maevion’s instructions did mention that the duration of each bathing ritual was different for each Star-sent Monarch.” Elvina, her advisor, reminded her with more disrespect in her tone than she should have had.

Altherion grit her teeth, suffocating the flare of anger at what Elvina had insinuated.

“I am aware, Advisor. My reading and comprehension skills are perfectly fine, despite what you may think,” Altherion said lowly, a warning in her tone.

The Ministers had truly outdone themselves with Elvina. Altherion would have chosen any other fairy if she had been allowed to. However, part of her deal with them at the end of the war had been to allow them to appoint an advisor. If she were to be honest, her ‘advisor’ served more as a babysitter than her right hand woman whose opinion and guidance—on matters of great importance, no less—she could respect. Of course, she could overrule them and eject their lackey from royal court altogether, but she did not wish to seem like the tyrant they were afraid she would—or had, depending on who you asked—become.

“Perhaps Your Majesty should calm and re-centre oneself,” Elvina eventually said, voice grating. “All of this fretting could be the cause of the child’s reluctance to emerge-”

Oh, cease your chatter, she thought.

Altherion tuned her out as a shift in the pixie dust commanded her attention. She took a step closer, leaning forward to squint into the bright glow. Yes, there had definitely been a shift. Had that been a hand reaching upward? It was tiny.

It was tiny.

Atherion’s gut sank as the iciness of pure panic—panic that she had not felt since the war—washed over her. She had been correct. Something had gone wrong. Clarion should have been the size of a new arrival, not of a firefly.

She removed her gauntlets and cloak, then tossed them down onto the bark behind her.

“Your Majesty?” Elvina said, finally having noticed that her words had fallen on selectively deaf ears.

“Fetch Lady Amber, Advisor. She is to report here with all due haste to receive further instruction for her duties tomorrow,” Altherion ordered, magic dancing through her words.

Elvina obeyed without hesitation.

Carefully, Altherion waded out to where she had seen Clarion’s tiny hand, her own bare hands submerged and searching for her as she moved. Gold Dust seeped into her skin and her wings, soothing aches and relieving pressure. She had half a mind to sink beneath it and never surface; to coax the The Tree into absorbing the oceans of Starlit magic that still burned hot and bright within her. But she could not. She had a job to do.

She was waist deep when her right hand found Clarion. Quickly, she knelt down to scoop her up, cradling her small form against her chest before taking flight toward shore. A chilly wind blasted her in the face as she set herself back down onto the bark, but she could not find the energy to become irritated with what and who that wind would bring with it. The tiny, tiny creature in her arms demanded her full attention.

Clarion, despite her small size, had all of her limbs, fingers, and toes. Her wing buds—she had to turn her over to see them—were tiny, spiky ridges upon her back as expected. She was breathing well and seemed functional, though her eyes—attempting valiantly to remain open—were tired. The problem, Altherion realised, lay with her lifeglow and the horrifying fact that it did not burn as brightly as it should have. It flickered every few seconds, trying to brighten, trying to light up the room like the star that Clarion had come from, but to no avail. If Clarion had been bigger—like she should have been—Altherion might have been able to write it off as sheer exhaustion. But Clarion was tiny, and so, heart pounding, head spinning, Altherion summoned her own power from the burning well deep within herself and hovered a glowing hand over Clarion’s chest, preparing for the worst, preparing to share her own magic.

Slowly—far too slowly for her liking—Clarion’s magic responded to hers. It shone gold through star-forged flesh, revealing what little of it remained in Clarion's reserves. It was, however—as Altherion observed with great relief—replenishing.

It had been magical exhaustion.

Altherion released the breath she had unknowingly held, then snatched up her cloak to wrap Clarion within when she saw how her own breath fogged in the cold night air. Clarion did not protest. The mental link that had opened between them when Altherion had recovered her shell from Spring was eerily quiet as exhaustion settled over her tiny mind and body.

“Lord Bóreas, your sentry duty is not until midnight,” she called, cradling Clarion to her chest and folding her own wings flat against her armoured back, attempting to keep what warmth she could, close to herself.

She stood on weary legs and turned to face the Lord of Winter, steel in her gaze. Bóreas held up one of his hands in surrender. His other hand held a plate with slices of warm bread and honey atop it that made Altherion’s stomach growl and her mouth water.

“You missed lunch and dinner, according to Lady Zinnia,” he said, tone just short of being gentle.

“That still does not explain why you are here two hours earlier than you should be,” she answered stiffly, watching his approach.

“Is this the Princess?” he asked, landing beside her at last and peering at the bundle she held in her arms.

Altherion gave him a look, securing her hold upon Clarion a little more as he leaned into their space.

“No. It is a large pebble that I have decided to stand guard over for Stars know how long in the next few weeks,” she deadpanned.

Idiot, she thought. What else would I be holding in this situation?

“I deserved that,” Bóreas admitted dryly, holding a slice of honey covered bread out to her. “Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. Reprimand me for insubordination or whatever later, My Queen,” he ordered before she could get another word in.

Altherion narrowed her eyes at him, thinking of all of the things she could make him do as punishment. Then, she leaned forward and did as he had said, eyes sliding shut in reluctant bliss as the honey hit her tongue, then her throat. It burned pleasantly on its way down. She wanted to sit and eat everything, then rest. But there would be no time for that. Clarion would wake soon, magic restored, and begin work on her chrysalis. She took another bite of bread—barely missing Bóreas’ finger—then jerked her head toward the staircase leading down into the trunk of the tree. Bóreas took the hint and fell into step beside her. Altherion had finished her mouthful before he finally spoke again.

“I have dismissed Lady Amber and Advisor Elvina for the night,” he said, entering the well-worn staircase first.

It took a moment for his words to register. In that time, she found herself staring at the melting ice in his short, dark hair. He did not prompt her to answer before she was ready, waiting for her with a patience she had never understood, instead.

“I sent for Lady Amber.” Altherion responded eventually, irritated.

“Lady Amber would take advantage of your exhaustion in some way. Elvina induces a rage within you that is not unlike that of the gods’,”  he said calmly. “I will watch over the heir-”

“Clarion,” Altherion interrupted smoothly, irritation subsiding the more he talked and the lower they got down The Tree.

For once, he was being useful instead of a pain in her arse.

Altherion adjusted Clarion to rest in one arm as she turned a death grip to the rail along the wall and prayed that her body would not follow Clarion’s example of dropping into a dead sleep.

“I will watch over Clarion while you rest. If she wakes and begins her chrysalis, I will wake you.”

Altherion pressed her lips together and adjusted her hold on the tiny, defenceless Star-sent fae in her arms again as she considered Bóreas’ offer. Occasionally, he looked back to check on her, somehow not missing a single step as he did so. His stone-grey eyes implored her to accept and the petty, foolish part of her that hated him for a reason she had long buried was tempted to do the opposite just to spite him.

But now was not the time for that. Now, they were faced with ensuring that the queendom’s future actually had a queen to rule over it.

“Deal,” Altherion said quietly, and attempted not to roll her eyes at the pleased expression that stretched across his flushed face.

━━━━ ◦: ✧✲✧ :◦━━━━

Altherion was going through her morning exercises in the Chrysalis Nursery at the heart of The Tree when Clarion’s chrysalis finally began to open some twenty weeks after her Starfall. Immediately, Altherion pushed herself to her feet and rushed to stand beneath Clarion. The chrysalis—once full of star-like lights and a fluid that reminded her of some sort of cosmic soup—was now clear enough for her to make out the shape of her heir. Clarion was slightly distorted by the remaining fluid within the chrysalis’ safety, but she was visible in the soft glow of the veins of Gold Dust that ran through the nursery walls. Everything appeared to be in order. Altherion stepped forward, arms out and ready to catch Clarion as she tore through the chrysalis. She cringed at the great splash of fluid that barely missed her as it exited first. Then the chrysalis opened some more and Altherion, coiled like a snake ready to strike, caught Clarion as she sloshed out with a strangled cry.

Altherion held fast against the force of Clarion’s body slamming into her own and guided her to kneel upon the floor beside her. She thumped Clarion on the back between her sticky wings as she fought to expel the fluid from her airways. Clarion retched and spluttered until she finally settled, panting heavily on all fours over the mess she had made on the floor. Altherion waited until she had caught her breath before gently guiding her away from the puddle of clear, sparkling fluid, and back into her lap. She was glad that she had had the foresight—the nagging, sick feeling in her gut that she got whenever there were changes to Clarion’s chrysalis—to wear athletic attire instead of her armour or one of her dresses.

Clarion relaxed into her hold, damp head against her bare shoulder. She knew her presence, knew that she was there to protect. She breathed deeply, one hand wrapping around the one Altherion had offered to her.

“Moth’r?” Clarion slurred.

Altherion felt every thought in her head vanish.

Her—hands drenched in the blood of thousands—a mother?

No, she could not do that.

But…it was further confirmation of her divine right to the throne. The ministers would be forced to finally accept that she had always been intended as the next in line if nobody else survived. None of them would dare question the Will of the Stars.

But, oh, she could ruin Clarion like that. Her mentorship would break her, but her love on top of that pressure? Clarion would shatter. Altherion would shatter. She had sealed off that part of her heart centuries ago for good reason.

And yet some tiny, traitorous part of her battle-hardened soul wanted to try, wanted to spare the love she had only given her other half for Clarion.

“Daughter,” Altherion murmured, stroking wet, rich brown hair out of Clarion’s healthy, glowing face, “regain your bearings. Then we will talk.”

“The Tree has told me much,” Clarion said croakily, making herself more comfortable against her.

“Good,” Altherion said, willing herself to relax. “It will make your training easier.”

Their link hummed with Clarion’s wordless response. Altherion silently took stock of her supine form. Gone was the tiny fairy she had pulled from the Pixie Dust Basin. Clarion had undergone a complete transformation and had grown both mentally and physically, as all Star-sent fae did during gestation. Altherion had expected her to emerge from her chrysalis the same size as a new arrival, but she had—thank the Stars—been proved wrong. Clarion had emerged ready to rule. Her body was strong, her wings were well formed—though not full size quite yet—and her Starlit magic was potent.

Altherion did not send a summons for the ministers and Bóreas as she had planned to do. She did not want to deal with the ministers now—not when she could finally rest with Clarion safely out of her chrysalis—and Bóreas would be pulling his new protégés—a seasonal guardian and a minister—from the ice and snow of the peak of Winter’s highest mountain.

“How do you feel?” she murmured, watching Clarion’s hand wrap around her index finger and squeeze.

That was normal, but it would be best not to let the rest of the Hollow see their grown-looking princess grabbing things like a newborn babe from the Mainland. This phase did not last long, thankfully. Twelve hours at the most, as recorded by her predecessors. There had not been much variation in times there. Hopefully, Clarion would continue the trend.

“Groggy,” Clarion answered, releasing a tired sigh pitched with the anxiety Altherion remembered well after her own emergence. “Have to dry my wings, but don’t want you to go.”

“My priority is your safety, starling. I am not going anywhere,” Altherion soothed, briefly brushing the backs of her knuckles to Clarion’s cheek. “You shall bathe first, and then we shall look at your wings.”

Everything they needed was in the nursery with them; a bath, a small Gold Dust basin, soft towels, casual robes, undergarments, nightwear, and even a few casual gowns. If they did not wish to leave the room, then they would not have to. Members of her helper’s unit would deliver their food, Messengers would deliver any urgent news, and the ministers and Bóreas would probably show up at some point whether she had summoned them, or not.

Clarion seemed agreeable to that proposed course of action. So, as gently as she could—as gentle as she had not been in centuries—Altherion bathed, dried, and assisted her with donning a silky white robe that, when set atop Clarion’s glowing skin, looked as though it were starlight given physical form. Over the next few hours, she tried to get used to being referred to as ‘Mother’ instead of by royal title. She tried to get used to having Clarion cling to whatever part of her that she could reach. She tried to get used to those sky-blue eyes studying her with such wonder and awe, lingering on battle scars that cut through her sharp features, brightening with joy whenever she tried—oh, how she tried—to return that look with a smile that she hoped was friendly more than threatening and obviously fake.

The foolishly belated realisation that having another Starborn fae in her presence—one that depended so heavily upon her for guidance and care—was going to take the rest of her life to get used to, struck Altherion with the force and sheer power of a lightning bolt. Her earlier doubtful thoughts resurfaced with a vengeance and took a while to wrestle back into a locked box in the back of her mind. Clarion—now stretched out upon her stomach in the nest of pillows that Altherion had gathered for her, wings having been drying for the last half hour—sensed her sudden change of mood and made a questioning noise in the back of her throat without looking up at her.

“Are your wings ready?” Altherion said, carefully putting up her mental walls so that their link did not share any more than what she wished to.

Clarion nodded and Altherion made her way over to the Gold Dust basin. It was set within the wall of The Tree just behind where Clarion’s chrysalis had hung and was generously full in a way that it had not been until Clarion had bathed in the main basin months ago. She would think more upon that later. There was definitely a solution to the drought to be had with the circumstances surrounding Clarion’s abnormally tiny form post-bathing. Altherion refocused on the task at hand and dipped her hands into the warm dust, making sure that they were adequately covered. Clarion, when she turned around to head back to her, had stood by herself on wobbly legs—to Altherion’s overwhelming pride, which was a surprise to have felt at all—and was waiting patiently for her to lift her wings.

Altherion moved to stand behind her, dusted, glowing hands reaching for the base of Clarion’s wings, Starlit magic thrumming from her fingertips. Carefully, she worked her magic to separate, unstick, and lift Clarion’s wings up. She stifled a gasp of awe as golden membrane—glittering with her Starlight and Gold Dust as it coaxed Clarion’s own Starlight to fill her wings—unfurled before her.

Altherion pursed her lips as Clarion’s emotions seeped through their link. She would have to teach her how to manage it later. Feeling what Clarion felt at any given moment would be a distraction that she could not afford to have.

“Are they alright?” Clarion asked, worried.

Altherion hummed an affirmative, then frowned. What had The Tree shown her?

“They are perfectly alright, starling,” she assured, attempting to gentle her tone. “Why would they not be?”

Clarion was silent for a few moments.

“I saw myself running,” she said, that worry still in her tone.

“Well, I expect that you shall be doing plenty of that until I find a way to fix The Tree. We are dealing with a pixie dust drought and will likely be forced to traverse Pixie Hollow on foot for a while,” she explained. “Worry not, though, Clarion. A fairy without wings is not entirely useless as some would have you believe.”

Disbelief shot through their link, followed by a hope so radiant, so pure, and so young, that Altherion almost felt it as her own. Clarion turned around, wings fluttering—enough to allow her to hover experimentally—and grabbed both of her hands. 

“They aren’t?” Clarion asked, landing carefully.

Altherion wondered if she would forget those visions as she had too. Supposedly, that foresight would return at the right time and fade once the event had passed. So, would there be any merit in assuring her that all would be well? She could try; Clarion had already shown how different she was to her predecessors by bathing ritual and chrysalis alone.

“If they are still alive, they can still contribute to the Hollow,” she answered, squeezing Clarion's soft, soft hands and wondering how long it would be before they were as tough and calloused as her own.

Clarion made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat, but did not comment. Instead, she nodded and moved forward to embrace her. Altherion silently congratulated herself for not immediately flinching away, then carefully ran her fingers through Clarion’s dry hair. More Gold Dust would do her no harm and Altherion would not waste it.

Her mind turned to other matters as she guided Clarion back to her pillows and sat with her, the link between them back open. Priority number one was to ensure that the ministers accepted Clarion as heir. Priority number two, if that failed, was to declare Clarion as the Crown Princess of Pixie Hollow regardless of their complaints. Priority number three was to ensure that Clarion had the respect, worship, and obedience that she was owed. The rest—the Laughborn fae that Clarion would one day command—would fall in line. If they did not love their queen—their goddess—then Altherion would make them.

“Your thoughts are many, Mother,” Clarion murmured, squirming next to her and eventually laying her head back on her shoulder. “Our link vibrates with the anticipation of them all, but you never share them with me.”

“You are not entitled to them all, starling,” Altherion said quietly, firmly, because it seemed important to establish.

“Understood, Mother.”

“Good.” she brushed her knuckles against the side of Clarion’s face, wincing slightly as the girl’s death grip on her arm tightened.

The end of this clingy phase could not come soon enough. She debated refusing contact altogether, but dismissed the thought. Queen Tallennion had put up with her clinginess in the hours after her own emergence and she had not been one to hug, either. There was also the issue that nobody knew what would happen if contact was refused, and Altherion was not willing to be the first to find out.

“Will you be here always?” Clarion asked. “Even after I’m queen?”

Altherion chewed on the inside of her cheek as she considered the question. All records—save Queen Tallennion’s—had said that the queen died not long after the Coronation. There was a very high chance that Altherion would be Stardust on the wind after she had passed the crown to Clarion. Queen Tallennion had been there to mentor her through her first few years of leadership when she had taken up her Star-appointed position as General of the Army. Her Majesty had been Stardust in her hands in the aftermath of the final battle of the war, though. Queen Maevion, she had read, had imploded at Queen Tallennion’s Coronation Ceremony. Maevion’s predecessor—whose name had been lost to war-ruined archives but whose story would forever be in her mind—had apparently been recalled to the Stars the moment Maevion had emerged from her chrysalis. She was apparently an outlier in that data, but Altherion did not like her odds at all.

Clarion made an inquisitive noise, prompting her to finally respond.

“Clarion, your arrival heralds the end of my life. I cannot even be entirely confident, based upon a select few Starborn arrivals, that I will not be recalled home the moment you step beyond this room,” she said bluntly.

“Oh,” Clarion gasped, flooding their link with horror.

Her death grip on Altherion’s arm tightened to the point where she was sure she would lose all feeling in her arm. She squirmed out of Clarion’s hold and turned to face her, bringing them knee to knee. Tears glistened on the girl’s cheeks and something in her heart squeezed painfully. She had seen that look on her sister’s face before. Bringing both of her hands to hold Clarion’s face and rest her forehead against hers—as she had done countless times before, back when the world had been brighter—was suddenly as easy as breathing. 

“I will not leave you to drown in vicious politics, or be crushed beneath the weight of our duty, Clarion. I will make you ready. I will make you strong. I will make you beloved by these fae that we rule over with Starlight and strength.”

Clarion only nodded, their link ablaze with desperation and an anxiety that diminished as they sat and breathed together. Altherion did her best to soothe her, to take that fear from her and replace it with her own surety and calmness. A sizeable lump had appeared in the back of her throat at her efforts. Her eyes had begun to prickle.

“When do we have to face the queendom?” Clarion whispered, wiping something wet from Altherion’s face and pulling back enough to embrace her—rather awkwardly, given their positions—instead.

Altherion sucked in a breath and steeled herself. 

“Whenever you are ready.”

“I’d like to rest a while longer,” Clarion requested.

“An hour more,” Altherion declared quietly.

"Okay."

The knowledge that it was the beginning of the end for her settled like a weighty stone in her gut.

Chapter Text

The sounds of someone entering her room as loudly as possible sent a knife of irritation through Clarion’s half-asleep brain. There was about a second of silence again—blissful and greatly cherished—before Elvina’s sharp tones shattered it.

“Princess, you were supposed to be out of bed, dressed, and ready for your audience with Her Majesty ten minutes ago.”

Clarion—despite everything in her screaming to remain ensconced within the nest of blankets that she tried to cling to sleep in, but driven to action by the irrational panic that had shot through her—quickly forced herself up into a bleary sitting position and stretched her great golden wings out. Her head spun, black spots crawling in her peripheral; the consequences of studying until the small hours of the morning had decided to hit hard. Elvina squinted at the sudden—almost blinding—brightness that her wings added to the room, making a face as though she had been sucking on a lemon as she shielded her eyes with a dainty hand. It was only then that Clarion realised she had been tricked. Again. Some of her panic eased as she turned to her balcony doors and found—to her dismay—that it was still pitch black outside.

“What time is it really, Advisor?” she asked as politely as she could, turning back to fix the older woman with an unimpressed look.

Elvina looked unfazed by her displeasure. In fact, she even smiled.

“Just before dawn, Princess,” she said passively. “Do I need to report your unwillingness to follow my directions to The Queen?”

Clarion slid off of her bed, face carefully blank, jaw relaxed even though she dearly wished to grit her teeth and seethe.

“You do not, Advisor,” she answered, then reached for the athletic wear at the end of her bed. “I will be out shortly,” she said pointedly, effectively dismissing Elvina.

She could take her time with her morning run and perhaps even go further than she normally would. The time that she had been rudely awakened at would give her a few hours to fit in some more study before she had to meet with her mother.

Or so she thought.

“I was not joking about you being ten minutes late. The Queen wants you presentable and in the War Chambers now. She is already in an awful mood.” Elvina was at the door.

Clarion’s panic returned.

“Now now?” Clarion asked, mind not quite comprehending the information.

Elvina only closed the door, leaving her to rush to her wardrobe and pull a dress—one within easy reach—made of white calla lilies and embellished with gold detailing. She threw it onto her bed and lunged for her dresser, opening the top draw—sigils glowing as they recognised her magic—and extracting her crown from it. Despite its much smaller size in comparison to her mother’s, it was still uncomfortably heavy.

Stripping out of her sleepwear and donning fresh undergarments, Clarion reasoned that she could worry about shoes and decorative armour after she had forced herself into her dress. It went on easier than she had expected, but she needed to be laced in and she had never been good at that by herself.

“Artemis?” she called, fighting to calm her racing heart and fluttering over to her jewellery box to retrieve a set of earrings.

Was Artemis even on duty? Had she bid Peregrine goodnight last night, or had that been Artemis?

She darted to the armour stand in the corner that her dear Tinker friend, Petra, had made for her to hang the bigger pieces of artistically forged metal that her mother insisted she accessorised with. Whoever answered her call for aid would enter shortly. She hoped they did not take too long though. Mother did usually allow a little tardiness if her summons came at an inconvenient hour, but that was no excuse to relax, or to dilly dally.

The door opened and Artemis, her loyal and most trusted guard, slipped into the room just as Clarion had managed to retrieve a wide gold filigree belt from the stand. She left the matching pauldrons where they were. She would not struggle with those at this hour.

“Morning, Princess,” Artemis acknowledged, sharp as ever.

Clarion beamed.

“Morning, Artemis. Lace me in, would you, please?” she asked, turning and spreading her wings wide so that they would not obscure Artemis’ vision.

“Of course, Princess.”

Strong hands threaded sturdy silken cord through the eyelets in the back of her dress before pulling them tight and securing them with a well tied knot and bow.

“What are you doing with your hair, Princess?” Artemis asked, helping her with her belt, then fetching a pair of elegant sandals and setting them down in front of her.

“Oh,” she realised anxiously, bending to put the shoes on. “I should have woken Dahlia.”

Dahlia was her handmaiden, not Artemis. Poor Artemis barely knew what to do with hair outside of ensuring that her own short, sharp bob—easy to maintain, easy to style, too—did not go against army regulation. What Clarion was about to walk into downstairs would need to present her as the leader she was trying to be. Clarion would attempt to do her hair herself, but nothing she did would ever be as regal as what Dahlia could do.

“Permission to speak freely?” Artemis asked.

“Always, Arti, dear,” Clarion answered with a mild huff.

She would have thought that after a decade of being assigned to her, Artemis would know that she welcomed conversation when in private as they were now.

“Elvina should have brought Dahlia here with her,” Artemis answered, tone souring as she steered her over to the vanity and guided her down onto the stool in front of it.

Very true.

“Are we surprised that she did not?” Clarion asked tiredly, sliding her earrings—dangling, golden pieces of jewellery with iridescent pixie crystals at their ends—into their respective piercings.

Artemis shook her head and sighed. That was answer enough.

They had both noticed over the years that if there was anything that Elvina could do to put her or her mother in a tough spot, she did it. Clarion being late and dressed improperly would make her mother look bad, hence why Dahlia had not been roused and brought up to Clarion’s rooms. It was something that could be overlooked on Elvina’s part, given the early hour. But then responsibility for looking presentable at court would fall to Clarion in its entirety, and Mother would have to reprimand her or be faced with criticism of her mentoring.

Clarion could not make them both look bad.

“I’ll braid. You do whatever it is that you do to your face with gold dust,” Artemis ordered, snatching a hairbrush from the vanity. “Your mother appreciates a good braid. She won’t fault you for something simple at this hour.”

Clarion hummed, unable to disagree, and picked up a pot of pixie dust makeup as Artemis brushed and sectioned her hair.

“Soft or severe, Princess?” Artemis asked, pausing in her work.

Clarion thought about it for a moment, then picked up her crown—gold and halo-like—and held it up for Artemis’ assessment. Artemis acknowledged it with a thoughtful hum.

“Soft enough to work this in and hold it for the day,” she said, putting it down again, “but severe enough for the War Chambers.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

━━━━ ◦: ✧✲✧ :◦━━━━

Clarion composed herself before the great carved doors of the War Chambers. The guards stationed on either side of the doors—Thorn and Peregrine—did not react to her presence with anything more than a salute. They stared straight ahead, wickedly sharp spears glinting in the warm fae lights above. They, like Artemis, had been trained to restrain any emotion they might have whilst on duty. Clarion greeted them politely anyway—as she always did—then ran through the likely scenarios she would soon find herself in.

Scenario one: Mother would react as Artemis had proposed earlier; unfocused on Clarion’s presentation, a little bedraggled herself—though that was unlikely—and fully focused on the topic of the meeting. Scenario two: Elvina had stirred the pot and Clarion was in for the full force of Mother’s golden glare being turned upon her while sharp words fell from an even sharper tongue in a reprimand that would probably ruin the rest of her day. Then the guilt and disappointment that blossomed within her at having failed Mother so early in the morning, would eat her alive. Scenario three, the most unlikely: it would be too early for anyone in that chamber to give two shakes of a robin’s tail feathers about what anyone looked like.

Thorn and Peregrine opened the doors after what felt like an age. Clarion crossed the threshold and grit her teeth as cooler air enveloped her. Her sandals tapped quietly on the wooden floor as she headed to her place on Mother’s right, never once faltering even after such a cold shock. Mother turned to face her, golden eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue but somehow no less observant. She inclined her head in silent greeting, nothing hostile in her body language. In fact, she seemed like she had only just woken up too. There was a dazed quality to her through their bond that Clarion related to all too well. She released the breath she had been holding and allowed herself to relax somewhat.

Elvina had been wrong, however, that did not mean that Clarion would no longer have to tread lightly. The tension within the chamber was the highest she had ever felt it, and the fact that none of the senior members of court showed signs of feeling it made her uneasy.

“There has been an attack on the Autumn Quadrant. The beast came from the Winter Quadrant. Lord Bóreas is about to elaborate upon a suggestion that he had before we took a break to summon you,” Mother informed her.

Clarion’s breath caught in her throat as a pang of panic momentarily shook her. She swallowed it down at the slight uptick of Mother’s brow. This was not the time nor the place for such emotion. She needed to be clear-headed.

Clarion acknowledged with a nod, took her place at her mother’s side, then took note of the ministers and apprentices present at the great table. None were panicked by the attack. That small observation made her somewhat ashamed of the involuntary reaction she had just had.

The reason for the cooler temperature within the war room sat directly opposite from her and Mother. Lord Bóreas was tall and imposing—a mountain given fae form, she thought—but Clarion knew he was softer than he looked. He bowed his head in greeting, circlet of silver leaves and icy gems glinting in golden fae light amidst his dark hair. His expression was tight, though, even as Clarion returned the gesture. 

To his left was Lady Amber, Minister of Autumn, and her apprentice, Redleaf. Lady Amber had always given her the impression of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but she could not figure out why. She was staunchly loyal to the Crown. She was nice enough to her and to Redleaf. But there was a cool, calculating look about her that never quite seemed to go away, so perhaps that could have been the source of Clarion’s unease. Or, perhaps it was simply her own nerves acting up whenever she laid eyes upon the Minister. Clarion was not afraid to privately admit that Lady Amber and her sharp, pale features, keen green eyes shadowed with dark pigments, and full lips painted a deep cherry, was quite intimidating. Her wardrobe—one that followed a darker colour palette than the rest of the court’s garb, save for Lord Bóreas’, and detailed with autumnal colours—only added to her intimidating appearance. Beside Redleaf—who, by comparison, was effortlessly confident, sturdy, more colourful, and far more approachable even with his ever-present maple leaf cap—Lady Amber seemed rather unapproachable and somewhat dangerous.

Having noticed Clarion’s attention upon them, Lady Amber and Redleaf offered her a nod that was as respectful as it usually was, and was expected to be. Clarion inclined her head in turn. 

Lady Amber, of course, was dangerous. Everyone in this chamber was. But she was not as dangerous as the woman at the head of the table quietly organising her papers on Clarion’s left. She was not as dangerous as Clarion herself could be. She could be dealt with easily if she became a threat. It was, therefore, a foolish waste of Clarion’s valuable time and energy trying to understand why the minister bugged her so when she had training to focus on.

Easier said than done.

Clarion pushed her unease into the same box that she had shoved her earlier panic into.

Lord Brooks and his apprentice, Sunflower, sat on Mother’s left. Lord Brooks looked as relaxed as a feline stretched out upon warm ground beneath an even warmer sun; he always was. He was as calm as a lazy summer’s day even in tense situations like this, often putting her—and sometimes even Mother—at ease. He was someone that Clarion could trust—during those times when Mother, as part of her training, left her to hold meetings herself—to tame a volatile room, then to hand control back over with grace and steady encouragement. His short, light brown hair curled slightly, untouched by any sort of gel that might tame it. If Mother allowed it, Clarion had no doubt that he would attend all of these meetings shirtless just to flaunt his excellent tan and his strong body. Sunflower’s red hair—frizzy and as soft-looking as a cloud—matched her slightly more frantic disposition. She nodded to Clarion—Clarion nodded back—then subtly nudged Lord Brooks. Lord Brooks opened his single blue eye, raised a hand in greeting, then closed his eye again. Sunflower gave a heavy sigh, meeting Clarion’s sympathetic gaze with a grimace. Lord Brooks’ relaxed nature often clashed with Sunflower’s more urgent energy. 

Beside Sunflower was Apprentice Hyacinth, and beside him was Lady Zinnia, Minister of Spring. Lady Zinnia gave her a short, sharp nod as Hyacinth did the same, nervous and twitchy even at this early hour, but possibly moreso due to the attack. Clarion did not mind Hyacinth, but the way Lady Zinnia treated him left the elder fae in her lowest regard. She was deceptively unkind; her calm demeanour, pretty smile, gorgeous crown of flowers woven amongst brown tresses and flowing dresses often hid that uglier side to her well enough to take those unfamiliar with her by surprise.

Clarion looked to the edges of the chamber where the advisors usually lurked behind their ministers and waited for orders. All four spaces were empty. Elvina’s post, she remembered, had also been empty. Of course, that could simply mean that they were away on business as instructed by their superiors. But something niggled in the back of Clarion’s mind. Something whispered that the absence of all advisors was significant for reasons beyond the norm.

The quiet to her left—official documents dead still upon the table—pulled Clarion’s attention back to her immediate surroundings.

“If we are all settled and alert, we shall begin once more,” Mother announced, waiting expectantly for anyone to add anything.

“Ready,” the ministers answered in unison.

Just like that, the mood in the chamber shifted. Where there was once quiet tension, there was now the razor sharp focus that Mother expected from them and from her. Clarion pushed any lingering fatigue to the back of her mind, then followed her mother’s example and sat upon her own low-backed chair. The ministers and apprentices did the same at Mother’s gesture. 

“As of three hours ago, a beast from the southern edge of the Winter Woods attacked the northern residential area in the Autumn Quadrant. Fifty homes were completely destroyed, which put sixty-five fae in the healing halls. There have been no reported deaths. The reinforcements that General Felix requested as of two hours ago helped Autumn’s garrison succeeded in pushing the beast back to the Winter Woods.” Mother’s voice rang clear throughout the chamber. “Recovery is underway, with clean-up expected to be complete by midday. To meet this goal, dust rations have been temporarily increased by one gram per fairy.”

Clarion nodded, absorbing the information with as little emotion as possible. She was keenly aware that the ministers had sat through all of that before she had arrived. She watched with baited breath as Mother looked straight down the table.

“Lord Bóreas,” Mother began, levelling the Lord of Winter with a frosty gaze, “you mentioned that you had a solution earlier that you could not elaborate upon unless Princess Clarion was in attendance. She is here now. Elaborate.”

He nodded, circlet glinting in the fae lights.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Bóreas began, appropriately grave, all considered, “my proposal is for the Princess to journey across the border into Winter to aid my guardian in tracking down the beast.” his eyes, grey and stormy, seemed to level a silent plea Clarion’s way.

All eyes turned to her.

Clarion swallowed, hoping that she did not look as ill-prepared to give an answer as she felt. Her head swam with everything she had just heard. On three hours of sleep, stringing anything elegant together was like wading through mud. She knew one thing though, and that was how badly she wanted to do something to help. She did not want to—and had never been comfortable with—others doing the hard work whilst she sat in the highest, safest place in the Hollow.

“Of course, Lord Bóreas. I will gladly aid your guardian,” Clarion answered, earnest in her sympathy.

The bond she shared with her mother steadily came to life with the other woman’s intrigue and the barest hint of confusion. No words floated across, and so Clarion was left to analyse what had carefully been fed through to her. The intrigue was probably to do with the opportunity to test her that this situation would offer. The confusion that had drifted through was more straightforward: who would willingly go into the Winter Quadrant for any reason?

Me, apparently, Clarion thought. Stars, I hope this goes uncontested.

The rational side of her that had not entirely fallen prey to an abhorrent lack of sleep told her that that was wishful thinking.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Lord Bóreas answered gratefully, bowing his head.

Clarion nodded, then looked to Mother. Nothing came through their bond. No emotion showed itself upon her stern face. She seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Clarion was too, and decades of experience at Court shadowing her mother had taught her that they never needed to wait long.

Lady Amber shifted in her seat. 

Of course it would be her.

“I am not sure I like the idea of Princess Clarion hunting the beast alone with General Milori,” Lady Amber said, her smooth voice slipping through the tense silence.

Lady Zinnia would back her up. There was a pattern that those two had fallen into that Clarion had made sure—once Mother had pointed it out to her—to become familiar with. As Lady Amber’s steady—and fake—concern marinated, Lord Brooks and Lord Bóreas rolled their eyes. Clarion did not have to look at her mother to know that her jaw was clenched. She was doing the same despite her best efforts not to. Even the apprentices looked pained.

“For once, I agree with Lady Amber,” Lady Zinnia said, looking at The Queen with wide, worried eyes that made Clarion immediately doubt the sincerity of her concern. “We don't know what he's capable of. We've never met him!”

This, Clarion thought, would be where Mother rose from her seat to move around. She never could sit still for very long. Despite claiming otherwise, she was also readable.

“You may not have met General Milori, but I can assure you that I have.” Mother stood from her chair and began to circle the table, each slow, booted footstep purposeful and intimidating. “He is highly competent, Ministers, as are all other members of Lord Bóreas’ Court.”

“He would not have been elevated to the position if he was not,” Lord Bóreas added coldly.

Silence reigned once more and Clarion caught Sunflower’s eye, watching as they widened slightly, then looked nervously between her mentor and the rest of the Court. Clarion pressed her lips together—eyes feeling as though they might fall out of her head despite how alert she felt—and waited for Lord Brooks to insert himself into the conversation. He would not do it yet, though. He would wait until after Mother and Lord Bóreas were done, as he usually did.

Mother had reached Lord Bóreas on her track around the war table.

“But, Your Majesty,” Lady Zinnia said, laying the concern on thick, “surely you do not think sending Princess Clarion into Winter is a good idea!” 

Mother raised a brow and came to a stop behind Lord Bóreas with a final and very pointed clunk of her boot.

“I think it's a brilliant idea, actually, Lady Zinnia. It's the perfect opportunity for Clarion to put her training to use in Winter and to gain even more experience. Do you doubt her present capabilities?” her tone was light, but there was something to it that made the hair on the back of Clarion's neck stand on end.

Lady Zinnia’s brows rose as her hand—glittering with rings—came to rest against her clavicle, mouth falling open in a gasp. She looked ready to respond, but Lady Amber cut over her.

“With due respect, I’ll remind everyone at this table that we have no adequate technology to ensure that Her Highness’s wings will be safe against Winter’s bite in a way that does not go against the terms of the Treaty of Hemispheres.” she turned her pale green gaze to Clarion. “I would hate for us to go to war with the Southern Hollow again as much as I would hate for Princess Clarion to lose the use of her wings.”

Clarion heard the unsaid: “A wingless Queen would not be a Queen at all.” She pursed her lips and formulated her response.

“I’ve never had much need of them before, Minister. I sincerely doubt that the Pixie Dust Drought will fix itself the second I become Queen, either. It would not be the end of this Hollow if I were to break a wing. We have adapted to a scarcity of Pixie Dust and we shall adapt again if necessary,” she said, slightly tilting her chin upward in silent challenge.

A challenge to say what she really meant. A challenge to once again reveal her contempt for the wingless veterans—and for Winter Fae—in front of her Queen and Lord Bóreas.

Mother was very still as she observed Lady Amber from her vigil behind Lord Bóreas. Redleaf and Hyacinth seemed to want The Tree to swallow them up. Sunflower had taken to quietly tapping the pads of her fingers against the tabletop and taking deep, calming breaths.

“A fairy without their wings, Your Highness, is a dead fairy,” Lady Amber answered after a moment of careful consideration. She glanced around the table. “As I am sure all of us are aware of, and would agree on.”

Lady Zinnia nodded solemnly and Lord Brooks frowned. Lord Bóreas stiffened in his seat as Mother placed a gauntletted hand upon his shoulder, near his neck. One talon grazed the skin just above his collar. Then, she resumed her slow, steady pace around the table through the silence—heavy with a deep remembrance that Clarion could not ever hope to, or want to share—that had fallen in the wake of Lady Amber’s words.

“I am sure that Queen Alexion will be amenable to allowing the use of wingsulators for this mission,” Mother said steadily.

“And if she is not, Your Majesty?” Lady Zinnia asked.

“She will be,” Mother said confidently.

To Clarion, through their bond, she added: ‘She owes me a favour.’

Clarion nodded.

“I still don’t like it,” Lady Amber said.

Lord Brooks sat up properly and leaned forward, elbows coming to rest on the tabletop, hands clasped beneath his chin. Clarion readied herself for the fallout of whatever came out of his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter what you don’t like anymore, Lady Amber,” he said slowly, “It’s four, including Princess Clarion herself, in favour.”

“Well, suppose we don’t get the wingsulators,” Lady Amber began, upper lip cocked in disgust at Lord Brooks, “is there an alternative?”

“Yes,” Mother answered calmly, passing behind Clarion once again. Clarion suppressed a shudder as she—in her state of steadily encroaching overstimulation—sensed the magical charge that Mother had gathered upon her tongue. “A dust variant in the vaults that the Southern Hollow does not know of. I trust that I do not need to impart the importance of ensuring that word of such a thing does not leave this room?”

Clarion kept her face carefully blank. If she frowned, she would give too much away.

“No, Your Majesty,” the ministers intoned, compelled by starlit magic.

“Good,” Mother said, pleased.

She stopped behind Lady Amber, posture shifting into parade rest the way her generals and their soldiers did. The posture—not her usual, but not far from it—was as much an indication of Mother’s tiredness as heavy-lidded eyes and slow reaction times were on ordinary fae. Clarion, eager to move the meeting along to a meaningful conclusion as much as Mother seemingly was, cleared her throat and immediately received the attention of everyone around the table.

“Lady Amber, Lady Zinnia,” she began, shooting the both of them grateful looks, “I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing. However, I do wonder why such concern is being made known now when I have faced greater dangers before and not received the same reactions from you both.”

It was so quiet that she could hear the magic—an eerie, comforting tinkle far above the hearing range of her present company, excluding Mother—in the room. However, Ladies Amber and Zinnia’s shocked silence at being called out did not last long. Clarion stifled her triumphant grin as Lady Zinnia’s wings twitched to a slightly higher position.

“Well, Princess, those times before did not put you at risk of losing your wings!” Lady Zinnia answered, clearly flustered.

“They did,” she answered, keeping her tone even. “All of them did. Did you think hunting un-sworn predators in violation of Hollow boundaries was done from afar?” she turned to Lady Amber. “I’ll be joining the Guardian of Winter in hunting this beast down and I’ll be expecting your full support in the days to come, Lady Amber.”

Lady Amber gave her a slow blink, then nodded. Clarion’s bluntness—not something that she was known for—seemed to have brought the other woman’s scheming to a very brief halt.

“Lord Brooks and Lady Zinnia, you are dismissed. Return to your Quadrants and go about your business as usual. We must keep the rest of the Hollow running as smoothly as possible,” Mother said, pride flooding their bond. Clarion basked in it. “Lord Bóreas and Lady Amber, you will both remain behind. We’ve plans to discuss.”

Lord Bóreas nodded as Lady Zinnia huffed and organised her papers with more aggression than what Clarion thought was necessary. Poor Hyacinth looked utterly stricken by his mentor's mood, but Sunflower calmly stored her notes in a satchel that Lord Brooks then carried for her. Redleaf straightened further, expression pinched. Clarion heard his vertebrae give a satisfying crunch and watched as his expression eased slightly. He looked at her—as if sensing her attention—wary and weary all at once. Clarion smiled at him, gave herself a mental shake, and turned her attention back to Mother as she sat back down beside her again.

Behind them, the doors shut with an echoing thud once Lady Zinnia, Lord Brooks, and their apprentices had left the chamber.

“I can introduce you to General Milori tomorrow afternoon, Princess. We may benefit from a night of observation before we send you both hunting,” Lord Bóreas began.

“I agree,” she said. “We will every bit of information on this beast that we can get.”

Lord Bóreas nodded. 

“Then I’m requesting that the Autumn Garrison maintain the extra faepower that was sent this morning. We cannot risk another full-scale attack without that aid,” Lady Amber said, the expression on her face daring anyone to disagree.

“I have already instructed General Nightshade to reassign those troops to you. Your garrison will not be left lacking,” Mother assured her, those words carrying the weight of old history that Clarion had only ever read about in history books.

Lady Amber nodded stiffly.

“I’ll try to make this hunt quick,” Clarion added, hoping that it would ease the minister’s prickly anxiety.

Lady Amber smiled, the brief pearly-white flash of her canines a subtle threat that Clarion understood well.

“Do make sure you’re thorough, Your Highness. There may be more than one.” Lady Amber’s tone carried a light teasing quality to it. 

“Of course.” Clarion held her green gaze and gave her a single, serious nod. 

Lady Amber looked away first.

“If that is all I need to be present for, I shall take my leave, Your Majesty. I must be with my fae as we attempt to recover from this vile attack. My advisor, Rowan, will remain here,” she said.

That, Clarion thought, was an interesting choice of words. Lord Bóreas seemed to think so too, because his eyes widened slightly as he caught her eye.

“I’ve nothing to add that cannot be sent to you via letter, my lady,” Lord Bóreas said.

“Dismissed,” Mother ordered. “Be safe,” she added.

“Thank you, Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Lady Amber answered, tone halfway between polite and curt, wings folding tightly against her back as she stood.

She and Redleaf exited the chamber with haste. Clarion counted sixty seconds after the door had shut before Lord Bóreas spoke again.

“She thinks it’s a purposeful attack.”

Mother did not grill him for evidence as she usually would have. She merely sighed softly, took her gauntlets off, and tossed them onto the files in front of her. Clarion watched as she slid the ring—a band of metal akin to golden ice—off of the fourth finger on her left hand, flexed her fingers as if to work feeling back into them, then put the ring back on.

“She can think what she likes. I’ll back you if she takes it to the masses.” Mother looked at her, exhaustion evident in her expression. “You’re to go to bed and sleep, Clarion. In approximately nine hours time, I will brief you on what Lord Bóreas and I are about to discuss here, then escort you to the Autumn-Winter Border myself. Questions?”

Clarion shook her head.

“Understood, Mother.” she rose from her seat, folding her wings against her back. “I shall see you tomorrow, Lord Bóreas,” she said, nodding to him.

“Rest well, Your Highness,”

Mother allowed a steady flow of warm affection to light up their bond before she made a grabbing gesture with her right hand—glowing with starlit magic—that had Clarion’s body dissolving into the void before she could think to ask if Artemis would be teleported with her.

Clarion reappeared in her bedroom, eyes heavy, Artemis—looking quite sick after the unexpected teleportation—next to her. 

“Bathroom, Arti,” Clarion urged, guiding her guard to the ensuite in time for her to dry heave over the latrine.

“I am so sorry, Your Highness,” Artemis said once she had caught her breath. “I cannot believe this keeps happening.”

Clarion stifled a yawn and shook her head.

“Arti, dear, if teleportation agreed with everyone, then many more fae would do it,” she said, blinking away the black spots skittering in her periphery.

Either Mother had amplified her exhaustion, or the adrenaline of the meeting had worn off and now she was crashing. Artemis, having cleaned herself up and put herself back together, turned and swooped to hold her up as Clarion swayed dangerously. She gripped onto her shoulders, fingers curling into the cool edges of Artemis’ breastplate as Artemis’ strong hands braced against her ribs.

“Bed for you,” Artemis declared, grunting with effort as she managed to sling one of Clarion’s arms over her shoulders and coax her—Clarion really did try, with limbs that felt like lead—into walking.

“Sorry,” she managed, putting one foot in front of the other and leaning heavily into her.

“We’re even, Your Highness,” Artemis grit out.

Clarion’s last memory before sleep took her, was of her face slamming gracelessly into her pillow and Artemis’ muffled swearing.

━━━━ ◦: ✧✲✧ :◦━━━━

Dahlia woke her, ready to re-braid her hair, after what Clarion assumed had been eight hours of sleep. After Clarion had struggled with her armour, Dahlia helped her strap it onto herself. This armour was nothing like the decorative pieces that she wore at Court. It was functional, yet beautiful. It had a natural metallic shine, but also the faintest glow of enchantment. It mimicked leaves like her mother’s did, but it—unlike leaves—was better at defending physical and magical attacks alike. There was only one part of it that she had to collect from her mother, assuming Queen Alexion had agreed: insulators for her wings. Or, as the veterans liked to call them: wingsulators.

Dahlia sighed as she finally tied off Clarion’s tight braid. No hair ornaments had been skillfully woven in, no crown sat atop her head. It was just her hair and the black twine Dahlia had secured it with.

“I don’t like this, Clarion,” she murmured. “This seems like a job for General Nightshade’s people.”

Clarion tilted her head as two sharp taps sounded from the door.

“It’s a test,” she said calmly, brow furrowing. “Besides, it’s not much different from a hunt on the Hollow’s outer borders.”

“It’s in Winter, Your Highness,” Dahlia said, as if that explained everything.

Dahlia held her gaze in the mirror, brown eyes concerned.

“I’ve had cold weather training,” Clarion reminded her.

“In a simulated environment,” Dahlia said carefully. “A carefully controlled environment.”

Where had this doubt over her abilities come from? Dahlia was usually the first to reassure her of her skill if Elvina had been particularly nasty during lessons.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have help from General Milori, and I’ll have Artemis with me,” she said.

A little voice in the back of her head reminded her that she did not have to justify herself to anyone who hadn’t fallen from the endless plain of space where the Starborn fae like her had dwelt.

There was another more insistent knock at the door. Dahlia, instead of responding to her, sighed and glided over to answer it. Clarion turned in time to see Artemis step inside with Petra, who had returned with her sword.

“Clare, I had to fix the grip, too. Why didn’t you tell me it was disintegrating?” Petra chided, holding the sword out to her by its sheathed blade.

Clarion drew the weapon, satisfied with its new sharpness and grip. The iron blade shone reassuringly in the fae lights that lit up her room despite the afternoon light outside.

“I’d become so used to the feel of it that it slipped my mind,” Clarion said, smiling in the face of Petra’s disapproval. Gratefully, she took the scabbard from Petra’s gloved hands and sheathed her sword again, silently hoping that she would not have to draw it too often. “Thank you so much for fixing it, dear friend. I’d be dead without you and your brilliant smithing.”

Petra softened and waved her away, suddenly bashful. Her glow brightened to a rosy golden hue and her wings fluttered. Artemis, Clarion noticed, smiled too, though her gaze was solely on Petra. Dahlia, her earlier doubt in her seemingly forgotten, gave her a knowing look that Clarion returned with the faintest hint of exasperation as she swept her own concerns away. Winter and its fae had a bad reputation. Dahlia was just worried, as she usually was whenever Clarion was being tested by her mother or assisting General Nightshade on the borders.

“You wouldn’t be dead, Clare,” Petra said. “You could probably win a fight with a stick.”

Clarion made to protest, but Artemis’ sage nod and Dahlia’s little noise of wholehearted agreement put a stop to that. The words she had meant to say—that she most certainly could not do half of what Petra thought that she could do without a sword—slid back off of the tip of her tongue. They fell down her throat into the churning abyss of doubt in her magical control that squirmed—familiar and choking at times—at her core. Instead, she nodded and fastened her scabbard to her belt over her left hip.

“Thank you.” she strode forward and pulled Petra into a hug, chin resting atop her rusty red curls, careful not to accidentally scrape her wings with her gauntlets. “We’ll have tea when I return, yes?”

“Of course!” Petra exclaimed, pulling back with some difficulty. “You’ll have to tell me all about Winter,” she leaned in and Clarion bowed her head for her to whisper: “and we’ll go through that list we made and see how many of our assumptions are right.”

Clarion snorted.

“Princess, we should depart soon,” Artemis warned. 

“Oh, yes, I should get on with my day, too,” Dahlia said, somewhat disappointed as she drifted over to the door. “Best of luck, Princess!” she called, then slipped out into the hallway before Clarion could answer.

Clarion managed a smile, though it felt weak and did nothing to further banish the tiniest, lingering sliver of self-doubt and disappointment that their earlier conversation had conjured within her.

“I’ll head off, too,” Petra said, forcing a smile through her obvious nerves. “Queen Altherion’s set me a new project.”

Clarion would learn of it soon enough, though she did have an inkling of what it might be. Her coronation was in eleven months, after all.

“Take care of yourself, Petra,” Clarion murmured, grasping her arm one last time.

It took Petra a few moments to understand what she meant—Clarion knew there was far too much happening inside of her head at any given moment—but eventually she nodded and eased out of her hold. Petra made it halfway to the door before she spun back toward them, shifting nervously from foot to foot, wings fluttering slightly.

“Good luck, Lieutenant,” Petra squeaked, throwing Artemis a nervous grin.

“Thank you, Petra.” Artemis bowed her head.

Petra practically flew through the door, red-faced and glowing brightly. Clarion waited for a few moments before she spoke again. She pressed her right index finger to each of the tips of her other armoured digits twice over—a soothing, repetitive motion she had often seen Mother use—and allowed the quiet clink of metal on metal to ground her.

“Do you have doubts about this hunt, Artemis?” she asked quietly, turning to her guard. “Speak freely, please.” she added, knowing that Artemis would ask to.

Artemis eyed her thoughtfully, then shook her head.

“You are in good hands, Princess. We both are.” she offered her a small, rare, reassuring smile. “Nobody on this team is useless by any means. Our chances of survival are very high.”

“So, you’ve heard everyone’s doubts?” 

Artemis nodded, a sour look flitting across her face before she regained control of her expression.

“They’re based on fear. They’re also wrong, if I may say so, Princess.” she gestured for Clarion to make her way to the door first. “Something’s stirring, I think, and it’s not just a beast in Winter.”

“Can you elaborate?” she asked, stepping out into the hall.

Artemis shut Clarion’s bedroom door behind herself, taking a moment to consider.

“Not here,” Artemis said eventually, softly.

Clarion nodded, then followed her down the hall.

━━━━ ◦: ✧✲✧ :◦━━━━

The royal vault was tucked away down in the root system of The Tree. It housed various weapons and magical artefacts that could not be put within reach of ordinary fae. Only Starborn Fae had access to it outside of wartime, and even during wartime, only the highest ranking soldiers of the army—and carefully selected Court officials-—were permitted entry. It was good, Clarion thought, because it meant that Elvina could not follow her or Mother inside. Nor could she barge in with little warning other than the sound of her feet upon the ground beyond the heavy door.

Mother—somewhat refreshed since the meeting, but in a significantly worse mood—led them through the chamber dimly lit by the combined efforts of faint trickles of gold dust within the walls, the ceiling, the floors, and their lifeglows. Artemis—trusted by Mother enough to be permitted entry, much to the lieutenant’s own surprise, Clarion noted—surveyed the space with sharp eyes, listening closely to the sound of their boots echoing against the stone floor.

Clarion suspected that several unfavourable things—probably revealed during Mother’s hushed conversation with Elvina that Clarion had interrupted—had occurred in her absence for her to be so irritable that it was visible in her usually graceful, fluid movements. Now, Clarion thought, as she watched her mother’s rigid gait—not unlike Artemis’—was absolutely the time to tread carefully. Their bond had been shut off completely, leaving her to navigate their interactions without her usual advantage. It was something that did not happen as rarely as one might expect. In fact, it happened as part of her training as she learned to read people during battle or at the war chamber table.

They came to an abrupt halt in front of the wooden storage unit that housed the wingsulators. Clarion counted eight drawers, each labelled with a name. Mother opened the second drawer from the top marked as ‘Princess Selennion’ with a hesitance that she was surprised had even been shown, given Artemis’ presence. Clarion heard Artemis’ intake of breath behind her as she laid eyes on the four huge panels of shimmering silver…something—a material that she was unable to identify—sitting upon the drawer’s silk interior. It was a membrane suspended from a metallic frame that seemed like it was made to sit atop the costa of a fairy’s wing. There were two for the forewings and two for the hindwings. They were roughly the same shape as Clarion’s own wings.

The longer she studied them, the more her mind wished to wander away to the old texts that she had been combing through yesterday. But curiosity was not the only thing that ate at her; there was a distinct, uncomfortable, prickling feeling rising in her gut. Princess Selennion’s memory—the ministers’ ideas of how she would be and how she would rule as Queen had she survived the war—had haunted The Tree and her mother for years. Bringing out Selennion’s wingsulators felt as though it would reignite that particular facet of the centuries-old contempt for Mother that the ministers still carried with them. Clarion had experienced the echoes of it during meetings and she was not eager to experience anything more direct than that.

Reassuring warmth trickled over her, a balm on her nerves. Clarion frowned at the sensation and carefully probed the bond with her magic. It remained an impervious wall. 

“Queen Alexion is sending her ambassador to watch over us for the duration of this mission, Clarion, so you had better make this damn quick,” Mother said shortly, finally turning to her.

Clarion blinked. Beside her, Artemis’ wings tensed. They both knew who the ambassador would be without having to ask. The man had a way of getting under one’s skin and remaining there for decades. The memory of him was enough to induce a simmering rage within even the most patient and diplomatic fae. Not even Clarion could stand his presence for long.

Stars, Minerva is going to have a brilliant few days too, she realised. She would have to get her something from the Tinker’s Market as thanks. It was, after all, her fault that Ambassador Solan was coming to Pixie Hollow. 

“I’ll do my best,” Clarion promised evenly, uselessly threading reassurance toward the blocked end of their bond. “We both will.”

Mother nodded sharply, then turned back to the wingsulators. Carefully, she withdrew one part of Selennion’s set from the open drawer and rested it across her armoured arms.

“Clarion, remove your cloak and spread your wings wide. Lieutenant, you will watch carefully as I put these on,” Mother instructed.

“Yes, Majesty.”

Clarion unclasped her cloak and draped it over a nearby weapons rack. Then, she spread her wings.

“Forewings first.” Clarion heard Mother’s cloak drop, then heard the slight buzz of her wings as she hovered over her. “You’ll start at the apex of her forewing, then slide the insulation membrane down over the entire wing, ensuring that you cover her bases too. The membrane will seal itself and adapt, but it’s always best that you do the job properly first.”

“The frame?” Artemis enquired.

“It comes off once they’re sealed. They’re mostly for storage.”

Clarion stifled a gasp as Mother slid the wingsulator down over her left forewing. It settled over her own flight membrane and veins like a warm blanket, the starlit magic within it neither pleasant nor unpleasant as it buzzed at her wing bases. It was old magic. It was not Selennion’s magic despite being stored under her name. Her earlier curiosity had returned in full force; she wished to know whose magic it was. But she also knew that the history books—with whole years of wartime and fae lost—would tell her nothing new. Mother would tell her even less.

When the final wingsulator had settled over her last hindwing, Clarion turned and watched as Mother opened a drawer at the very bottom labelled: ‘Laughborn.’ She ordered Artemis—who seemed to be in shock—to present her wings as Clarion had just done. She slid Artemis’ wings into their four wingsulators at a quicker pace than she had done with Clarion’s. Then, she briefed them. 

Clarion noticed how she wouldn’t look at her for long. She noticed the effort it took to peel her golden gaze away from her wings if it ever strayed there.

“A pinch of Gold Dust to each wing base at sunrise, then again at sunset every day will be enough to fuel the insulators. The less you fly, the longer that fuel will last. Getting them wet is ill-advised and a waste of dust, but it’s not the end of the world if you do. They’re quite durable.” Mother sighed and clasped her hands behind her. “Getting wet in Winter is already a death sentence, but you both already know that. Any questions?”

“Reinforcements, Majesty?” Artemis asked.

“Five volunteer Autumn soldiers on standby at the border. They are for the worst case scenario.” Mother finally held Clarion’s gaze, her eyes devoid of their usual warmth, a chill entering the gold. “I am fully confident that you are capable of slaying this beast without need for them.”

Clarion nodded. She should be capable of such a feat. She did not wish to risk more lives than necessary.

“Understood, Your Majesty,” Clarion said, mustering all the confidence that she could.

Artemis looked somewhat pained for a brief moment unnoticed by Mother that Clarion resolved to ask her about later.

Mother studied her a moment more with an unreadable gaze, then turned to close the wingsulator drawers with slightly more force than Clarion thought necessary.

“Lieutenant, wait for us at the vault entrance,” she ordered, turning to them. “If you take anything, I will cut off your hands.”

Clarion winced and glanced at Artemis, who had stiffened.

“Yes, Majesty,” Artemis acknowledged, turning on her heel and marching away.

They watched her go.

“Mother, was that necessary?” Clarion turned back to her, brows raised.

Mother briefly inclined her head.

“It is always necessary to ensure that the consequences of disobedience or stupidity are known.” she said flatly, taking her gauntlets off. “You will wear these. They will contain you. I’ve heard from Elvina that your control has not been what it used to be.” she sounded less than pleased.

Clarion took her gauntlets off too, then swapped them for Mother’s, avoiding her eyes. She swallowed around the lump in her throat that shame had put there, and made a conscious effort to keep her wings held high.

“You’re disappointed,” she stated, hating the cold, dead end of their bond and struggling to slide her gloved hands into the golden armour.

Magical residue on the gauntlets—very distinctly Mother’s—tickled the tips of her fingers through her gloves.

“Not with you,” Mother said gruffly, losing patience and stepping forward to help her. “I’ve not been present during your most recent lessons, but I’ve felt how stressed you are during them and I know Elvina.”

“Oh,” Clarion said, unsure whether to feel relieved, or to panic over the fact that Mother had felt what she had not meant to share with her.

“Manage it. I won’t be here for much longer to help you get it together when it all falls apart.”

“Mother-” Clarion began to protest, the word a gasp that had been ripped from her throat.

She had always hated how Mother spoke so casually about her steadily approaching return to the Stars; as though Clarion would be completely fine without her. Perhaps that was why she closed their bond off so regularly...

Mother hushed her with a sharp, pointed look and sealed the last clasp on her gauntlet. 

“You know I am right.”

Clarion nodded, the lump back in her throat again for an entirely different reason. Mother sighed wearily and brought her hand up. The backs of her fingers settled against her cheek, warm and grounding. The touch was comforting in the way a good shield against an aggressive lizard was. It was farewell until Clarion had slain the beast. To some, that might not have been much, or enough. To some, it might have been cold on Mother’s behalf. Clarion, however, held onto the strength it gave her. If she had anything more—an embrace, a kiss to the temple—she knew she would have lost her nerve entirely.

“Be safe, starling,” Mother said quietly, gaze softening. 

Clarion nodded.

It was time to go.