House of Wings and Roses

Chapter 4

Quentin was lost.

He dejectedly nudged a decaying branch away with his foot, shaking himself to disentangle the vines that had managed to coil up his limbs. Exploring the forest was, quite possibly, one of the worst ideas the fae had ever had.

The Paredion Forest was a sprawling, vast mass of ancient oaks and tangling vines, the wild undergrowth filled with curious mosses and dull blooms. Silver morning mist weaved through the dark treetops. It was beautiful, in a darkly enchanting way.

But a short stroll through the outskirts of the ominous forest quickly turned into a life-or-death search for an exit out of the shrouded maze of trees. Quentin groaned, slumping down against the back of a tall trunk.

"This is hopeless," he muttered scathingly, his silver hues slitting with annoyance. Coming here had been a terrible idea. For all he knew, there could be—

Was that singing?

A curious, lilting melody spilled through the trees, soft and eerie in a way that Quentin couldn't place. A pair of doe-like brown eyes appeared through a gap in the foliage, widening in surprise.

"Oh! There appears to be someone here. Are you one of the shifting mirages, strange visitor? Or are you real?"

Quentin stood carefully, brushing the pine needles from his legs. "I'm real. Who are you?"

"Many, many things—the song of the forest, the vessel of his voice—but I suppose you're asking for my name, are you not?" A girl emerged from the trees, stepping delicately into the clearing. "I'm Astoria. How exciting it is to meet you!"

Quentin's brows knitted in confusion, taking in her appearance. She couldn't be more than 16. Delicate, youthful features were framed by tumbling brown curls, threaded with roses. She looked like a fae, but— her ears—

"Are you a human?" He asked all of a sudden, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Hm— I suppose I am. But not one of those ones. My Ma and Mamma took me in when I was a poor little thing, so I've been living here for as long as I can remember."

"You've—you've been raised by fae?"

"Uh-huh! Viary and Angel—my ma and mamma—they found me wandering 'round here when I was a child. Curious, isn't it?" Her brown eyes curved into sweet half-crescents as she smiled.

Quentin remained frozen, unsure of what to make of this. She seemed harmless, if not a little strange, but her rounded ears and muted eyes—missing the telltale iridescent glint carried by fae—dragged something twisted and ugly up from the depths of his soul.

"And you think you have the right to speak to me?" He chuckled darkly, shoving aside the guilt clawing at his chest. The silver in his eyes glinted with uncontrolled malice as he dredged up all the man-made destruction he had witnessed. "How pathetic. I should kill you right now."

The girl didn't appear fazed in the slightest, her brown-eyed gaze seeming to stare into his soul. "Yeah, that's what they all said at first as well." She plunked herself down next to him, ignoring his muffled cry of outrage.

"What? The other villagers?"

"Yep. You wouldn't believe how many times I got chased through here. Ma always kept them off my back, though," Astoria said with a hint of pride.

"What about now?" Quentin asked, curiosity gradually overriding his rage.

"Oh, they love me!" The girl chirped. "I'm the only one who can find my way through here, so I do a lot of gathering. Mamma said I might be apprenticed to the potion-maker soon!"

"Apprenticed?" He spluttered.

"Yup! Isn't that something?" She replied brightly, leaning forward with her hands on her knees. She looked like she was part of the forest itself; eyes as rich as the soil beneath them, features as pale as the ivory mushrooms scattered across decaying branches.

"You could say that," Quentin muttered, though his tone had softened considerably. It was hard to stay angry at the young human, with her sunshine smile and beaming eyes.

"Well, are ya' coming, mister?" She asked, jumping to her feet.

"Coming where?"

"Outta' here, silly!"

-

He made it back to the house just before nightfall, hair tangled with leaves and face smudged with dirt. After saying goodbye to his new friend, he hopped up the stairs and knocked lightly on the door, wincing at his reflection in the glass.

To his dread, but not quite surprise, it was Florian who swung open the door in answer.

"I was wondering where you'd run off to." He smirked, looking the other fae up and down. "Playing in the woods, were we?"

Quentin looked at the floor, a fierce flush searing his cheeks. "Shut up," he mumbled, ducking under Florian's arm—only for him to catch his wrist and spin him around.

"You've got something on your face, dear. Here, let me hel—"

"Florian! Stop playing with our guest," A voice thundered from behind him. Quentin jumped, eyes darting to the looming figure pacing towards them. The Ruler of the Court of Twisting Vines was the spitting image of his son—all sharp angles and elegant features. Like all leaders who had lived through the Great War, though, immortality had frozen him too late. Unlike most fae, who stopped aging at 21, age had taken its toll on the fearsome leader. Silver licked through the dull bronze of his close-cropped hair, and scar-like wrinkles marred his face.

Florian only threw a dismissive glare towards his father. "Yes, yes. You're no fun, old man."

Cardiello's eyebrows climbed higher and higher with each word. The younger fae quickly realised his mistake, glancing sheepishly at Quentin before tugging him up the stairs to the floors beyond.

"I'll, ah, show Quentin to his room. Love you, fatherrr—"

They made it up the four flights of stairs in record speed, the two boys breathless and laughing by the last step. Quentin leant dramatically against Florian, lifting a hand to his head.

"My poor legs. I don't think I've ever run so fast in my life."

Florian tipped his head up and laughed, the sound so new and sincere that it made something in his heart flutter.

Maybe this won't be so bad, after all.

Outside, beyond the windows, rain began to fall.