Fairy Tale: Winter's Bite

Chapter 27: Purpose (Part 1)

Chris wandered through the Aerial Palace like a ghost of himself.

He was lost, his journey aimless. As he roved the staircases and ambled down the endless maze of hallways, he barely took notice of anything—the grand paintings, the mosaic walls, the rusty armor, the red-and-blue tapestries, the gilded adornment of every archway and window. And he doubted anyone took notice of him. He felt hollowed out to the point of invisibility.

Then, having passed a dark, narrow entryway to a staircase, he stopped for some reason and returned to it. It could have been the sad, solitary candle flickering in the sconce across the hall or the arch's uncharacteristic simplicity. Whatever it was, he needed to know more. He took the candle and stepped beyond the arch.

He spiraled up the uneven stairs one tentative step at a time. He often had to turn sideways or duck beneath the dusty, splintered rafters. As he climbed, he grew colder. The draft, first a whisper, became a sporadic puff. He took extra care to shelter the flame. Amid darkness that could have swallowed him whole, he could not lose his only light.

Chris arrived at a wooden door, well-aged but heavy and obstructive, like it wasn't meant to be opened. Still, he tried to twist the doorknob. When he met resistance, he fiddled with it, but it didn't budge. He had his sword tucked in his belt, and he considered using it to pry apart the hinges or use the point in the keyhole to jimmy open the lock.

He looked around for a place to set his candle. As he felt his way around the walls, a dull red glow between two stones caught his attention. He stuck his hand into the crack and pulled out a key.

It reminded him of the poisonous dagger—artful and beautiful, and yet unwieldy, the heavy metal infused with both suffering and despair. Before he used the key to open the door, he had a feeling he knew where he was—the notorious North Tower.

What was meant to be a last glance at the key became a stare. The rubies captured in its flank had a pulse, or at least the candle flame made it appear that way. A draft crept across his neck, and whispers invaded his mind like some dark calling.

Unable to resist the pull forward, the key seemed to find its own way to the lock. It turned with no resistance. The door popped open without a need to push. He pocketed the key and followed the creaking door into the room.

The light from his candle reflected off shattered pieces of glass. Most of them were shiny, like broken mirrors, though others had a dull sparkle, like porcelain. There were also remnants of what used to be toys. They looked handmade, or scavenged and reconstructed. They were no match for Andromeda's destructive fury, though. She had warped metal and charred wooden objects beyond recognition.

The broken dolls were the most haunting. Their bodies had burned to ashes, but their fractured faces were a mix of black and gray-white. Their vacant stares made the room feel like a tomb.

I don't need to see this.

Chris had an urge to run. He almost made it to the door, but his foot nudged a damaged music box. An armless, broken-winged ballerina sprang to life with a tiny pirouette while the cracked base played a few notes out of tune. And then he couldn't leave, not with Cassie's childhood room in such tragic disarray.

He went to the bed, removed a pillowcase, and started chucking pieces of glass into it. Big pieces. Small pieces. Smash. Crack. Crash. The noise was satisfying, but through it, he heard something unexpected—a loud, shaky sigh.

He whirled toward the door.

A winged fairy with long blond hair was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her uniformed chest. She had a handkerchief balled in her tight white fist. Her mournful eyes must have only moments before shed tears; now they were dry and pointed at Chris.