I rose before the second sun caught the edge of the sky, when the stars still blinked faintly across the velvet dome of Aetherion. From the eastern balcony of my room built into the wingspan of a twisted flowering yendral tree, I could see the whole realm laid out like a mosaic kissed by starlight and magic.
I had just been released from my confinement in the tower, and today, I had to see Freasia to hear his plans.
I took off my royal garments and wore a plain black gown, then wore a long hooded veil over it to conceal my identity.
Our homes in Aetherion do not rest on the ground like the clumsy dwellings of Humus Realmus or better known as the humans. No, we breathe with the trees, pixies get their life force from trees.
Our homes were towered dwellings wrap and curve with the ancient flora, each structure woven into colossal, living branches like spider silk spun from crystal. Our floors are grown from fresh green leaves, not constructed with concrete or wood. The walls are made of blossom-glass which shift color with the passing sun.
Pixies live high, always in the air or nearly touching it. Rope-bridges spun from moonvine thread and lightbone connect every home, swaying gently like lullabies in the breeze. They creak if you lie. I learned that the hard way when I was but a wee little pixie.
Below, the dust orchards bloomed in pale rows, glowing soft lavender in the dark, their sap, when pressed and filtered through songstone, crystallizes into our most precious export .... pixie dust. It's not some fanciful glitter as humans dream it to be. Real dust is volatile, alchemic. When refined, it fuels spells, flights, and vision-travel. Unrefined, it can seduce the mind, rupture the veins. It's harvested only under moonrise, when the orchard leaves sing, and bottled by chosen keepers who don't dream in their sleep. Dreamers, like me, are forbidden from touching the raw sap.
Still, I did once, just a drop and I couldn't sleep for six days.
The palace sits at the heart of the realm made of spired marvel of shifting stone and mirrored wings, nested among skyroots that pierce the clouds themselves. The sky above it is not always blue. Sometimes it's crimson with memory, and sometimes gold. When the wind stirs a certain way, you can see moving shadows trapped inside the cloud,they are our gaurdians.
We don't talk about that.
This morning, however, the clouds hung heavy and grey like ash. That was Morgana's doing. Ever since she moved into the palace, into Mother's wing, the sky has been off. Birds, once bold enough to perch on the palace spires, now avoid them. The high gardens wither and regrow overnight in strange patterns. Once, I walked through a hedge maze that whispered my name backwards.
Pixie dust refinery domes steamed quietly in the mid-realm, watched over by the Furnace Guild, their faces soot-marked and blank-eyed from the toll. Morgana had ordered all guildmasters to increase production "in the name of realm unity." What does unity mean under a witch's rule, I didn't yet know. But the workers didn't hum anymore. That was how I could tell something was breaking.
I flew down from my balcony in a wide arc, catching the first rise of heat along the updrafts. The wind shimmered around my wings, my duskfire wings, a shade no other royal bore. They sparkled like dying stars, flaring violet and ash. They made others uneasy, even before Morgana's rise. Now, they made me a target.
As I passed above the Starlace Market, I saw merchants unfurling petal-stalls and runecloths, shouting softly to one another as enchanted parchment floated in the air around them price tags that adjusted with emotion. One vendor sold spell-knit gowns that changed color based on who looked at them. Another sold laugh-wine in bottled giggles. But the faces were drawn, tired. Even the floating lanterns hung lower than usual.
Nothing in Aetherion glows quite as it used to anymore.
Near the outer rims, where the trees grow more wild and less obedient, the Watchwing Spires still stood. Their guards wingless by choice, grounded as punishment, they patrolled the perimeter.
I touched down lightly in the Sacred Quarter, where Mother's old temple garden still stood, surrounded by flamebells and time-lilies. From here, the Mirrored Sky above could be seen perfectly, it looked like an ancient illusion where the sky mimicked your deepest fear. I didn't look up. I already knew what I'd see.
Instead, I walked the garden path, remembering.
When I was five, Father lifted me up and set me on his shoulders here. He told me the trees spoke only to those who listened, and I'd put my ear to the bark, pretending I heard them. When I was twelve, Mother kissed my brow beneath that flowering lanternroot tree, promising that duskfire blood was not a curse but a calling. When I was sixteen, I ran away from my engagement ceremony and hid under the waterfall bloom, where the water falls up instead of down.
And now, at nineteen, I walked alone through the same garden older, sadder, colder.
The landscape of Aetherion shifts by mood, just like its people. What once bloomed pink for joy now burned amber for grief. What once sang in high notes now hummed low, like something mourning in secret. The realm is alive, and it's sick.
Worse still, it recognizes Morgana as queen.
When she first arrived, the trees didn't respond to her. Now they bend when she passes. The palace glass mimics her colors. Even the shadow-flowers, the rare ones that only bloom when someone lies have stopped blooming altogether.
She's silenced the land itself.
I paused beside a floating pool of memory water and knelt. The surface rippled and shifted, showing me not my reflection, but my mother's face... stern, soft, full of fire. Her image didn't speak. It never did. But I placed a hand on the surface anyway.
"I'll fix it," I whispered. "I'll fix everything."
Behind me, I heard the rustle of silk. No footsteps. No breath. Just the impossible quiet of someone who should not be near.
I turned.
But no one was there.
Just a soft feather, silver and cruel, drifting to the ground.