Drizella's fingers traced the worn leather of her cart's handle, muscle memory guiding her through the warehouse's maze of crates and bolts. The argument with Mother still crackled in the air like static before a storm. She inhaled deeply, tasting dust and old wood, letting the familiar scents ground her racing thoughts.
Seven deliveries before sunset. The northern route would be crawling with guards after that market brawl. Her knuckles whitened on the handle. The ancient glade path would save her precious minutes, though something in her gut twisted at the thought. She'd avoided those woods since childhood, when the trees seemed to whisper and bend of their own accord.
The warehouse door groaned on its hinges as she maneuvered her cart outside. Afternoon sun struck the cobblestones at a sharp angle, casting long shadows that pointed like arrows toward the city's edge. A cool breeze carried the tang of approaching rain, making the edges of her cloak dance against her ankles.
Her boots clicked against stone as she guided the cart down the sloping street. The wheels' steady rhythm matched her heartbeat, a metronome keeping time with her swirling thoughts. Mother's face when Anastasia stood beside me. That flash of fear beneath the fury. She knows we're slipping from her grasp.
The busy thoroughfare ahead bustled with merchants and guards, their voices carrying on the wind. Drizella pulled her cart left, down a narrow alley that would lead to the glade path. The sounds of the city grew muffled, as if cotton had been stuffed in her ears. Her silver thimble grew cold against her chest, and the hairs on her arms stood on end.
Scattered leaves crunched beneath the cart wheels as the alley gave way to packed earth. Ancient oaks loomed ahead, their branches weaving together to form nature's cathedral ceiling. The usual birdsong had gone silent. In its place, an absolute stillness pressed against her eardrums like deep water.
Something's wrong. Her steps slowed, but pride wouldn't let her turn back. The cart's contents were too valuable to risk the main road's inspection points. She pulled her cloak tighter, though the chill she felt had nothing to do with temperature.
Tendrils of silvery mist began seeping between the trees, too uniform to be natural fog. It moved against the breeze, curling around the cart's wheels like curious fingers. The thimble at her throat grew colder still, and her enchanted bell chimed softly of its own accord.
Her father's journals had mentioned the glade's old magic, but she'd dismissed those passages as fairy tales. Now, watching the mist paint elaborate patterns in the air, she wished she'd paid closer attention. The leather of her satchel creaked as she gripped it tighter, taking comfort in the weight of her mother's silver letter opener inside.
The path ahead disappeared into swirling silver, but she could make out the first of the ancient stone markers that lined the glade's true entrance. Just a few more steps. Whatever this is, I refuse to let it drive me back to Mother's chosen route. The cart wheels rumbled forward, each rotation bringing them closer to those weathered stones.
Drizella's breath caught in her throat as the mist parted just enough to reveal elaborate symbols carved into the markers' surface. They seemed to shift and change when viewed directly, making her eyes water. The thimble's chill had become almost unbearable.
The cart's front wheel touched the first stone with a soft scrape, and the symbols flared with an inner light.
The silvery mist swirled and thickened, condensing into a form that made Drizella's eyes ache. Where empty air had been moments before, a woman now stood—if 'woman' was the right word for a being whose edges seemed to blur into starlight. Her gown rippled like liquid moonlight, and her hair floated as if suspended in water, each strand trailing sparkles that hung in the air like diamond dust.
Drizella's thimble burned against her skin, its warning almost redundant. The very air crackled with power, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. She tasted metal on her tongue, sharp and ancient.
"My dear child." The Fairy Godmother's voice chimed like crystal bells, beautiful and brittle. Her smile was perfect, practiced, empty. "What a pleasure to find you here, though"—her head tilted at an angle just slightly too sharp—"this is rather far from your usual path, isn't it?"
Don't show fear. Fear is weakness, and she feeds on weakness. Drizella dropped into a precise curtsy, keeping her eyes lowered but not submissive. "My lady honors me with her presence. I'm merely delivering commissions to the Sterling estate." She gestured to her cart, noting how the Godmother's radiance made the fabrics' colors shift and writhe.
"Ah yes, your... little business venture." The Godmother glided closer, each step leaving frost-flowers blooming in the grass. She reached out with fingers that seemed too long, too fluid, brushing one of the silk bolts. "Such common pursuits for a daughter of your standing. One might think you're trying to write your own story."
The frost spread across the fabric, crystallizing the threads. Drizella's heart hammered, but she forced herself to stay still. "The merchant's trade is perfectly respectable for—"
"For those born to it, perhaps." The Godmother's smile widened, showing teeth that gleamed like polished pearls. Her form flickered, momentarily transparent, then solidified closer to Drizella. The air grew colder. "But you, my dear, were meant for grander things. More... dramatic things."