I don’t have blood on my hands,

  only ash in my pants.

  I’m blinded by the fear in their eyes,

  in the darkness of my light.

  —Berdorf, E. Poems of a Wingless Princess. Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

  Nine moons clung to the sky when Eura sprang out of bed. A grin bright enough to rival sunrise pulled at her cheeks as she leapt to the dresser and shoved it hard against the door. Not satisfied, she dragged her trunk over next, then a table, then every chair within reach. Wood scraped, legs thumped, and a few trinkets rattled as she built her barricade piece by piece.

  A moment truly, gloriously her own before the maids and fluttering faeries could swarm her with ribbons, brushes, perfume clouds, and no opinions.

  She swung open her closet and paused before the mirror. For a heartbeat, she barely recognised the girl staring back.

  Her face had sharpened into new lines. Her cheeks are slimmer, and her chin is tapering into a soft diamond shape. Her eyes looked larger somehow, bright beneath the fall of longer, glossier hair.

  There was also a quietness in her gaze, a grounded ease that hadn’t been there last Summer. The kind that grew on spent nights curled around books, mornings sweating through spells and fights, and days listening to the subtle magic of Ormsaats around the Map beneath their feet.

  She had grown. Still short on height and still na?ve in places, yes, but there was a new lift in her chest these days, a quiet hopefulness. A bit more wisdom. A touch, perhaps, of freedom.

  Her eyes slid across the rows of dresses. Layers of pastel silks, ribbons, and lace. Every piece was a sugary attempt to shape her into some delicate elven cupcake.

  But not today.

  Today was Summerfest. Her sixteenth. Still Summers from adulthood in Menschen ways, but the elves would already whisper young lady with their mawkish, delighted smiles.

  She smirked and tugged gently at a sleeve of soft fabric. Heat flared beneath her fingertips. A thin scorch-line traced her touch, shimmering for half a breath before the dress collapsed into drifting dust. One spark became another. One line, then another. The closet filled with slow-falling ash as she moved from gown to gown, unmaking them with a lazy sweep of her hand.

  By the time she stepped back, the air glittered with the ghost of lace and silk.

  And Eura felt lighter.

  “Well, it seems I have no other option... Oh no… whatever shall I do? I have nothing nice to wear...” she dramatically muttered to herself as she dropped to her knees.

  Dust puffed beneath her palms while she reached under the bed and wrestled out a heavy white cupboard she’d wedged there moons ago. Its corner thunked against her knee, and she winced, then grinned. She knew exactly what was inside.

  A small envelope was still tied to the handle, the paper softened and creased from how many times she had opened it. She didn’t need to reread it; Lamar’s handwriting was already carved into her memory.

  He had left for Ormgrund last Summer, already a full-fledged Magi by now. This was his birthday gift.

  Inside lay the pants. Her pants.

  Eura lifted them now, the fabric folding over her fingers like a promise.

  On the note attached, were the following words: I think I have found your Noctavia.

  The ribbons sealing the box were stamped with a name she didn’t know—Eann.

  Strange. But then again, Eura wasn’t exactly common either. Whoever this Eann was, their hands were blessed by the stars. That much she could tell already.

  Without another breath wasted, she tugged her nightgown over her head and let it fall to the floor. The morning air bristled the skin around the Y-shaped scar on her back as she reached into the box.

  First, the pants, though she had to blink twice the first time because they almost passed for a skirt. Soft folds, high waist, the kind of tailoring usually reserved for male nobility who didn’t think trousers were proper for princesses. And then, she gasped. She always did.

  Pockets.

  Pockets!

  Next came the white blouse, the traditional Men's cut, but this one had an elegant collar and sleeves that puffed gracefully around her arms. She fastened the vest over it, snug around her waist, giving her the young lady figure.

  And finally, the piece that made her pause, breath catching.

  A sleeveless jacket with a long, flowing train. When she held it up, the fabric fanned behind her in a shape unmistakably intended, like wings dragging wide, like someone had taken her quietest wish and sewn it into cloth.

  As if Eann knew. As if they’d seen straight into the secret she barely admitted to herself. Eura slid it on, and the train whispered across the floor as she moved.

  “Maybe Lamar is right,” she murmured to her reflection. “Maybe I really did find my Noctavia.”

  The girl in the mirror wasn’t a frosted little cupcake anymore. She stood straighter, shoulders squared beneath her winged jacket, eyes bright with a certainty she’d never quite managed before. She looked, finally, like someone who could claim a throne without apologising for breathing.

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  Eura grabbed her brush and swept it through her hair in a few quick strokes, then gathered it over one shoulder and tied it with a small black bow. Simple. Quiet. Her.

  Only then did she step back from the mirror and take in the rest of her room.

  Chairs piled against the door. A dresser at an angle. A table half-tilted. Ash settling over the floor like grey snowfall. It looked as though a storm of wind and embers had swept through while she dressed.

  Eura reached for her stick, grounding herself with a long, steady breath. With a soft twist of her wrist, chairs glided back from the door. The dresser followed, then the desk, each piece returning to its place with an easy grace that made the room look almost respectable again.

  “Much better,” she said, satisfied.

  She slipped one hand into her pocket, the other resting lightly on her stick, and stepped into the hallway. The sky beyond the high windows was beginning to blush, lavender melting to peach, then to soft gold. Morning, waking up just for her.

  She padded down the familiar corridor and turned toward the kitchens. For the last few summers, it had become her favourite place to disappear.

  “Good morning, Princess,” a maid said as she hurried past with a tray balanced on one hand.

  “Good morning, Bea,” Eura answered, already smiling.

  “Good morning, your grace.”

  “Morning, Eionla.”

  “Good morning, Princess—you look lovely today!”

  “Morning, Mae. You look lovely too.”

  She moved through the kitchen like sunlight slipping between people, greeting each maid by name, returning every smile with one of her own. The smells of warm bread and sweet batter wrapped around her as she made her way to her favourite spot. Her little sanctuary was wedged between the stoves, with its tiny table and three mismatched chairs.

  “You’re early today, your grace!” the old cook snapped, giving her the look over her shoulder.

  “And you look like your night never even ended,” Eura shot back, settling onto one of the chairs.

  “Hah! How could it?” the woman grumbled, elbows deep in flour. “Half the kingdom is arriving for you, and I haven’t even set the pot for your breakfast!”

  She complained nonstop, but her hands never slowed. The pies were shoved into ovens, batter whisked, fingers snapping commands at passing maids who darted around her like trained sparrows.

  It was chaos. A warm, familiar chaos.

  And Eura loved it.

  Eura never tired of watching the old elf command the kitchen. The woman moved through the chaos like a conductor, coaxing harmony out of clattering pots, rising steam, and a dozen rushing maids who somehow never collided. It was an ocean of smells and motion, and she ruled it with a wooden spoon and pure will.

  “I can wait,” Eura said gently, hoping to ease her.

  “You shouldn’t wait! That is not how things work!” the cook snapped, eyes darting around. “Now, where is that pie I asked for five minutes ago?”

  Before Eura could hear an answer, the kitchen door burst open, and Jaer slipped in, breathless but smiling. She lifted a hand and waved him over.

  “Jaja!”

  His face broke into a bright smile. He crossed the room in two strides and wrapped her in a warm, spinning hug.

  “Happy birthday, Sunbeam!”

  She laughed into his shoulder just as another pair of footsteps rushed in.

  “Am I late?” Lolth asked, slightly out of breath, hair a little undone as if she’d argued with it on the way.

  “Just arrived,” Jaer said, already dropping into the chair beside her.

  Lolth’s gaze swept Eura from head to toe. “What are you wearing?”

  Eura brushed her fingers over the soft fabric of her vest and lifted her chin with shy pride.

  “Lamar sent it to me. I feel so... royal.”

  Lolth smiled but did not know what to say.

  “You are… You are…” Jaer blinked at her outfit, more astonished than alarmed, his words falling apart in his mouth.

  “Your father is going to lose it,” Lolth said flatly, confirming exactly what Jaer was thinking as she slid into a chair. “No coffee yet?”

  “I just turned the pot on!” the cook barked from across the kitchen. “You all woke up before the rooster itself—miracles take time!”

  Lolth wrinkled her nose, amused. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

  Then her gaze drifted back to Eura, lingering. The corners of her eyes softened with something like pride.

  “You look as a Menschen should. Beautiful...”

  Eura’s chest tightened with a quiet, glowing happiness. “Thank you.”

  “I have a present for you,” Jaer said suddenly, reaching into his coat and placing a tiny box in the centre of the table.

  Eura leaned forward, brow lifting. “What is it? It doesn’t look like a book.”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The gift isn't mine. It arrived yesterday. And it’s too small to be harmful… probably.”

  His tone made Lolth snort, and Eura’s curiosity flared.

  She turned the small box over in her hands, studying every seam, every smudge of ink. Something tugged at her attention, subtle, but inaccurate.

  “Something wrong?” Lolth asked, leaning in.

  “The stamp…” Eura squinted, bringing it closer to the light. “It says it’s from Ostesh, but the date—” She frowned harder. “I must be reading this wrong.”

  Jaer plucked the package from her fingers and inspected it himself. His brows shot upward.

  “That is… very odd. The stamp says Summer five hundred fifty-five. That doesn’t seem right at all.”

  Lolth snapped it out of his hand with a sharp, assessing look.

  “This must be a printing error. Otherwise, this package is coming from centuries in the future.”

  “Well, can I open it?” Eura asked, more amused than worried. “Maybe the answer’s inside.”

  Lolth handed it back.

  Eura lifted the lid eagerly, then stilled. “What is this?”

  Lolth leaned over the table, her hair brushing Eura’s shoulder. “They look like… eye contacts.”

  “What are they for?” Eura asked, baffled.

  “They’re used in theatre,” Lolth explained. “To change your eye colour. Mostly made and used by humans. I’ve never heard of anyone gifting those to anyone. Why would—”

  “Maybe... whoever sent them wasn’t sending them to Eura,” Jaer said, tapping the box lightly. “But perhaps… for our friend, Zozo.”

  Eura didn’t comment. She simply slipped the little box into her pocket, closing her fingers over it as if tucking away a secret.

  “It was very thoughtful,” she said. “Whoever it was.”

  Her gaze lifted, first to Lolth, then to Jaer, then back to Lolth again, watching for a clue.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Jaer said quickly, palms raised. “I don’t know anyone from Ostesh.”

  Eura turned her attention to Lolth.

  But Lolth wasn’t looking at either of them. Her eyes had gone distant, fixed on nothing in the room, caught somewhere far away, somewhere Eura couldn’t reach. A tightness crept into her mouth, faint but unmistakable, like someone trying to swallow a thought before it could surface.

  Eura didn’t understand it. But she knew that look.

  It was the look Lolth wore only when something—someone—shook the ground beneath her feet.

  Who was it?

  

  I have never been particularly drawn to fashion, fast or otherwise. A well-cut brown suit has served me adequately across centuries of lectures, conferences, debates, and academic events that demand a sober appearance. Trends, in my experience, rarely survive scrutiny. They seldom merit it.

  That said, it would be dishonest to pretend ignorance of Eann, or of what it has come to represent. One does not learn the name through interest, but through exposure. An unavoidable volume of university-corridor conversations, carried with remarkable enthusiasm by younger students, most of them female, concerning dresses, tops, crops, tees, vibes, and other distinctions whose technical classifications escape me. The name appears with equal persistence across social platforms, commercial outlets, and any metropolis large enough to amplify it.

  In the period under discussion, Eann is simply the trend, or the hit, to borrow the contemporary vernacular. Worn loudly, discussed endlessly, and seldom questioned. Few appeared aware, or inclined to care, that the name originated far from the major capitals of the Great Continent, rising instead from Maria-Se, a minor island within the Fisherman District, better known at the time for salt rot and ship repairs than for cultural export.

  Fewer still seemed interested in whose name stood behind its success. I would venture that some of you already know it. At the time, I did not. —The Hexe – Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer.

  4 January 2025

  Volume Three of Hexe — The Wingless Princess.

  everything. Sometimes I could predict where the story was going and how it would end. I didn’t care much about how it was written, but about the plot itself. And the more a story made me uncomfortable, the more it forced me out of my personal bubble of knowing, the more I craved it.

  War of Too Many Dragons.

  Before that, the Equinox happened.