Michael carney's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Michael Carney had come to the edge of the fae wood to practice his bow before meeting a noble he intended to marry, and now a child was screaming at the sight of his face. He had crossed the marker stones only for a moment. One step past the mossy line, then back. That was all it took. The glamour clung to him like wet cloth. He felt it settle on his cheeks and jaw, pulling his features into something the mirror in the village well confirmed: a squashed nose, a crooked mouth, eyes set too close. His real face, the one that had won him free drinks and stolen glances since he was fifteen, was gone. The child ran. Her mother crossed herself and hurried after. "Charming," Michael muttered. "Truly a fine day." He had one week. In seven days the fae court would open its gates for the summer revel, and the noble he had traveled three hundred miles to court would stand on the marble steps of that distant keep, the one with the black dragon coiled around its highest tower. Michael had seen it once from the ridge road. He had also seen a portrait of the noble. Silver hair. A mouth like a cut plum. Beauty that matched his own, which was the whole point. He would not arrive looking like a boiled turnip. He asked the herb woman at the crossroads. She spat. "Border glamour," she said. "Lifts on its own. Three weeks, maybe four." "I have seven days." She looked him over and laughed. "Then you need a moonpetal. One bloom, crushed on the tongue under open sky. Burns the fae work off." "Where do they grow?" "Deep wood. Past the stones you already crossed." Michael went back at dusk. He kept his eyes on the ground and counted his steps. The flower grew in a hollow between two roots, petals shaped like slivers of moon, glowing soft purple. He reached for it. A growl stopped his hand. The wolf stepped from the ferns. Silver from muzzle to tail, taller at the shoulder than Michael stood at the chest. Its eyes were pale and steady. It did not lunge. It watched. Michael did not move. "I need the flower," he said. "One flower. For a face." The wolf tilted its head. Then it lowered its nose to the bloom, closed its teeth around the stem, and snapped it clean. It laid the flower at Michael's boot. He crushed the petals on his tongue. Cold rushed down his throat. His skin tingled and eased. He touched his jaw and felt the true line of it return. The wolf sat. It did not leave. "Thank you," Michael said, careful. He backed toward the stones. The wolf rose and followed, one pace behind, matching him step for step. When he reached the road, it was still there. Silver, patient, watching him like something owed. He had his face back. He had picked up something else.