Princess Willowyn's Arc

Chapter 1 of 70

Princess Willowyn was 121 years old, and she had never once left the castle walls. She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, pulling a ribbon of water from a silver bowl. It spun in the air above her palms. She wanted to do more than spin water in a quiet room. She wanted to walk between warring kingdoms and stop their fighting. Instead she practiced alone, night after night, while other people lived the stories she only imagined. Moonlight spilled through the tall window. Willowyn tipped her face toward it and breathed slow. The light seemed to sink into her skin. The water thread brightened, then split into three. She guided one over a small cut on her thumb. The skin closed. Her power always grew stronger under the moon, as if the two things were meant to work together. At her feet, her fox pressed close. Its green fur glowed faintly, vines twisting through its coat. It watched the floating water with sharp eyes. When the threads dropped back into the bowl, the fox huffed, unimpressed. "I know," Willowyn told it. "Same trick. Every night." The door opened without a knock. Only one person did that. Willowyn scrambled to her feet as her mother entered, silver crown catching the moonlight, white gown trailing over the stone. The Queen's face was not soft tonight. Her mouth was set in a straight, tired line. She did not look at the water bowl. She looked only at her daughter. "My daughter," the Queen said. "You must come to the throne room. We need to speak." Willowyn's stomach tightened. Her mother's voice held no room to argue. It never did. "What's wrong?" Willowyn asked. "Not here." The Queen turned already, braid swinging down her back. "Come now." Willowyn had always done as she was told. She set down the bowl. She smoothed her silver gown and touched the moonstones in her circlet, as if they might steady her. The fox rose and shook out its coat, ready to follow. She went down the winding stairs behind her mother. Torches lit the pale stone walls. Flowers and vines trailed from the arches, the way they did all through the castle. Willowyn had walked these steps ten thousand times. Tonight each one felt different, because for the first time her mother had come for her herself, and would not say why. The throne room doors stood open. Willowyn stopped at the threshold. Strangers waited inside. They wore travel cloaks stained with mud, and their faces were grim. One held a torn banner from a kingdom she had only read about in books. They had ridden far, and fast, and not for a happy reason. The Queen took her seat. She looked at Willowyn, “Come now my child, come sit we must speak of things foretold”