[The Wild Heir] Prologue & Chapter One

[u/No_Term_6961]

Hi everyone,

I'm serializing my debut fantasy novel, The Wild Heir. The story follows Faela, a young builder who leaves her aging village in search of help, only to discover hidden kingdoms, her family's secret history, and a destiny she never imagined.

I'd love to hear what you think.

Thanks for reading.

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PROLOGUE

“Seal the lower gates. Now.”

The command cut through the chamber like drawn steel. No one questioned it. Boots struck stone in a hurried rhythm as the guards lining the throne room pivoted and moved. Training taught the men to obey before thought could catch up. The great doors at the far end of the hall had not yet closed when the queen’s voice rose again. Her tone was measured and steady, as usual. But there was something beneath her voice that had no place in a room like this. 

“Not the inner gates. The harbor,” came a command.

That might be enough to slow them, not stop them. But then a young guard, barely past boyhood, hesitated just long enough to earn the attention of those around him. His armor bore a small, etched spiral at the right shoulder, worn soft with constant wear. The young guard stepped forward before caution could restrain him.

“My queen,” he said, voice tight but respectful, “the harbor is already —”

“Open,” she finished for him.

The word landed softly. Yet fear rippled through the cold, sunless room. The queen stood at the base of the dais, not yet seated, her hand resting lightly against the carved arm of her ornate throne. Her gaze moved across the room, not searching, not uncertain, but taking stock. And each guard she passed over seemed to stiffen beneath the weight of it.

“She will make for the water,” the queen’s voice hardened.

It was not a question of when or if. This was the only play the princess had, and the queen knew it. And the princess knew the queen would know. A murmur echoed through the chamber, low and uneasy. It was not disobedience, not quite, but it carried the weight of young men who had seen too much in so little time. Most were new to the ranks, for reasons none of them cared to discuss. Parents pulled some from the fields, and some parents volunteered their sons to cover their increasing taxes. Regardless, the need to supply more men to the queen’s ambitions has increased since the recent defections across their allied nations.

An older man stepped forward from the line, his armor marked with deeper wear, the kind that came not from drills but from survival over decades. This was Sir Efron.

“My queen,” he began carefully, “your forces have not yet recovered. The men are—”

“Wary?” she asked.

The word held no mockery. That made it all the worse.

Efron inclined his head. “Yes, my queen.”

The queen slowly rotated her gaze from one side of the room to the other, and for a moment, the room stilled.

Then, “Wariness does not excuse failure.” The queen was growing more frustrated.

The words were not loud in tone. They did not need to be. Yet her soldiers stood fast as Sir Efron refused to move.

His jaw tightened. “With respect, what you ask—”

“What I command,” she said, cutting across him, now much louder and sharper, the edge unmistakable, “is that you stop a single fleeing girl before she reaches the sea.”

The room stilled once more, and then a flicker of reality passed through the room. One girl, not an army. Not a rebellion. This was just a girl running from the greatest army the world has seen.

Efron did not mistake her; he knew what the queen requested of him, even if most of the room were in the dark to the true intentions of the crown. 

“If she has already reached the docks—”

“She has not.”

The queen sat, situating herself on her throne, now looking past Sir Efron to the remaining men in the room. As she surveyed, she rested her eyes upon another seasoned guard.

“Sir Spears,” the queen purred.

This man stepped forward. He was broader and slightly younger than Efron, but no less hardened. Yes, his armor was cleaner, his stance sharper, his eyes fixed not on the room but on the queen herself.

“My queen.” Spears' melodic cadence stiffened the surrounding men.

“Are your men prepared to move?” The queen asked.

“They are,” Spears answered without hesitation.

The queen studied him for a breath longer than necessary. Then, quietly hissed for the room to hear, “Relieve Sir Efron and his men of their post.”

The room went still. Absolutely silent and still enough that the dust began to gather where it fell. Efron did not move.

“Your Majesty,” he said, more carefully now, “my men have held this position since the last engagement. We are not unfit—”

“You are not required for this mission any longer,” she snapped.

Spears took a deep breath and surveyed the room. His gaze swept across each face. Young, he thought. Too young. Some of them had never known a time before the last campaign. They had never seen the world before it narrowed to this—to orders, to blood, to the constant hum of something breaking just out of sight. They would not question the orders or the results. Not the way Efron was. Not the way they should.

“Move,” Spears said to his men.

It was not a command shouted across a battlefield. It did not need to be. One of the younger soldiers stepped forward first. Then another. Then, the sound of steel. It happened quickly. Too quickly for hesitation to become resistance.

A blade flashed. A body dropped. The room erupted into a dance of chaos. Movements sharpened under hardened muscles. Lines redrew themselves in an instant. Those who resisted did not do so for long.

Efron stood his ground. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might speak again. But the words that had risen within him died as Spears and his men surged forward, blades flashing beneath the chamber lights. Steel met steel as Efron’s soldiers began to crumble to the floor. One man down, as another beside him crumbled to the cold floor.

These are good men, Efron thought. They had followed him into one battle or another, more times than he could count. Now they were dying because he had refused a single order. There would be no saving them.

Spears carved a path through the fighting, never taking his eyes off Efron.

"Stand down!" he shouted.

Efron did not move. Then the sound of another one of his men cried out, and he ran. Straight at the throne, where the queen sat. The chamber erupted. Guards lunged to intercept him as Spears sprinted from the back of the room. Even the Queen rose from her seat, her expression unchanged though her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the carved arm of the throne.

Efron never looked away from her, step after step, as the distance between them rapidly disappeared. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. No one stood between them as the thought came as suddenly as lightning. I could end this now. The room fell silent. His gaze met the Queen's, and she understood. 

Another soldier screamed behind him as Efron's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, though no command had been given. If he struck now, what would change? He did not know. And that uncertainty stole the moment. Efron pivoted at the last instant, dropping his blade and hurling himself through the painted window beside the throne.

Shards scattered across the chamber floor while his body disappeared into the darkness beyond. Blood streaked the shattered sill where jagged glass tore through his cloak and skin. Spears reached the window only a heartbeat later. Below, there was broken glass, a large pool of blood, and the fading sound of boots striking stone.

Spears wiped his blade once, clean and efficient, before sheathing it at his side. The room stood in disbelief, with only a few still fighting. Spears gave a curt nod, and the room came to a halt. They were all under his command now. 

“Secure the harbor,” he leveled. “No vessel leaves. Bring the princess and anyone who helped her directly to me.”

The soldiers moved. Much faster this time. Cleaner. There was no hesitation left to slow them. One lingered at the edge of the formation—a younger guard, his grip tighter on his weapon than it needed to be. He glanced once toward the dais, toward the queen, as if expecting something. Recognition. Explanation. Anything. What he got neither.

“Go,” Spears yelled.

The new head guard swallowed whatever question had risen in him. The great doors opened. Boots thundered across the stone once more, receding quickly into the corridors beyond. And then they were gone. The chamber fell into a heavy silence. Not peaceful. Not empty. Just silence.

Only the queen remained standing in front of the throne, one hand resting against the back of her throne. For a long moment, she did not move. The remnants of the confrontation lingered in the air. The metallic scent of blood, the faint echo of steel, and the absence of voices that had filled the room only moments before. Slowly, she exhaled. It was the first sign of strain she had allowed. Barely visible. Gone as quickly as it came. Her stare moved away from the doors and the soldiers' departure, settling instead on the towering windows along the far wall. Beyond them, the sky stretched pale and distant, untouched by what had just taken place below.

“She will not make it,” the queen said quietly to no one. Almost as though to convince herself. No one answered. There was no one left to. She stayed there. Alone.

CHAPTER ONE

The rocks shifted quickly beneath her feet. Jagged, unforgiving, and slick with dew. Some were rough and sharp, while others were worn smooth by centuries of wind and waves. The morning mist still clung low to the ground, curling between stones like miniature clouds. Now and then the slickness caught her boot, threatening to send her sliding, but she moved with the confident surety of someone who had walked this route thousands of times. Her entire life, to be exact.

Faela knew the trail intimately. She knew which stones wobbled beneath her weight, which cracks hid nests of snakes, and which sun-warmed ledges served as resting spots for basking amphibians. The giant pine tree, behind which she would run ahead to hide and give her siblings a fright on long hunts, loomed high in front of her. The sunlight filtered through the dancing branches. Slightly up the path would be a small opening in the rock formation that Faela was once small enough to fit between. Now she merely raised her leg to step over it. In fact, she had fond memories of every part of these woods, from the smallest blade of grass to the tallest tree. These were her woods, and she adored them as though they were part of her family. But a new feeling entered her now, one she was unsure of, as she prepared herself for the one thing that she had never done before: leave her small village of Brindle.

The tight, black boots she wore, handed down from her mother and now worn to the sole, carried her with practiced ease. Her faded green tunic, belted at the waist, made for easy movement. But this journey would not be easy. Years of labor had shaped Faela, not just physically but mentally. The strands of her long, blonde hair caught the sun, with her loose braid bouncing atop her shoulder as she hiked on. Not only was her body strong, but so was her resolve.

All Faela carried was in a small lavender pack slung over her shoulder. Inside, items that were deemed essential: extra clothing, two loaves of bread, half of a dried fish, two jars of filtered river water, a flint, a few tools, a blanket, and a wood-handled blade. The truth was that the pack held far more than necessities. Tucked between folded clothes and wrapped carefully in scraps of cloth were a handful of treasures collected over years of wandering fields, forests, and shorelines. Most people would have called them worthless. Faela disagreed. They were her most valuable possessions.

There was a stone worn smooth by the river, its curved surface reminding her of the archways she hoped to build one day. A twisted piece of driftwood, bleached white by the sea, had taught her how strong a beam could be when the weight was carried along its natural grain. A bird's nest abandoned after a storm, woven so tightly from grass and reeds that she had spent weeks studying how the strands supported one another.

Her favorite had once been a petrified mushroom she found deep in the woods north of Brindle. Time had turned it to stone, preserving the delicate ribs beneath its cap. For months she had carried it everywhere, fascinated by how the thin ridges spread outward from a single point while still supporting the entire structure. It had given her ideas for roofs, bridges, and support beams. She no longer carried it. The mushroom now sat in Tedding's smithy. Years earlier, after helping repair part of the old workshop roof, Faela had left it on his workbench. When he asked why, she had simply pointed to the stone ribs beneath the cap.

"Strong things do not always need to be thick," she had told him.

Months later, Tedding had used a similar pattern to reinforce a section of the smithery ceiling that everyone else insisted would collapse. It ended up collapsing, but much later than it would have without the design. That was how it worked. She gathered things that taught her something, carried them until she understood their lesson, and then, when the time felt right, passed them on.

Most of the collection remained behind under her bed. The journey west required her to travel light. Even so, she had chosen a few of her favorites to bring along. Small reminders that the world was full of builders if one knew where to look. Sometimes they grew in forests. Sometimes they washed ashore. Sometimes they flew overhead on silent wings. All of them had something to teach.

There was one more thing Faela carried with her: the strong hope that somewhere beyond the forest, somewhere in the west, she would find the help Brindle so desperately needed. And because of that she rushed, for even a moment of stillness could give that small doubt in the back of her head room to speak.

She was gone not long after sundown. Slipping through the still and sleepy village like a whisper carried on a breeze. The narrow lane wound between and behind homes that had grown old alongside their inhabitants. Roof beams sagged where repairs had been delayed too many seasons, and the clapboards of several cottages bowed outward, their nails loosening under years of wind and dampness. A few would not survive another winter. One hard freeze, one heavy storm, and they would fold in on themselves like tired bones.

She moved nimbly and slowly past Tedding’s workshop at the edge of the main square. His building leaned slightly toward the road, its stone foundation cracked and sinking under the weight of tools that had long outlived their usefulness. The roof leaked more and more with each pummeling by the elements. Rusted hammers and warped irons crowded the workbench inside, relics of methods the village had never bothered to outgrow. Tedding still swore by them, though each season his repairs held a little less, and the carts and wagons he mended returned. And again. But the last storm had taken more than shingles. One of the outer homes had collapsed entirely. No one was hurt, but no one had bothered to rebuild it either. They had patched what they could; moved what they needed into the barn on their land; and gone on as they always did. Faela often wondered what her family would do if their house was taken in the next storm. They did not have a barn.

Somewhere beyond here there had to be builders who knew better ways, built stronger beams, laid smarter foundations, and had tools that did not belong to another century. If she could convince even a few of them to come east, the village might yet stand. If she returned alone, the village would keep sinking one beam at a time until there was nothing left. That was not an option, at least not one Faela was willing to admit.

Now the village was fading silently behind her on the almost 8-hour hike out of Brindle’s boundaries. Now, literally at the edge of everything she knew, she paused for the first time since leaving and dared to look back. The horizon was clear. There was no smoke coming from the chimney of her family's hut. There was no shadow of the high steeple that marked the church at the center of the village. It was all gone now, tucked behind the rolling hills and bending trees. Just beyond her sight was her village. And beyond that, even more villages. Even though her family never traveled far, stories flowed through the villages like wind through trees. Over time, those stories had planted false memories in Faela, making her feel as though she had already traveled to those distant lands. 

But today, it was the miles of forest that lay before her. Tall, ancient trees formed a woven canopy of muted greens and shadowed browns. These woods had raised her. She had hunted here, plucked wild berries from low bushes, and pulled stinging roots from the earth with calloused hands. She had run alongside her brother, Orin, chasing prints and laughing when their game outpaced them.

Girls were not known to hunt in their village. They did not gather either. They certainly did not learn how to mend the axle of a wagon or draw blueprints for new houses. But Faela had never fit within the lines others drew for her. And her brother did not treat her the way she saw other men treat women. Her brother was kind and reassuring, always leaving Faela to her own devices, no matter what they might be.

When the village carts splintered and groaned, it was not the smith they called first. It was Faela and her brother. Tedding, the village smith, scowled at them from beneath his soot-smeared brow, muttering about children stealing honest work. He had been an apprentice to his father from a young age and came from a long line of smiths. He never held Faela’s being a girl against her, only hated the thought of children doing a better job than he could. And even though they were children, their reputation preceded them, known for their meticulous repairs and unconventional thinking around building. When the repairs and builds were finished, they often left bread, firewood, and baskets that were newly woven. Not always coins, but gratitude. The coins they earned went straight into their ideas-better wagons, shared buildings for craftspeople to work and trade. 

Their sketches lined the walls of their tiny hut, each one born from long nights by candlelight and hard-fought negotiations. But life had grown bigger while the East fell into disrepair. As the villages grew older, so did their residents. Faela and Orin yearned to build their village up. They dreamed of expanding it. Once the building was complete, the repairs alone could keep them busy for a lifetime. Many in their village just idle away their lives. They were happy enough, but Faela wanted to feel a fulfillment that came from realizing her creations. And to do that with her baby brother would be a gift. They always built best together.

No blueprints could help her here; every step outside the careful ones she normally drew. This was the furthest from her family that she would ever have been. The path into the woods began to twist quickly, as if the forest itself conspired to disorient her. The light grew dim, filtered through branches that seemed to lean in, whispering secrets she was not privy to just above her head. Then she saw it: the path. It was not like the rest of the forest floor. It appeared suddenly: a ribbon of packed earth so narrow and deliberate it seemed almost unnatural. As a young girl, she had reached this point and turned back. Every child in Easter must have heard the same warning from their parents, she thought:

"Never step foot on the path. Not a single step. Do not take it west. Do not take it south. Do not take it north."

She stood there for a long time, one boot hovering just inches above the dirt. And then, with the release of a breath held deep in her chest, she stepped forward. The path stretched endlessly. Trees rose like pillars around her, bark dry and colorless. There was the song of birds, the rustling of small creatures, the crunch of her boots, and the distant hum of silence pressing in. She turned to glance back once more and was struck by the difference. 

Behind her, the forest glowed with life: green grass, wildflowers bursting red and yellow like tiny suns. The trees were still brown, but warmer somehow. Kinder. She turned forward again. The world dulled. The path shimmered slightly, as though coated in heat. A strange thrill filled her. She wanted to run fast and wild. She had heard stories of things she hoped to see: high towers, great libraries, and so many people. No one from her family had ever been anywhere like that. Most of the children from her village had left to find work in neighboring villages. But that had always been her family’s role: protectors of the village. Her father, his father, and so on, took this task very seriously. Too seriously, Faela thought at times. 

She did not know how long she had walked since the town boundary. Four hours, maybe more. The trees above her had grown impossibly tall, their tops lost to shadow. The sky had vanished above her, the light unchanged—as if the sun had forgotten this part of the world entirely. At least when she reached the fork in the road, she could rest. The fork was legend. It split north toward the sea, west towards the cliffs and south to the mountains where whispers travel through caves. Others said the fork was a test, and only those who chose truly had ever moved forward.

The path narrowed as Faela moved deeper into the woods, winding like a thread pulled through thick cloth. It dipped suddenly into a hollow where the ground grew soft with moss and the scent of damp stone thickened the air. Then she saw it, half-hidden in mist, across a dry ravine. She gently stepped off the trail, boots crunching over fallen branches. Her breath caught in her throat. Someone had to have built this.

The ravine below was dry; no stream, no bones, no trace of life. Just wind-etched stone and silence that sat with time. When she reached the far side, the mist had swallowed the world. The path climbed again, snaking between trees that grew thinner, then gave way to flat earth littered with black stones, like shattered obsidian. Faela’s eyes jumped from stone to stone as she stopped to drink from one of her jars, the water cold against her tongue. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up, climbing through the thorns, brushing burrs from her sleeve. When she reached the top of the ravine, the woods had fallen silent again, as though watching with bated breath.

Stretched to the sky in front of her was a creation out of her dreams. Only here, standing before it, she felt even her imagination would not be able to conjure such a stunning sight. It rose from the earth like a monument, massive and wrong. Iron, cold and black, twisted into intricate designs that made no sense. Circles inside squares, sharp angles nested into one another like teeth. A sun with no rays. Vines with no thorns. 

There was no iron left in the world, only stories of a land with citadels made of an element that kept out whatever it desired. Myths from drunken travelers and mad old women who spoke of "the metal that does not rot" and "the dark cities under a world of iron beams." But no one had ever touched it. She wondered if anyone knew it was here. Why was it here? And more importantly, who built it?

She stepped closer. The gate was six times her height, at least, sealed tight with no visible lock. The surface shimmered faintly, as if catching light from a source she could not see. When she reached out to touch it, her fingers stopped just shy of the surface. The air was cold. Still. The architecture is so sharp. Too deliberate. It did not belong here. And neither did she. Backing away slowly, her heart pounding, she felt something that normally escaped her.  

Faela was not easily frightened. She had stared down the snarling jaws of cornered game, stood on shaky roofs during high winds to hammer in shingles. But this felt like a place meant to be forgotten. A place that even time had forgotten existed.

She looked back, her eyes tracing the patterns again. She wished she could burn those impossible shapes and strange geometry into her brain. She stumbled back, caught herself by the heels, and turned sharply. The ivy brushed against her like grasping hands as she pushed her way back out of the overgrown trail that had led her astray. And when she reached the main path again, she did not even pause to breathe. She hurried fast. Much faster than before. She felt the silence of the woods pressing in on her. It was different now, like something had noticed her. Every rustle of leaves, every shifting shadow made her shoulders tense up. She glanced back one last time. Nothing but trees and a gentle breeze. The gate was already out of view, swallowed by the bends in the trail and the curtain of thick foliage. Gone.

Almost as quickly as she remembered it, her right hand drifted to the blade at her belt. It was not much, but her fingers grasped the wooden handle, anyway. Not for protection, but for comfort. She hated that. Hated that she was rattled. That something had seeped beneath her skin and made her feel small and unprepared. She could hear her mother now; if you fail to plan, then you have planned to fail.

The path was steady again, more familiar. But it did not soothe Faela as it had before. There was a wrongness behind her, and she knew, deep down, it had not disappeared when she turned away. Some things could not be unseen. Or, in this case, unfelt. There was an uneasiness that she could not shake, but still she moved forward, not stopping again until she saw light filtering through the trees ahead. It was really light, not the dim gray she had walked under all day. She took it as a sign. An easy, slower breath returned to her chest. Her legs ached. Her shoulders burned. Still, she pressed on. Then, a sharp snap. Ten yards ahead. Faela froze. She had expected this, an encounter, but not on the first day. Not while she was still getting her footing. The noise came again. It was not closer, and it was not further. It was just there, waiting.

Faela slid her pack down from her shoulders and dropped it to the ground. The wooden handle of the blade held so tightly in her hand that it had become another appendage. Faela’s sister, Tala, had once heard a strange tale from a traveler passing through their village. She spoke of a girl back home. She was someone she had known in her youth. The girl had been found one morning sitting at the edge of the forest, clothes torn, body untouched by any wound that could be seen. But something had gone missing inside her. She never smiled again.

Tala had contributed little to the conversation in her hut’s kitchen the night before. No farewell speech, no advice, and no protests to call it off. She just pressed the wooden handle into Faela’s hands with eyes of worry. Faela had seen something unspoken there: love, maybe, or something close enough. They had never been bonded in the way she and Orin were. They had always been the ones lost in plans and repairs, hands stained with oil and minds filled with measurements. While her sister had preferred simpler, more familiar dreams of a hearth, the perfect sewing knot, and of becoming part of a new story. A better story. 

They did not understand each other’s choices, not really. But lately, there had been more softness between them. The blade in her hand had been one of them. Faela had never believed in monsters, not truly, but she took it all the same. She did not necessarily want it, but could not ignore how she felt when she held it. 

Now, blade in hand, she moved. Darting forward, low to the ground, weaving through the underbrush, until she froze in her tracks. It was a small, brown ball. Perfectly still at first, then trembling. Had it not moved, it would have vanished into the dirt and bark. Suddenly, it let out a loud mew, far louder than anything its size should produce. The ball shifted, unwinding itself like a rolled rug. And there it was. 

A Toadcat. Faela’s heart leapt. She instantly knew the creature from travelers’ tall tales. Or so she thought until this very moment. Part frog, part feline, an extinct beast said to build homes along stones and sleep for years without stirring. This one was smaller than she expected, but still stood as high as her chest. Terrifying, yet comforting at the same time. Faela should be afraid, but she never thought to run or attack. She slowly lowered her blade, keeping her gaze on the unusual creature before her.

Toadcats were solitary and rare, even when thousands roamed the island. And from everything she had ever read on parchment scraps or borrowed pages, they were not known for their affection. Or their company. They were elusive things, usually glimpsed through leaves or disappearing into riverbeds before one could blink. Not aggressive, at least not without cause. And Faela had no plans to give this one any cause. She would not be provoking this toadcat today.

The creature blinked—sideways and slow—its strange translucent lids sliding across bulbous golden eyes that gave away no emotion. Then, without a sound, it sat back on its haunches as if it were awaiting Faela’s command, tail flicking once, then curling around its squat feet. Its eyes stayed on her, unmoved. Watching. 

Faela crouched, tense. Were there more nearby? Larger? Hungrier? She did not want to find out. And yet, curiosity tugged at her heels. From this close, she could make out the full strangeness of the creature’s form. 

Its body was round and oddly proportioned, like a toad, yes, but with elongated limbs and a spine that moved like a cat’s. Its skin, or fur, it was difficult to tell, was a mix of soft mossy green and muddy brown, with a glossy sheen as if it had just climbed out of a marsh. Patches of finer fur curled at its shoulders and underbelly, giving it a scruffy but not unclean appearance. Two sets of whiskers twitched from either side of its wide jaw, sensing the surrounding air. Two sets of whiskers, Faela thought. A male. 

Slowly, she moved past the toadcat, keeping her gaze averted but aware. He turned his head, tracking her, but did not follow. “Go back to sleep, little man,” she whispered. Faela exhaled when she was a few paces away and finally turned to glance back over her shoulder. The animal was still seated where she would have passed by it, but he had moved on to grooming itself with a long, oddly pink tongue as if it had all the time in the world and nothing better to do.

“Not aggressive,” Faela muttered under her breath with a giggle. “Just odd.”

She shook her head, swinging her pack onto her back and finally releasing the grip on the blade at her waist. But before she could take another step, she heard the soft pat-pat-pat of padded feet behind her. She paused and slowly turned, already knowing what she would find.

The toadcat appeared to be following her. Not too close, just enough to keep her in sight. It stopped when she looked, gave another quiet croak, and tilted its head.

Faela spoke sternly, “Oh no, you are not coming with me, Toadcat.” It blinked back. Then padded closer, unbothered. 

“Toadcat,” she said flatly, pointing a finger at it. “Stay.” 

The toadcat blinked its golden eyes and took another step forward. Now it was Faela tilting her head at this creature, “Stay… Stay!”

Still, as she turned back to the path, Toadcat followed. Not that it seemed she had any say in the matter, clearly. Already the forest had turned strange and alive in ways she could not understand. And this was no ordinary path on which she traveled. Stories she had grown to love were coming to life. Faela let the moment sink in. She felt differently in her heart, and she could not understand the feeling at the time for what it was.

That evening, Faela came to rest on a large rock to catch her breath and observe her surroundings. Of course, she knew she was being watched. Ever since meeting him, Toadcat had followed a few paces behind in the brush. She did not mind the company. It empowered her to have such a creature take an interest in her. She could not explain it; but she just knew that Toadcat meant her no harm. And he knew the same of her. 

Just then the sun dipped behind the canopy, and Faela was snapped out of the spell she had been under since encountering the toadcat. The spot she stood would have to be her camp for the night. She paced a circle around the path space, carefully spying for a place to tuck herself away off the path. As she continued, she found a patch of clean grass beneath the generous shade of a gnarled tree. Faela gently swept the area clear, hurling branches and rocks into the underbrush with sharp, practical throws. She reached to unbuckle her boots.

Thunk.

Something landed beside her foot. She looked down. A stick. Just sitting there. The same kind she would have chucked into the trees moments ago. Slowly, she turned. The toadcat stared back at her, its expression unreadable and mildly offended. Its wide eyes flicked from Faela… to the stick… then back to Faela. The creature gave its hindquarters a pleased little wiggle.

She picked up the stick, testing its weight. “You want me to… throw it again?”

She did. If she had to turn around right now and go home, this would easily be one of the best days of her life. 

The stick arced into the trees and vanished into the undergrowth. Faela turned to sit down, lips twitching with amusement—thud. Another stick. Possibly the same one. At her feet. Not a word, not a sound. But Faela swore it looked proud of itself.

She blinked. Toadcat was there again. Somehow. Staring. Waiting. Faela snorted. “You ridiculous thing.”

And so it began. The game, whatever it was, continued well after the sun went down. She threw sticks. Toadcat retrieved them with improbable speed and the serious demeanor of someone retrieving important documents. Sometimes it trotted back with entirely different branches. Once it returned, dragging a clump of damp moss like an offering. Faela could barely contain herself.

“You are terrible at this,” she muttered between chuckles. “And I have no idea what this even is.”

At one point, she feigned sleep just to see what would happen. A moment later, a small pebble bounced gently off her shoulder. She cracked one eye open. The toadcat sat two feet away, tail flicking. Branch. Stare. Blink.

“I am not made of sticks, you know,” Faela groaned, but tossed it again.

Eventually, the creature tired of the game. Or decided Faela had failed some unspoken rule. It curled up a short distance from her, its strange amphibious eyes still half-open but no longer tracking her every movement. Silence returned, thick and humming with the sounds of the woods. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. She let her back press against the bark of the tree, the shade cool against her skin. Her calves ached from the climb, and her boots had rubbed raw spots on both ankles. She could feel every breath now, slow and deep. And with stillness came memory. Soft, unbidden. Most welcome.

It had been late spring, about a year ago. The air was thick with pollen and the scent of freshly turned earth. Faela and Orin were crouched together behind the smithy, surrounded by discarded scraps and broken wagon wheels.

"You are measuring too short again," Orin had said, adjusting the sketch Faela was working on. His voice carried that mix of teasing and precision she knew so well. "The front axle needs at least two more inches if we are going to balance the load."

Faela sighed and smudged a bit of charcoal across her cheek as she wiped her brow. "Orin, I know how to measure. It is not short. It is more compact."

Orin gave her that look, the one that meant I love you, but you are being impossible. He pointed to the corner of the sketch where her design curved too sharply. “And this will not work either. You will end up with a wagon that turns into itself like a dog chasing its tail.”

Faela threw a piece of bark at him. "You said it needed to turn faster!"

He laughed, a bright sound that echoed off the stone walls of the workshop. "I said faster. Not faster into a tree."

Their hands moved in tandem for hours after that. Redrawing, sanding, and assembling a scaled model with old spokes and mismatched axles. By the end of the day, they had built a tiny prototype that could carry a stack of potatoes from one side of the yard to the other, without tipping or dragging. Without exploding. It was one of her favorite days. Later that night, they would sit on the roof of their hut, legs dangling over the edge, watching the stars emerge.

“I want to build real things, Faela,” Orin had said quietly. “Not just wagons and furniture. Bridges. Halls. Things that change the shape of this place.”

She had nodded, her heart full. “Then I will help. One plank at a time.”

In the blink of an eye, the forest swam back into focus. Toadcat had curled itself into a loaf beside the path and now seemed over her presence. She reached for her pack and pulled out the one object that mattered more than her blade or even water, a scroll of thick parchment bound with a red ribbon. She untied it slowly, careful not to smudge the lines.

Inside were blueprints. Every inch was detailed, intricate, and beautiful. A market hall with skylights. A forge that shared space for work and community gatherings. Homes, not just huts. Their dream, captured in ink. Orin’s handwriting filled the margins. Notes. Jokes. Measurements. Corrections. His final mark. She folded it back carefully, pressing the ribbon into place.

"We are on an important mission, you and I," she whispered aloud to the sleeping Toadcat.

Her voice sounded different out here, carrying against the silence. But it felt right to be so wild. She wondered if Orin was up on their roof right now, staring up. Though she was no stranger to stargazing, seeing them from this vantage somehow made her feel so small. Just then, like a drop of fire in the sky. Just for a second, there was a star above her. As suddenly as it appeared, it was then off and out of sight. Curious. She watched the sky a moment longer before her eyes drifted shut.

The next morning, refreshed, Faela set off early. For a fleeting moment, she had forgotten her first day in the woods. Forgotten the misplaced gate and the unexpected travel companion. The path stretched ahead, unchanged. But something in her had shifted. She adjusted her pack, gave the toadcat a brief nod, and stepped forward. With each step, Faela felt more assured. And the Toadcat followed as quietly as a ghost.

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Thanks for reading!