A Fae's Tale Series Book 1: Wings of Destiny
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Nicole Woodward
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Moriella of Marshpoint
“Do you fear the darkness?”
She turned, but no one was there. Only shadow, curling like smoke around her ankles and stretching into endless black.
A butterfly had hovered a moment ago—orange, like flame—but now it was gone.
The dark pulsed around her, slow and rhythmic, like breath.
“Does the absence of light not daunt you?” The voice curled through the air, smooth as silk and deep enough to settle beneath her skin.
It didn’t frighten her. It fascinated her.
“No,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she’d spoken aloud.
The air shifted. Heat curled against her spine. A pressure stirred behind her, growing.
She reached back, and—
“Moriella Briarsand!” The name ripped through the floorboards, jolting Ella awake.
Not a demon. Worse. Her mother.
“Why am I hearing your snoring instead of seeing you in the fields?” her mother called.
Ella opened one eye. Full name. Not good.
“Coming, Mama,” she groaned. She ran a hand down the wrinkled tunic she’d worn out the night before, knocking back pints with her friends.
At the basin, she splashed her face with cold water. The dream clung for a moment longer—shadow, a soothing voice—then slipped away, as dreams often did.
Her auburn plaits were a mess, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t polished, but she looked like herself—and that would do.
Ella bounded down the stairs two at a time. “Morning, morning, off I go!”
The kitchen was bathed in sunlight, its rays glinting off rows of neatly labeled jars of spices and herbs that lined the oak shelves.
Her mother, Samera, stood at the stove, slicing into a loaf of warm bread. One of her feathered bronze wings flicked behind her, a sure tell she was annoyed.
“At least eat something before the weeds eat you,” she said. “You’ve become skin and bones these past two years.”
Ella couldn’t deny it. Her last growth spurt had left her tall and lean—a walking beanstalk, but no less awkward for it.
“Lard, please?” she asked.
Samera sighed and reached for the tin. “Yes, yes. But be quick. Your father’s about to ring the bell.”
Ella winced. The bell meant help was needed in the fields, and if she didn’t get there first, the neighbor’s sons would.
Not only did her father have to pay them, but the boys would spend the entire time teasing Ella for not being as strong as them.
It had not been her fault, her father frequently reminded her. It was no one’s fault.
She was raised into farm life from the age of four, small hands learning the rhythm of earth and soil.
When her parents decided to have another child, they hadn’t foreseen what the birth would bring.
Her brother, Puckaelow (though everyone called him Puck), had to be cut from their mother’s womb. He’d been born with wings, thin and glimmering, fluttering before he could cry. Wings that should not have come until his twentieth year.
His first steps had never touched earth; instead, he had floated upward, a laughing infant who hit the ceiling before he learned to crawl.
But at three years old, the feathers began to molt, shedding in clumps. No one knew the reason why. All they knew was that he was in agonizing pain.
The wings were carved from his back. And then Puck’s legs ceased to work.
It left their family devastated, and Ella the only child capable of handling physical chores.
Puck, for his part, handled the ledgers, fed the chickens, and helped their mother with meals.
Ella never teased him about his predicament, not once. She feared that when she attained her own wings at twenty, they too would molt and die.
Those in their small village who knew the tale of their family—which, of course, was everyone—were divided into two categories.
Some treated Ella with sympathy, proud that she’d stepped into her role as the eldest without complaint. They said her wings, when they came, would be strong. Just like her.
Then there were the others. The ones who whispered about a curse in the Briarsand bloodline, who said they couldn’t wait to see her hideous wings, if she even got them at all.
She kept away from those in the latter category.
A savory warmth lingered in the air, tugging her attention back to the present.
Her mother handed her the thick-cut slice, lard generously spread. Ella reached over and gave her mother a hug, which caused Samera’s wings to flutter with joy.
The soft feathers tickled Ella’s nose. She giggled just as she heard her father’s sing-song warning: “I’m about to ring the be-ell!”
With bread clenched between her teeth, she pushed open the door. Puck was already outside in his wooden chair, wheels fixed to either side.
The drought had left the fields bone dry, and he managed well enough in the harder soil. A bowl sat in his lap as he scattered feed to the chickens.
Puck had outlived all of the healer’s predictions. After the wing removal, they’d given him a month. Then a year. Then three years, at most.
Now fourteen, he still had his sense of humor, a constant despite the pain he endured. “Nice to see you’re finally joining us, Ellie,” Puck called out. “Was that your shadow I saw creeping by at three o’clock this morning?”
Her cheeks tinged. “You—saw—nothing.”
“A coin for my silence?” he bartered.
“I’ll give you two if you hold your tongue for the rest of the week,” Ella obliged. It was her best friend’s birthday tonight, and if all went well with attaining his own wings, the celebrations would likely last through the night.
“You have yourself a deal,” Puck conceded. “And tell Da that I’m nearly done with the chickens.”
Ella nodded and turned toward the fields on the other side of the barn.
Against all odds, her father’s crop of selmings—a rare vegetable that acted as a natural fertilizer—was thriving. It was the one thing keeping food on their table.
She found him hunched over the selming rows. His gloved hand gripped a spade, teeth gritted in concentration as he wrenched a mass of snarling green from the earth.
The weeds, if they could be called that, weren’t normal garden pests. They slithered and snapped, vines twitching with muscle-like tension.
Tiny mouths, sharp as thorns, gnashed at his gloves.
“Puck is done with the chickens,” Ella said by way of greeting.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you weren’t a fan of my company anymore,” her father replied, shoving the weed into a bucket with practiced precision.
He swiped hair from his eyes, streaks of bronzed gray catching the light.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” Ella replied. “Of course I adore your company, Da.”
“You wouldn’t rather be working with the three boys from the field over?”
“I’d rather bathe with the pigs.”
He chuckled, the sound rich with affection, as she dropped into a crouch beside him. With a grunt, she jabbed the spade into the soil.
A weed coiled as she struck, twisting out of the way. The blade glanced off its side, and the vine snapped at her wrist, the thorn tips brushing her skin.
“Oh, you little bastard.” She yanked it by the root and flung it into the bucket.
“Moriella Briarsand.” The second time her full name had been used that morning. “I pray whoever you wed appreciates that sharp tongue of yours.”
“Mama should’ve started etiquette classes when I was in the womb,” Ella replied. “But I thought you always liked that I spoke my mind.”
“I admire your strength and your warmth,” Erannon said. “Your cunning wit is what will get you in trouble.”
Ella shrugged. With Puck unable to assist with most chores, it was expected that whoever Ella wed would inherit the Briarsand farmlands and run it with her.
Of course, Ella had absolutely no desire to be wed.
The only men she liked were her father, her brother, and her best friend, Sylvan Waylocks. Not enough to wed him, but enough to tolerate his friendship.
Her father continued, “Your cousin Rosalia returns soon, so we need to work extra hard today; tomorrow will be cut short.”
Rosalia, at just twenty-four—a remarkably young age for a consul—had taken on the responsibility of leading their village. She’d been away on a trade mission to Evercross, a long flight to the neighboring town.
Rosalia had traded their rare selmings and would owe her uncle his portion, which would need to be settled during an official meeting.
“We’ll need to cut today short too,” Ella reminded him. “Sylvan’s birth was at twelve minutes past five.”
Her father sighed. “All the more reason for you to show up on time, Ellie.”
To prove a point, she gripped her palm on four weeds at once. They squealed in protest, thorny leaves flailing as they tried to twist from her grip.
She gave a triumphant laugh as she dropped them into the bucket. “There. That’s got to be worth something.”
“You saved yourself ten minutes with that,” her father admitted. “But you were forty minutes late.”
She smiled as she bent to the next vine, the rhythm of the field settling in—spade, pull, toss, banter.
The weeds snapped and hissed, but they were no match for the Briarsands today.
***
By three o’clock, the selmings were thriving, the pigs were fed, and the ripe tomatoes had been gathered.
Ella glanced at her father, hoping for permission to clean up before the ceremony. But Erannon’s attention was fixed on the sky. Two Fae were descending toward them.
Ella recognized one of them instantly—her cousin, Soric. The other was an attendant to the consul and official village messenger, a Fae by the name of Thistias.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Puck pushing his chair across the fields, eager to catch whatever news was about to unfold.
“Good day,” Erannon greeted them. “To what do we owe your visit?”
“My sister—” Soric began, but Thistias fluttered his wings sharply, silencing him.
“Lady Rosalia, Consul of Marshpoint Village,” Thistias announced, with far more grandeur than their simple village warranted, “has fallen ill on our travels back. We have been forced to the ground on a difficult road; she is nauseated if we try to carry her. We are calling for all healers to tend to her at once, and any soldiers to guard in case of…”
His voice faltered. The name itself invoked fear in many.
“In case of Vampyrs,” Erannon finished. “It is not yet sundown and won’t be for a while yet. You have no reason to fear. Please, you’ll find my wife inside—she will tend to my niece. I mean, Lady Rosalia.”
“And soldiers?” Thistias pressed.
Puck arrived. His hands were raw from spinning the wheels of his chair.
Erannon sighed. “None here. I must tend to my son; I am the only one who can lift him without injury. And Ella is no warrior, nor is she twenty yet.”
Ella kicked at a stray pebble, forcing her eyes downward.
“I am sure she’s formidable in other ways,” Soric filled in, as Thistias had already flown off to the main house. “We thank you.”
Ella made a mental note to add Soric to the short list of men she could tolerate.
“D’you think Rosalia will be all right?” Puck asked.
“I am certain of it,” their father replied. “We have a half dozen village healers; she’s in good hands. Curious, what caused her to become ill?” He scratched at his nose in thought.
“Da, I know it is an awful time to ask—” Ella began.
“Off you go; I know it’s Sylvan’s ceremony soon, and you smell of soil and piglets.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Puck added.
“I sorely say, his ceremony will not be well attended if Rosalia doesn’t come to,” Erannon said. “Puck and I will try our best to attend; one more errand to do.”
With that, Ella turned on her heel and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. The house came into view just as her mother took off into the sky.
