A Fae's Tale Prequel: Before the Destiny
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Nicole Woodward
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The Eyes of the Throne Room
A Fae’s Tale Prequel—Before the Destiny: Aubrey’s Tale
Aubrey’s fate was sealed before she could speak.
Sun spilled through the towering gemstone window, casting a kaleidoscope across the gleaming floor. Every shard of light danced across the ancient thrones of the Kingdom of Sablewood—symbols of a legacy she wasn’t sure she wanted.
“On the spring equinox, Aubrey, you shall be crowned queen.”
Aubrey sank into a precise curtsy, though the motion felt more instinct than grace. “Father, my king,” she said, careful to keep her voice even, “that’s but a month away.”
King Galdor, usually as immovable as the mountains surrounding Sablewood, shifted in his throne. It was subtle, but Aubrey caught it.
The weight of rule pressed heavier today, lines creasing his brow. His steel-gray eyes flicked toward Queen Daena.
The queen met his look with a trembling smile. Her golden hair, threaded with silver, was pinned with practiced elegance. She looked every inch the monarch, though her luminous eyes—once so full of warmth—had dulled with worry.
“Dearest,” she said, her voice soft, “we have ruled nearly three centuries. Even we are bound by the laws of this realm.”
Aubrey’s wings stirred beneath her braid. Bound by laws? Her parents, rulers of Elarion, shackled by decrees? Absurd.
She lifted her chin. “Then change them.”
The words slipped free, sharp and clean, cutting through the hush. Gasps rippled from the shadowed alcoves where the clergy stood like specters.
They didn’t hiss, but the flick of parchment and narrowed eyes spoke their judgment. The clergy. Ever watching. Ever whispering.
Their fingers trailed along ancient laws as though they alone could weave fate’s threads. They scorned the Vampyrs, yet moved like them—creeping through shadows, feeding on hesitation.
One stepped forward. Clergy Member Four Hundred Twenty-One—Rodney.
His skeletal fingers clutched a parchment that unspooled like a serpent. His voice rasped, dry as the brittle script he carried.
“Your Highness,” he said. “The matter of succession is not mutable. It is written: The heir shall ascend the throne of Sablewood upon or before their two hundred first year. They must then choose a consort, if one has not already been selected, to preserve the line and ensure the realm’s future.”
Rodney’s beady eyes gleamed as he rolled the parchment closed, his sneer barely curving his lips. Aubrey didn’t look at him. Her focus stayed locked on her parents.
“Mother. Father,” she said, steadier now. “You are still fit to rule. Why should it matter that I’ve turned two hundred?”
Before they could answer, Rodney’s voice slithered in again. “Indeed, Your Highness, it seems your parents have coddled you as if you were still an infant.”
“Enough.” Queen Daena’s voice rang like crystal breaking across stone. “Our daughter’s upbringing is no concern of yours. You will speak when summoned—and not before.”
Silence fell, thick and watchful. The clergy exchanged glances, their thoughts curling like smoke. They weren’t finished.
The queen turned back to her daughter. “You are two hundred, and we are fading. You must accept what is.”
The gentleness hurt more than a rebuke. Aubrey’s throat tightened.
“You are not old,” she said, too quickly.
But now she saw. Her father’s hands, once mighty, rested heavy on the throne, fingers tracing worn grooves in the stone. Her mother, radiant as ever, looked like porcelain—flawless, but fragile.
King Galdor spoke again, his voice quieter. “Time moves forward, Aubrey. As our parents guided us, so must we guide you. Without a consort—without an heir—our line ends.”
Her wings flexed. “And if I refused?”
Before her father could respond, a figure stepped forward from the shadows—a man who didn’t belong in the ranks of the clergy, not by appearance alone. Thalos.
Leader of the Sablewood clergy. His light-brown hair was not slicked back with oil, nor did he skulk like the rest. He moved with an unnatural grace, eyes pale blue and too clear, too knowing.
“Your Highness,” he said, voice smooth as burnished glass. “In six days’ time, a ball will be held. Twelve suitors shall present themselves. From them, you will choose your prince consort—the one who will stand as king beside you.”
Aubrey’s heart clenched. “So this isn’t a discussion. My fate is sealed.”
“Aubrey, my flower,” Queen Daena said gently, “the people adore you. You will be a radiant queen. But without a consort, without a future…” She faltered, and Aubrey caught the hesitation her mother rarely let slip.
Another clergyman stepped forward. Plinth, gaunt and slow moving, unfurled a scroll with theatrical precision. “In the event the Crown Heir fails to provide a successor, or should they abdicate the throne, the clergy shall assume stewardship of the realm until a rightful ruler is named.”
Aubrey fixed Plinth with a cold stare. “And when, exactly, was that decree written? Was it in the days of the Second King? Or merely a fortnight ago, when you began plotting my future in secret?”
King Galdor glanced at the massive clock ticking away on the wall. “You have your queen lessons before dinner, Aubrey. We will continue this…discussion tomorrow.”
Aubrey didn’t wait for permission to leave. With a swift, fluid motion, her bronze wings unfurled, the feathers reflecting the golden rays of her hair as they caught the light from the gemstone.
As she took flight, she caught her mother’s eye—and her subtle, knowing wink sent defiance rushing through her. The clergy had made their move.
But Aubrey had no intention of bending to their will so easily.
***
Despite the weight of the throne room still clinging to her, a grin tugged at Aubrey’s lips. Queen lessons—what a farce.
For nearly a century and a half, her parents had upheld the illusion. Lessons in some distant borough of Sablewood? Hardly. Sitting in a stone chamber reciting protocol made her skin itch.
Her heart belonged to the skies and the trees—the wild places where the kingdom’s reach thinned.
She wrapped herself in a traveling cloak and stepped onto her balcony. The evening breeze greeted her like an old friend, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
No guards. No court. No titles.
Just wind, sky, and flight.
Her wings unfurled in a flash of bronze, catching the last light as she leapt into the open air. The castle towers dropped away beneath her.
Below, the forest stretched wide—an emerald sea brushed with gold and violet by the setting sun. A shadow crossed her path as a great Thalarian owl glided past, silent as dusk.
For a moment its amber eyes met hers. Then it vanished toward the mountains.
Aubrey dipped beneath the canopy, letting the quiet of the forest swallow the day’s tension. She caught an updraft and angled toward her true destination—a hidden clearing between Sablewood and the distant city of Aranello.
Nestled among the trees stood a small hut, its thatched roof softened by moss, ivy curling along the stone.
Her sanctuary.
Woodsmoke drifted from the chimney. Nearby, the greenhouse shimmered faintly in the twilight, enchanted glass glowing with life. One wall stood open, letting the forest breathe through it. Inside, plants grew wild and unrestrained—nothing like the manicured gardens of the palace.
As Aubrey descended, she spotted Nalia below, already scanning the sky with sharp Elven eyes. Red curls caught the fading light as a mischievous grin spread across her face.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up this late, Your Highness,” Nalia teased, mock formality thick in her voice.
Aubrey landed beside her with a groan, folding her wings. “Must you call me that?”
“Old habits.” Nalia’s smirk softened the jab. She jerked her chin toward the greenhouse. “He’s inside. Kieren will fly you back in an hour.”
“Two.”
Nalia snorted. “You’ll miss dinner. Your ladies-in-waiting will riot.”
“I’m sure something’s simmering in your kitchen,” Aubrey said. “Fetch me a bowl?”
“Fine,” Nalia sighed. “As you wish, Princess.”
Aubrey kissed her cheek and slipped toward the greenhouse.
Warm air wrapped around her as she stepped inside, thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed pine. Lanternlight glowed through climbing vines and tangled leaves.
Caedar knelt among the seedlings.
For a moment he seemed part of the garden itself—robes the color of moss and bark, silver hair tied loosely down his back, hands buried deep in soil as he murmured old Elven words.
The lines in his face were carved by centuries, but his eyes held the glint of mischief, like starlight buried in ancient stone. “The frost is loosening,” he murmured, fingers brushing a tender sprout. The words weren’t meant for her, not really.
He had been in her life for as long as she could remember—long enough that the rhythms of his garden felt as familiar as the palace halls. While the court taught her how to bow, Caedar had taught her how to listen—to roots, to stone, to the quiet pulse beneath the land.
She remembered the day her wings first unfurled at the age of twenty. The coming-of-age ceremony burned in her memory like the stars etched across the night sky.
The pain of that change was distant now, but the wild, soaring freedom—the moment she became one with the wind—stayed vivid as ever.
Her aura had revealed her path: a garden bloomer, destined to nurture life from the soil beneath her feet. It wasn’t unexpected—no heir of Sablewood had ever shown an aura tied to ruling. But Aubrey had never felt slighted by this fate.
In fact, her parents and grandparents had always encouraged her to follow her passion, to cultivate the magic within her. It was a freedom for which Aubrey was eternally grateful.
Caedar, too, had nurtured that passion, teaching her everything he knew—from coaxing seedlings to life with gentle hands to conjuring seeds from the very air.
“Why are you just standing there, child?” Caedar asked, his tone gruff but familiar.
Unlike Nalia, he rarely called her Princess—and never let her forget how young she remained in his eyes.
Aubrey straightened and dipped into a quick curtsy. “Apologies. Nalia’s fetching food, and I…was enjoying the view.”
His hands never stopped moving through the dirt.
“Then listen well,” he said. “The wall stays open tonight. The plants crave the mountain air now that the frost is breaking.”
Only then did he glance at her.
“And when you’ve eaten, I want you to create a flower.”
The words settled heavily in her chest.
“A flower?” Aubrey rubbed her palms together. “I’ve coaxed seedlings, but—”
“You’re ready,” Caedar interrupted, rising slowly. “Spring stirs, and you’ve already breathed life into more than enough. Why do you let your doubts poison the soil?”
Before she could answer, Nalia appeared, holding a steaming bowl. “Because she doesn’t believe she’s worthy of a crown,” she said, placing the food into Aubrey’s hands. “That doubt bleeds into everything she touches.”
Aubrey blew gently on her spoon, herbs and spice curling upward. “But you understand, don’t you?”
Nalia tucked a curl behind her ear. “I pretend to. But I’ve watched you grow into more than a princess. Maybe it’s humility that holds you back.”
“It’s more than that,” Caedar said, not unkindly. “Let her eat first. The light fades, and what she faces isn’t simple.”
Nalia bumped her father’s arm. “Will you eat soon, wise one?”
“In time.” His gaze had already drifted back to the garden. “Once she begins, I’ll leave her to it.”
The spoon paused halfway to Aubrey’s mouth. “Alone?”
It was a strange word—unfamiliar. Aside from the skies, she had never truly been alone. Caedar and Nalia had always been there, bound by their vows to protect her.
Caedar reached into his robes and placed something in her hand: a small golden bell, warm and solid with age. She traced the runes etched into it, the metal thrumming faintly with magic.
“You know the words,” he said gently. “If you need us.”
Aubrey nodded. “I do.”
“This place is safe,” Nalia added.
Aubrey believed her. Nalia’s brother, the woods’ silent guardian, lingered always at the edge—unseen but never far.
Caedar’s voice broke the hush. “Now eat. Then show me what blooms.”
