Prologue
I have grown old with this world.
I watched as saplings turned into giant oaks, as their roots shifted through the ground and followed riverbanks and marked the hunting trails of large creatures. I watched as the sea beat against the coast, wearing away stones and shifting the borders of the continent, carving it into the outline that's been inscribed countless times on maps and in war rooms. And I've seen creatures grow as large as mountains, appearing as nothing more than smoke and wind before their scaled hides and monstrous teeth tear into flesh and shatter bones.
And I saw her try to turn this world into something better. The witch. Pleione.
She used to live with the mortals in a village at the end of the continent. Back when the land and the creatures tried their best to keep balance through pure chaos. Before they recognized her as something else and banished her to the forest to live amongst the beasts and the trees.
She made a life there, learning how to grow herbs and vegetables along a riverbank, how to track and hunt animals for food. And as a witch she could sense the spirits dwelling in the forest. She learned to leave offerings out to please benevolent ones, and how to ward her doors and windows for the ones that weren't. And I saw her learn what––and who–– also dwelled in those ancient woods.
The first time he saw her, he noticed how she would braid and bundle her hair before setting to work in her garden. He saw the shocking blue of her eyes, especially when she would glare and huff at the creatures and spirits that disturbed her day. He would watch her from his perch in the trees, and he eventually found himself timing his day around her movements. When he began to find it hard to leave her at night, he would dream of her and try to remember exactly how the soft light from her cauldron illuminated her face as she worked her magic.
She wasn't surprised when he finally decided to reveal himself to himself to her. He'd approached her almost shyly, but she didn't show any fear. Instead, she took in the full measure of him, his long limbs, his broad shoulders, his long brown hair and golden eyes, and extended her hand to him. She could tell he wasn't human, that he was something more, something older, more like the spirits that haunted her wood than the humans she'd lived with.
She'd known he was watching, had felt him in the trees as she cooked and hunted and wove her spells. She'd felt the pull on her heart, and when he looked at her, she knew he felt it too.
His name was Atlas. He came to her cottage every day after that, bringing berries and rabbits that he'd caught for them to eat together. She told him of her life before the woods, how she could see the spirits in the valley where her village was, and how she'd cast spells to protect children and friends from cruel creatures and illness. How when the spells didn't work, her people turned against her, blamed her for their misfortunes before casting her out on her own.
He told her of his people, the fae. Of their ability to see the spirits, of their strength and speed, and how they didn't grow old. He explained that the fae knew of humans but spoke of them like they were one of the beasts in the wild to be tamed and taught. He told her of his people's cruelty, how they would use humans to do their bidding, would sometimes even kill them for sport.
This knowledge upset her the most, and he found himself kissing away her tears. He pledged he would help her devise a way to protect humans, not only from the cruelty of the fae but from the dangers of the land. From the spirits and power that haunted the air and rippled through the soil.
They made love for the first time that night, feeling the pull between them grow taught and strong as they kissed and whispered promises of love and a bright future to each other. In the morning, after she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept, she left her bed and wandered through the woods. She collected leaves and feathers among the tree roots, and coaxed water from the river into a jar.
"I have a plan," she said to him, pulling him from sleep. "Help me bring a new world into existence."
She brought him to her cauldron, where the contents were already throwing bursts of blue and purple into the air. She emptied the water from the river, followed by the leaves and feathers, and she withdrew a knife. She cut into her palm before asking for his hand and repeating the process.
Pleione tangled her fingers with his, letting their blood mix and drop into the cauldron as she began to murmur her spell. Initially the words were so soft Atlas couldn't be sure he was hearing them, but soon the mixture began to swirl and glow and her voice rose higher and higher.
She told tales of strange beasts, the amorphous figures that stalked through the woods and snatched humans and fairies and animals alike, with nothing but cruelty to guide them. The tears began to flow as she told the cauldron about the illness that roared across villages, separating families. Of grief, of pain.
Pleione spoke of land that refused to settle. Of harsh winters that made wind pierce through to bone, of raging seas and nights so dark and so long that people would forget what it was like to feel the warmth and love of the sun. Of springs that would never come, and autumns that only brought decay and starvation.
The cadence of her voice sounded like a song, Atlas thought, as he watched tears roll down her face. But then a whisper of a smile crossed her features as she spoke of the peaceful rush of rivers, of the warm wind rippling across a field of wheat, of a stag roaming through a quiet meadow. She told the cauldron about the joy a mother feels after the turmoil of birth, of the grasp of a child's small hand. Of the embrace of a lover, how it feels when two souls can meet in the darkness. She spoke of her love for Atlas.
Finally, with a full voice, she spoke of her hopes for the world. A world of peace, where each living being could feel a connection to the land and to each other. One where stars could shine against the dark curtain of night, and the dawn could bring the promise of a bright new day. Of a hope to raise a family in safety.
As her song finished, Atlas felt the power whip beneath his hands before exploding out of the cauldron. All at once he could feel winds of winter, summer, spring and fall roar past his ears, the temperature and scents fluctuating with each burst of power. Golden sparks burst out next, twirling around the couple before racing through the trees into the sky above them. A thin tendril of silver followed, moving as languidly as smoke before it dissolved into the air.
I saw Pleione slump against Atlas as her spell was done. Even then I knew the world was different.
Her power settled across the island. The continent drank it in, spreading her wish for a better world from end to end. Humans, once cut off from sensing spirits and even lesser fae could finally see the creatures that inhabited the world around them. The cruelty of the fae had been softened by the spell, and they offered their aid to humans when allowed. Prisoners were freed and families were reunited. Wickedness had not been banished, but it had been tampered by kindness, curiosity and a newfound kinship. Spirits that once raged in anger and desperation could finally feel more than the coldness of the earth, and their demeanors calmed. In their new benevolence, they began to protect the same villages and regions they'd haunted.
For the first time, the world knew what peace could be.
Atlas and Pleione had a family, and I remember watching their three daughters run like wildlings through the woods, riding on the backs of deer and elk as if they were steeds they had known since birth. They communed with spirits like they were old friends, cast magic with their mother and hunted with their father. Their children grew and aged until they did not, their pointed ears and wild spirits promising immortality. But Pleione did age, and when she finally departed this world, Atlas chose to accompany her to the next life, whatever that may be.
The peace created by Pleione lasted for centuries, but old creatures like me know that nothing is permanent.
Pleione's family left the woods long ago, but her cauldron remained, long forgotten by any ancestors. The metal was aged and scratched, nearly swallowed by roots from a protective oak tree. But even in disrepair the cauldron emanated a sense of power, for a small piece of Pleione––a single drop of blood––remained protected in its metal, ensuring that her spell held in place.
I began to hear rumblings of a fae with shocking power , a male by the name Hybern. There were rumors that he came from several different courts, that he was bastard born, a malevolent spirit given flesh. But I knew origins didn't truly matter. He was charismatic and beautiful, and he collected supporters as if he was simply plucking flowers from an overflowing garden, promising power and status to those who fought for him.
I saw him wander through the woods at night, looking for the cauldron. I remember the dread that crept up my neck when I saw him find it, hacking away at the tree that stood for three centuries to pry it free. I heard the whip of air when he winnowed it away, and I felt the change in the soil the first time he'd used it, how he'd tested the connection that Pleione still held with the land.
The changes were gradual to the humans, occurring over the span of decades, but appeared in the blink of an eye to me. Seasons in the courts gradually lost their stability, bringing hunger and illness to mortals who had never faced such hardships. Fae began to treat humans with more casual cruelty, beginning to separate themselves from those they'd once called friends. Beasts only recognized from songs began appearing at the edge of the continent, testing wards from the few young and inexperienced witches who persisted.
"There is untapped magic in this land. Help me bring a new world into existence," Hybern would say to humans he'd charmed, before guiding them into the cold water of the cauldron, using their lives to feed its power. Despite his efforts, he hadn't destroyed Pleione's connection to the land, but he had corrupted it. I wasn't sure if it was permanent, if the world could recover from his terror.
When the leaders of the courts revolted, he amassed an army, using terrifying creatures he'd created from the cauldron to strike down countless soldiers and raze villages. In his victory, he chose to make an example to the rebels, using the cauldron to destroy the Night Court and its leaders in a burst of violent light. Hoping to save what remained of their people, the living high lords bowed to Hybern, declaring him King of Prythian. As a show of loyalty, they gave Hybern drops of their power, feeding it into a cauldron now blackened and rotting.
Hybern used his magic to create a giant wave of jagged mountains, separating the ruins of the Night Court and the northern tip of the continent from the rest of Prythian. The scar across the land would serve as a reminder, he said, to never doubt his mercy––or his cruelty.
But he wanted more power still. He doubted the loyalty of the fae across Prythian, and his control of all but the oldest spirits was too tenuous for his liking. And that was when he began to look for the descendants of Pleione and Atlas, believing their connection to the cauldron would let him to permanently control the threads that connected all beings across the continent.
He began tracing families from the oldest blood lines in Prythian, inviting them to join him and enter the cauldron and become. Some went willingly, and Hybern used the cauldron to guide and coax their cruelty into something he could use. Others were tracked down and thrown into its bubbling mixture, choosing instead to surrender their lives and leave this world than help a tyrant. But despite his efforts he hadn't found Pleione's descendants, unable to trace when they left the woods and settled into the courts. A part of him feared the family line died out long ago.
But I can hear the cauldron call to them, a soft song that echoes through the air. Three not-quite-human sisters in a small cabin at the edge of a young forest, unaware of their connection to the land, of the power in their family. I wonder if they can sense it, when they look up at the stars, when they rage against the spirits, when they heave poisonous weeds from the dirt.
"Help me fix what is broken. Help me bring a new world into existence," it pleads.
I hope they will.