Page 14 of Crown of Storm and Silence
The fairy takes a deep breath, and slowly the colors in her hair settle back to silver. Her features smooth into careful composure, though her hands tremble slightly as she almost reaches toward me before catching herself and pulling back.
"I'm sorry," she says with a gentle smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I have you mixed up with someone else."
But she doesn't leave. Instead, she lingers, her gaze never quite leaving my face, as if hoping I might suddenly remember. When it becomes clear I won't, she approaches Mira with the air of someone making a desperate decision rather than giving up hope entirely.
She stands there for a long moment, clearly struggling with some internal decision. Finally, she sighs dramatically and speaks again. "I don't suppose," she says with obvious reluctance, "you'd need an assistant? I'm dreadful at manual labor and I complain constantly, but I do know a thing or two about healing herbs." She wrinkles her nose. "Though I'd much rather be doing literally anything else."
Despite everything—the confusion, the strange recognition, the lingering tension—I find myself fighting back a smile. There's something endearing about her reluctant honesty, awarmth that spreads through my chest for reasons I can't explain.
Mira glances between us, and I catch the hint of amusement in her eyes. "We could use the help," she says slowly. "Even reluctant help. Especially with all the unusual injuries we've been seeing lately."
"Unusual injuries?"
"Burns that won't heal properly. Wounds that seem to reject treatment. Strange things that don't respond to normal remedies." Mira's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Dark magic, if I had to guess."
Something flickers across Banu's face—knowledge, perhaps, or recognition. "I may be able to help with that," she says quietly. "I have…experience with such things."
The conversation that follows is brief but decisive. Mira offers lodging in exchange for assistance with the more unusual cases, and Banu accepts with quiet gratitude.
As they finalize the arrangement, I find myself staring at this woman who called me by a name that awakens something deep within me, yet accepts my denial with painful grace. There's love in her eyes, and loss, and a desperate hope that she's trying to hide behind careful politeness.
There's something about the way she looks at me that suggests deeper knowledge, but I can't grasp what it means. I'm certain I should know her, that somewhere in the locked chambers of my lost memory, this fairy holds a place of importance I can't begin to fathom.
But why does she pretend to accept my denial when everything about her suggests she knows exactly who I am?
As evening approaches and Banu settles into the small room Mira offers her, I retreat to my own chamber with my thoughts in chaos. The name Nesilhan burns in my mind like a brand, awakening things I'm not sure I'm ready to face.
Tomorrow, I decide, I'll start asking the questions I'm too afraid to voice.
Outside my window, storm clouds gather on the horizon, and somewhere in the distance, I could swear I hear the sound of shadow wings beating against the wind.
5
Shadows in Paradise
Kaan
The pull grows strongerwith each mile we close toward Yildizkaya, drawing me forward through dawn mist and fading starlight with the inevitability of fate's twisted humor I'm not yet equipped to appreciate. By the time we crest the final hill overlooking the village, my magic is behaving in ways that would make even my father raise an eyebrow and reach for his favorite torture implements.
Below us, Yildizkaya spreads across the valley floor like a scene from a children's tale—except children's tales don't usually feature the aftermath of violence painted across cobblestones. Even from this distance, I can see the signs: damaged buildings, scattered debris, villagers moving with the careful efficiency of people cleaning up after something terrible.
The shadows don't writhe in their usual chaotic tantrum anymore—they flow with purpose, reaching toward something I can sense but not identify. It's maddening, really. I've spent centuries mastering the art of shadow manipulation, andsuddenly my own power is acting with the desperate enthusiasm of a lovesick adolescent chasing after something shiny.
Whatever happened here recently has left psychic residue in the air—fear, desperation, violence—but underneath it all, something else entirely. Something that makes my magic sing with recognition.
"Set up camp here," I command, my eyes fixed on the village spread below us in the valley. What should be modest cottages with thatched roofs and peaceful cobblestone streets now bear the fresh scars of recent violence. Broken shutters hang askew, debris litters the market square, and smoke rises not just from chimneys but from the smoldering remains of what might have been a granary.
Yet something calls to me from those wounded streets with an urgency that gnaws at my very bones—something far stronger than the lingering traces of violence and fear.
"There was a battle," Emir observes quietly, producing a spyglass to survey the damage below. "Recent, by the look of it. Within the last day or two."
I pace the ridge, unable to settle. The pull in my chest grows stronger with each passing hour. Whatever waits for me down there is becoming more urgent, more impossible to ignore. Emir watches me with the careful attention of someone monitoring a dangerous animal, while the men make camp with the weary competence of soldiers who've learned not to question their lord's stranger obsessions.
"My lord," Emir ventures from beside the newly built campfire, his voice carrying that special tone reserved for approaching sleeping dragons or suggesting I might benefit from a vacation. "The scouts report the village is still in chaos from whatever happened. Perhaps we should wait until?—"
The rest of his diplomatic suggestion is lost as Captain Ozan crashes through the undergrowth with all the grace of a drunkenbear, dragging a bloodied scout behind him. The man's face has achieved that particular shade of pale usually reserved for corpses and tax collectors, and there's terror in his eyes that speaks of encounters with bureaucracy or worse.
"Report," I command, though most of my attention remains fixed on the village below, where people move through the streets like ants rebuilding after someone kicked their hill.
