19. Danica

Danica

19

T his rickety redneck carriage screams the opposite of fairy tale transport. But somehow, I get crammed between two armored fae warriors wearing a crotch kite, pretending it's a real dress.

Plot twist—no amount of nippy neckline drafts truly distracts from butt pain after too long crushed on awful benches!

My ass throbs almost as much as my teeth from endlessly jolted carriage wheels striking each new bump or divot along the forest path.

At least jostling provides a temporary distraction from Lady Axilya cooly lecturing basics on creative ways to kiss shadowy ass once we roll up to her frosty majesty's chilling throne...

Ignoring everything, the creepy woods winding past the window send a prickling unease through me. The tangle of branches and shadows feeds my growing anxiety;Rhyland's in jeopardy, and the nightmarish possibility of losing him gnaws at my resolve, his lifeline growing dimmer with each moment we're apart. Meaningless platitudes attempt to pacify my fears, but they're just noise against the encroaching panic.

The carriage jostles over another unseen root or stone, throwing my balance and shattering any pretense of grace. I careen awkwardly to the side, any semblance of ladylike poise long forgotten.

I rake my hands through my hair, a gesture born out of sheer irritation, only to find my fingers trapped in a snarl of locks—a fitting testament to my current state of vexation.

With a huff, I give voice to my annoyance, "Okay, seriously, all the groveling and boot-kissing necessary just to get this mission off the ground seems freakin' excessive!" The exasperation in my tone mirrors the tangles in my hair—both stubbornly defying any attempt at order and decorum.

Axilya pins me down that aquiline nose with frosty emerald regard. "Mind yourself presenting the Shadow Queen, child. She's powerful—Amara denies trivial wants on passing whims and owns pride in matching dragons." The edge in her tone sets my back up real quick.

"Just so we're clear, last I checked, Destiny doesn't care about your height—and this 'short-order' hero isn't about to fade into the wallpaper, not with eternity's high rollers, not now, not ever."

Axilya raises a knowing eyebrow. "Courts of Night and Light throw more tea parties than follow human codes, young queen."

Codes, my ass! Resolute in my purpose, I dismiss any thought of subservience.

Despite acknowledging her shrewd advice, I can't help but let my eyes theatrically broadcast my impatience. "Yeah, yeah, blow smoke up the collective rectum 'til we get our way. But make no mistake—Rhylandis breathing fresh air before we leave by any means necessary." My arms fold defiantly, the flimsy straps of the bodice the only thing contesting my firm stance.

Out of the corner of my eye, I detectFaderyn's struggle to suppress a reaction; the sound that escapes him is a tortured hybrid of a choke and a stifled snort of amusement. And in the absence ofErik's grounding presence—he had chosen to remain atWhisperValefor reasons of his own – I'm feeling the loss ofMr. Stoicmore than ever.

The carriage hits another rut in the path, and despite my best efforts to maintain composure, yelps escape as my tender tailbone makes jarring contact with the uncompromising wooden seat.

"We shall reach the Shadow Court by this evening. Maintaining conservative speeds en route will best avoid unintended territorial disputes," Axilya tells me.

I stifle the urge to groan theatrically, keeping it at bay just by a thread. Relief from the unrelenting discomfort arrives in the form of the Coatl, Syla, whose serpentine form entwines affectionately around my exposed legs. Her pure and soothing trills seem to reach directly into my weary soul, bolstering my spirit. The velvet softness of her coat, a welcoming contrast to the tension that has bound me in knots over the days spent withoutRhyland, draws me in.

Blame my geek-chic grey matter for this one, but my curiosity can't keep its nose out of it. "Alright, let's hear it—what's Amara's deal? Why's everyone falling over themselves to kiss the ground she floats above?" I quip, sarcasm laced with genuine curiosity at the root of Amara's revered might.

Axilya's posture stiffens, a necessary fortification before she unravels the threads of a story woven from ancient strands of fate. "Amara commands the arcane of shadows, its lineage veiled in enigma as profoundly as the occurrence that heralded its arrival—the encapsulation of the realms," she starts, her voice measured yet imbued with a hint of apprehension.

She halts momentarily, readjusting the fabric of her skirt as if aligning her thoughts similarly. "Our arcane might, as Fae, is inexorably linked with the unicorns' fealty. Upon the advent of calamity, as they receded into seclusion, our magical essence waned, rendering us desolate," her gaze hardens, reflecting her resolve. "All but Amara, whose faculties endured unscathed, morphing into something malevolent and formidable. Such corrupt power has given her a sinister edge, skewing the balance ever since that fateful descent."

"So she's magically acquired this mystery skill, and we're in the dark on the how-to?"

Axilya's gaze takes on a distant focus, reflecting the gravity of their predicament. "We have not," she admits, her tone laced with a profound resignation. "Solely the Sun Court has succeeded in repelling her incursions. Their domain remains shielded by sustained ancient magical wards, a bastion of powerful spells that, thus far, Amara has failed to penetrate."

She drops this lore bomb like it's just a tidbit, casually noting how the Sun Court has this nifty trick for brushing off Amara's gloomy spells like lint on a sunlight-dappled cloak—no wonder they're strutting around as one of the big two in the power pageant.

There's a snag in the tapestry—I can spot it all over Axilya's face. She's holding back this saga's chapters, keeping secrets up her sleeve. I won't prod her for the spill, but something in my gut's screaming that this rabbit hole goes way deeper than the surface.

I must have dozed off because I'm suddenly playing human pinball, bouncing off the carriage walls as we screech to a halt like we've hit a minefield. The carriage driver must have gotten his license from a cereal box. Men start yelling outside, their voices reaching a crescendo of confusion. Syla, still snuggled in my arms, looks up at me with her big, round, amber eyes, blinking worriedly.

"What the hell was that?" I ask.

Axilya pulls back the heavy brocade drapes, the moonlight caressing her refined features. "A wheel has been lost to us. We shall take respite here for the night and resume our journey come morning." She glides effortlessly outside before I can process her stiff words through my mental fog.

As I step from the carriage, one of the guards extends his hand, offering support just in time as my legs buckle beneath me, unsteady from the long ride. Thankfully, the ground here in the clearing is solid and even, which is a small mercy compared to the carriage's unforgiving seat.

Suppressing the urge to cry out, I find myself hopping awkwardly, trying to wake my feet from their pin-prick slumber—a physical echo of my frayed nerves.

Once I regain some balance, I take a moment to get my bearings, rubbing life back into my asleep limbs. All around, moss-covered stones outline a softly gurgling spring, casting a serene ambiance as firelight flickers and dances across the makeshift campsite. I see Fae soldiers quietly exchanging provisions, their movements almost reverent under the calming spell of the surrounding forest. It's a scene of unexpected tranquility amidst the pressures of our quest.

My numb legs demand walking around, so I wander quietly into the magical woods to clear my thoughts. Though Overthinker's Paradise offers little peace, furball Syla draped across my shoulders soothes the anxieties churning inside. I trail one hand through her soft fur, my frazzled mood stabilizing, feeling each slow heartbeat against my palm.

We meander silently through alien trees and glowing plants. Luminous vines snake up massive trunks, pulsing hypnotically with ghostly green light. Even the moths have butterfly wings that shimmer with trippy rainbow prints.

I trail questing fingers over velvety petals soft as plush carpet and strangely warm. The alien blooms lean subtly into my touch. Double-take—they move, responding to stimulation against my skin! Syla trills contentedly as this freaky energy passes between us all.

We emerge into a sheltered glen so absurdly picturesque it looks staged—towering crystals and prisms fracture the soft lunar glow into sheer art gallery ambiance, glancing off trickling creeks.

I stretch out atop a smooth gemstone boulder and stare up at the littered heavens of stars, feet dangling to absorb the temporary peace this realm's hectic timing has stolen lately. Syla curls on my chest, steam from the freshwater pools coaxing out healing scents of cedar and wildflowers. I inhale deeply.

As I run my fingers through the Coatl's fur, Syla's peaceful breathing swells a wave of emotion within me. I whisper softly, "Wish you could see my world while it's still innocent and beautiful..." She may be a creature of this realm, but at this moment, I feel a deep desire to share my world's fragile splendor with her.

The thought lingers that when—or if—I return home, my perception of 'normal' might be irrevocably altered. Syla shifts slightly, pressing closer. She emits a soft rumble, a sound woven with strange musical notes that resonate with encouragement. Although the language of this realm is foreign, I find myself understanding the sentiment behind Syla's melodic purrs.

Starlight glitters beautifully above this sheltered grotto, the reflective crystals and trickling water casting everything in a hypnotic, dream-like softness. As Syla begins drifting off into contentment, it proves contagious.

For a hot second, it's like the entire multiverse decides to throw us a bone, putting the cosmic chaos on "pause."

I am sinking into this blissful silence when suddenly I'm pulled in a direction that is as foreign as it is deja vu. My body goes full marionette, and out pops a yelp that sends Syla bouncing off me as if I'm her personal moonbounce.

"Syla, wait." I don't want her to get hurt.

Pulse drumming wildly, I'm scoping out the now menacing glen. Those blue lights cast serious shadows, transforming my chill spot into a creepy scene where every shrub and ripple morph into a boogeyman.

But plot twist—there's no boogeyman, no beasties. The gut-punch of truth lands—it's not an external attack; it's my own personal panic button in a magical chokehold. That gut-wrenching homesickness comes from too much time away from Rhyland. Our soul-tying tantrum is kicking up a storm, and those high-drama waves are imported from his emotional seascape.

"R-Rhyland...?" His name is a half-prayer, half-curse as I toss it out, like a gambler rolling dice and praying for double-sixes in the ultimate game of existential craps.

What are the odds my crummy luck could flip to a fairy tale ending, with all this boogeyman nonsense stretching time thinner than my patience on this wild ride since day one?