The soft chime of a bell echoed inside, followed by a distinct, lilting voice from within.
"Unless you've brought me something valuable, go away. I'm busy!"
Rowen hesitated in the doorway, blinking at the explosion of color and texture before her. Bolts of fabric shimmered on the walls, some rippling as though caught in an invisible breeze, others glowing faintly like embers. The air smelled of lavender and cedar, rich and intoxicating.
Dryanden ignored the warning and stepped inside, his boots thudding against the polished wooden floor. His voice was sharper than Rowen had ever heard it.
"Thistle!"
The name cut through the room like a whip crack.
Rowen flinched, not just at the volume but at the tone—it carried an edge of irritation she hadn't yet heard from him. What kind of name was Thistle? Her mind scrambled to piece together the strange situation she'd stumbled into, but every new revelation only made things feel less real.
A scuffling noise came from behind a curtain of gauzy, golden fabric, followed by a muttered curse. Moments later, a figure emerged.
Rowen blinked, her jaw going slack. The… person who stepped into view was unlike anything she'd ever seen.
The fairy was… not what Rowen had expected. Actually, scratch that. Rowen didn't expect fairies to exist at all.
Thistle was small, almost delicate, with iridescent hair that seemed to shift between shades of blue, green, and silver. Her large, almond-shaped eyes were a bright gold, and her pointed ears were adorned with a chaotic array of tiny, mismatched earrings. Behind her, translucent wings arched gracefully, faintly glowing like glass catching moonlight. She wore a flowing gown made of shimmering fabric that sparkled like starlight, though her expression was anything but celestial.
"Did you wake up on the wrong side of eternity," the fairy snapped, her voice musical but tinged with annoyance, "or is yelling my name just how you announce yourself these days?"
"Fairy," Rowen blurted, her voice cracking as she stumbled back a step. "You're a fairy."
The room froze.
Dryanden, who had just raised a wooden cup to his lips, choked violently. His spluttering coughs echoed through the chamber as Thistle's golden eyes snapped to Rowen with an intensity that made her stomach drop.
"Fairies aren't real," Rowen added, her voice tinged with equal parts disbelief and nervous laughter.
Thistle's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. "Correct. Fairies aren't real." She took a deliberate step forward, wings shimmering faintly behind her. "I am a Fae. And unless you'd like to start a blood feud in the middle of my evening, I suggest you stop calling me that rude word."
Rowen's cheeks flushed as her gaze darted between Thistle and Dryanden. "I didn't mean—"
Thistle cut her off with a dramatic roll of her golden eyes. "Honestly, Dryanden, where did you find this human? A brothel? A particularly dense forest?"
Dryanden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot Rowen a glare. "She's… new," he managed. His voice still held a faint rasp of amusement as he added, "But yes, apparently lacking in basic etiquette as well."
Rowen crossed her arms, heat rising to her face. "Well, excuse me for not having a field guide to mythical creatures in my pocket."
Thistle raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "Mythical? Oh, you poor thing. You're going to need to unlearn a lot, aren't you?" Thistle's gaze locked onto Rowen's wrist. "Well, well," she murmured, stepping closer with an unnervingly graceful gait. Her voice softened, a mix of curiosity and something Rowen couldn't place. "What have we here?"
Rowen instinctively stepped back, clutching her wrist. Thistle's wings flickered faintly, catching the air like threads of spun glass. "You didn't mention she had a mark, Dryanden. And I thought you didn't keep company."
Dryanden crossed his arms, his voice flat. "She has newly awakened magic. The seal responded to her. That wasn't exactly planned."
"Of course it wasn't." Thistle smirked, her gaze lingering on Rowen's wrist before flicking back to Dryanden. "That explains why you've got this one clinging to your cloak."
"I'm not clinging to anything," Rowen said quickly, narrowing her eyes. "And maybe you could try addressing me instead of talking about me like I'm a new houseplant?"
Thistle's eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, she looked genuinely surprised. Then she laughed—a light, melodic sound that filled the room. "Oh, I guess I like her. She's feisty. You've finally found someone who talks back, Dry."
Dryanden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can you just—do your job, Thistle?"
"Fine, fine." Thistle waved a hand dismissively before turning her full attention to Rowen. Her expression softened, but her curiosity remained razor-sharp. "Let me see it."
Rowen hesitated, but Thistle's intensity left little room for refusal. Slowly, she held out her wrist.
"That mark carries weight, human. More than you're ready to understand. Be careful who sees it." Thistle's cool fingers brushed against the crescent mark, which suddenly pulsed faintly with light. Rowen gasped, yanking her hand back.
"What the—?! It's never done that before!" she said, staring wide-eyed at her wrist. Rowen flexed her fingers, the faint warmth of the crescent mark now spreading through her wrist. It wasn't painful, but it felt… alive. Like it was watching her.
Thistle didn't flinch. "Of course it hasn't. You weren't connected to your magic." Thistle's wings slowed, and for the first time, she seemed genuinely uneasy. Her voice dropped to a near whisper.
"I'd keep that hidden if I were you. There are those in Vireth who'd kill for less. And some of them might already be watching." Thistle's wings froze mid-flicker, and her gaze darted briefly toward the door. When she spoke, her voice was quieter but laced with urgency. "That mark isn't just a beacon—it's a flag. Keep it hidden, or you'll find out how quickly this realm can turn on you."
She turned to Dryanden. "She has no idea what she's capable of, does she?"
"She doesn't need to," Dryanden replied sharply. "Not yet." His crimson eyes flicked to the mark on Rowen's wrist, his expression unreadable. But there was a faint tension in his jaw—a fleeting crack in his calm exterior.
Rowen glared at him. "I'm standing right here, you know. Maybe try not making decisions about me without including me in the conversation?"
Thistle chuckled. "Oh, she's fun. This is going to be entertaining."
Dryanden's voice was icy. "Thistle."
"All right, all right. Let's get her out of those ridiculous clothes before she draws every predator in Vireth to my doorstep."
Rowen bristled. "Excuse me?"
Thistle ignored her, already rifling through a rack of fabric that seemed to hum faintly under her touch. Her wings fluttered once, a movement so quick it sent a soft breeze rippling through the shop. "Something protective, of course. And flattering. Can't have you wandering around looking like a lost tourist. Let me see…"
As Thistle worked, Rowen glanced at Dryanden. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Do you two always talk to each other like that?" she asked.
"Like what?" he replied without looking at her.
"Like you're seconds away from a fistfight."
Thistle snorted. "Oh, please. If I wanted to fight him, he wouldn't stand a chance."
Dryanden smirked faintly. "You'd trip over your own arrogance before landing a blow."
Thistle shot him a glare. "And you'd sulk for a century when you lost."
Rowen blinked, caught off guard by the banter. Despite their sharp words, there was an odd rhythm to their exchanges—a familiarity that spoke of long history, even if they seemed determined to irritate each other.
Her wings gave another brief flicker, sending the edges of the fabric fluttering as if it were alive. "Here, start with these,"
Rowen sighed, what have I gotten myself into?
"And hurry—I don't have all night." Thistle continued, thrusting a soft bundle of fabric into Rowen's arms. It included a white chemise with delicate lace trim and a pair of matching bloomers. "You'll need proper undergarments before we get to the fun part."
"Undergarments?" Rowen raised an eyebrow, holding them up. "What am I, a character in a historical drama?"
Thistle's golden eyes sparkled mischievously. "Darling, comfort and charm are timeless. Besides, you'll thank me the first time you face a drafty wind in Vireth."
Rowen opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. Muttering under her breath, she placed her backpack to the side as she disappeared behind a folding screen.
The chemise was surprisingly soft against her skin, the fabric light but warm. The bloomers fit perfectly, their loose cut allowing her to move comfortably while still feeling secure.
"Okay, not terrible," Rowen admitted aloud as she emerged from behind the screen, the white chemise and bloomers catching the light.
"Of course not," Thistle said smugly. "I'm a genius. Now, for the main event."
She handed Rowen a deep forest-green dress, its corseted bodice adorned with silver embroidery that shimmered faintly. The skirt was long and flowing, with layers that gave it a sense of movement even when still.
Rowen held it up skeptically. "And this is supposed to be practical?"
"It's enchanted," Thistle said, waving off her concern. "The fabric won't snag, tear, or stain, no matter what you put it through. Now, put it on!"
Sighing, Rowen slipped the dress over her head, careful not to crush the flowing fabric. It settled into place like it had been made for her, the skirt swishing elegantly around her legs. The bodice, however, was loose, its corset strings dangling down her back.
"Uh, I think something's missing," Rowen said, glancing over her shoulder.
"Turn around," Thistle commanded, fluttering over with a wicked grin.
Rowen obeyed hesitantly, gripping the edge of a nearby table for balance as Thistle grabbed the strings.
"Let's see what we've got here," Thistle murmured, pulling the laces taut with a practiced hand.
Rowen gasped as the bodice tightened. "How… do people breathe in these things?"
"Breathing is overrated," Thistle quipped, tugging sharply at the strings. "Besides, you look stunning, and that's what matters."
Rowen was about to shoot back a reply when Thistle fluttered down to the ground and planted a foot against her back. She yelped as Thistle yanked the laces with enough force to make Rowen's breath catch.
The corset tightened mercilessly, and Rowen felt her ribs protest. "How do people survive in these?" she gasped.
"Nonsense," Thistle replied breezily. "You'll look spectacular." She gave one final, triumphant tug, stepping back with a satisfied grin. "There we go."
Rowen sagged against the table, trying to find enough air to glare at her tormentor. "Great. I'll look amazing while suffocating."
Thistle fluttered up to inspect her work, tilting her head. "Oh, stop being dramatic. If you keel over, at least you'll do it with impeccable posture."
Rowen groaned. "You're a menace."
Thistle grinned wickedly, folding her arms. "I prefer perfectionist."
Rowen glanced down at herself, running her hands over the fitted bodice and flowing skirt. Despite her initial complaints, she had to admit she looked… good.
"It's… fine," she said reluctantly. "But I'm going to need more than a pretty dress if we're up against giant shadow wolves."
"Obviously," Thistle said, already moving to a nearby rack. She handed Rowen a pair of sturdy leather boots adorned with faintly glowing runes. "These will keep your feet safe and your steps silent. Put them on."
Rowen tugged them on, stomping experimentally. They fit perfectly, hugging her feet without pinching.
"Silent, huh?" she muttered, taking a tentative step across the room. The soles barely made a sound against the stone floor, even when she pressed her weight down. Surprised, she took another step, this time deliberately exaggerating the motion. Still nothing.
"Not bad," she admitted, glancing down at the faintly glowing runes.
"Not bad?" Thistle huffed, hands on her hips. "Those boots are enchanted by one of the finest spellweavers in the realms. You could tiptoe past a dragon with those, and it wouldn't hear a thing."
Rowen arched an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across her face. "Okay, I'm impressed."
"As you should be," Thistle said smugly, flitting up to adjust a fold of the dress. "Try not to waste them stomping around like a drunk ogre."
Rowen rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her fascination. "Fine. Silent steps, magic runes. What's next? Wings?"
"Don't tempt me," Thistle quipped, her grin sharp. With a dramatic flourish, she pulled a dark green cloak from another rack. The edges were embroidered with silver runes that rippled like water, and it shimmered faintly in the light.
"This," Thistle said, draping the cloak over Rowen's shoulders, "is your final layer. Enchanted for deflecting minor attacks and blending into your surroundings. Practical and stylish."
Rowen adjusted the clasp, feeling the cloak settle into place like a second skin. A strange warmth spread through her, making her feel oddly secure.
"Okay, this is… kind of cool," Rowen admitted, turning to see the fabric swish behind her.
"Kind of cool?" Thistle echoed with mock offense. "It's a masterpiece!"
Before Rowen could respond, Thistle moved to a large chest in the corner of the shop. With a flourish, she opened it to reveal a neatly packed array of garments, each glowing faintly with magical enchantments.
"This," Thistle said, pulling out the chest, "is your wardrobe. Dresses, cloaks, armor—all enchanted for different purposes. Consider it your survival kit."
Rowen blinked at the chest. "That's… a lot."
"Which is why it's enchanted to shrink," Thistle said with a grin. She tapped the chest, and it folded in on itself until it was no larger than a jewelry box.
She handed it to Rowen with a faint smirk. "Now you try."
Rowen hesitated, glancing down at her wrist. The crescent mark pulsed faintly, and she felt a tug deep in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the trunk, picturing it growing. A soft hum filled the air, and the trunk expanded back to its full size.
"Most beginners can't control it so soon," Thistle muttered, her wings flickering in thought. "Let's hope that's a gift and not a curse." Thistle plucked Rowens backpack from the floor, looking it over with disdain placing it in the trunk.
"Not bad," Thistle said. "Now shrink it again."
Rowen repeated the process, her birthmark glowing faintly throughout. Once the trunk was small again, she tucked it into the pouch on her belt.
"Well done," Thistle said, her wings flickering in satisfaction. "You're officially less useless."
"Thanks, I think," Rowen muttered, fastening the pouch.
Dryanden, who had been watching silently, finally spoke. "Are we done?"
"Yes, yes," Thistle said, waving him off. "Take her before she breaks something."
Dryanden's gaze lingered on Rowen for a moment longer than necessary, a faint shadow crossing his face. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't share it. "Let's move."
Rowen shot her a look, but before she could respond, Dryanden was already heading for the door.
Rowen sighed, following Dryanden out into the night. The whispers of the village still clung to her, and the glowing crescent on her wrist felt warmer than before, as though it were alive.
"Good luck, darling!" Thistle called after her, her voice dripping with amusement. "You're going to need it."
The shop door shut behind her with a hollow thud, and Rowen shivered despite the warmth of the cloak. For a moment, she thought she felt the crescent on her wrist pulse again, like it was responding to Thistle's words.
She glanced at Dryanden, his silhouette sharp against the faint light of the village. The unease in her chest twisted tighter.
"I don't doubt her," she muttered, gripping the edges of the cloak as though it could protect her from whatever waited in the dark.
As they walked deeper into the village, the whispers seemed to follow, their unintelligible murmur curling like smoke in Rowen's ears. She glanced at Dryanden, hoping for reassurance, but his expression was harder to read than ever. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, his steps quickening as though he, too, could feel the weight of unseen eyes.
Rowen tugged the cloak tighter around her shoulders, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill creeping into her chest. Thistle's words echoed in her mind, each one a pebble in a growing avalanche of dread. She glanced at Dryanden's silhouette, his movements sharp and deliberate.
What wasn't he telling her? And more importantly, how much could she afford to trust him? If he knew what the crescent mark truly meant, would he even tell her?