I should have fought harder.
It's the first thought that hits me as I stand there, frozen in the dust, watching them take my sister.
Fayne. My little sister. Only ten years old, with eyes so full of innocence they could blind you with their purity. And now, she was being dragged away, bound and silent, towards a fate that I couldn't even begin to fathom.
The Royal Guards of the West marched in, their heavy boots shaking the earth beneath them. They were no different from any other soldiers—tall, menacing, with dark cloaks that billowed like a storm at their backs. But there was something about their presence today that made my stomach churn. Something colder than usual, as if they could feel the weight of what they were about to do.
The crowd stood in silence. They didn't dare speak a word. They all knew what was happening, and none of them would stop it.
I watched as the procession moved forward, my heart pounding.
The annual sacrifice.
A tradition that made no sense to me, but one that the West Kingdom upheld without question. Every year, a child, a girl—always a girl—was chosen to be offered to the gods. And in return, the gods would ensure that the seasons changed, that the crops grew, that the sun rose each day. But I couldn't understand why it had to be her.
Fayne didn't deserve this.
The gods, whoever they were, didn't deserve her.
I took a step forward, then another. "Fayne!" My voice cracked with the desperation building inside me, but the soldiers didn't even glance at me.
"Freya," my mother's voice was a whisper, but it felt like a scream. "Come back." Her hand grasped my arm, pulling me back, but I wrenched it away.
"I'm not leaving her."
I couldn't let this happen. I couldn't let them take her and do... whatever they were going to do to her.
The guards reached the edge of the clearing, where the sacred altar stood—an ancient stone structure, weathered by time and yet untouched by the decay of the earth around it. I knew what would happen next.
A prayer. A chant.
And then, the gods would claim her.
But I wouldn't let them. Not this time. I'd already lost too much, and I wasn't about to lose my sister.
I turned and ran.
I didn't even care that my mother screamed after me. I didn't care that I was supposed to stay here, to watch like everyone else, helpless. My sister needed me, and I would never forgive myself if I didn't try to save her.
The guards began to move, but not fast enough. I reached the edge of the clearing, breathless and trembling, and then I spotted it—their wagon.
The wagon that would carry her away.
"No!" I shouted again, my voice breaking. I didn't stop. I couldn't. My legs moved faster than my mind could process.
But then, just as I reached the wagon, something strange happened. The air itself seemed to shift.
The wagon... it rose.
The wheels lifted off the ground as if it was weightless, the wooden structure tilting slightly to the side as it began to ascend. A low hum vibrated from within the carriage, and for a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But it wasn't. The wagon flew higher, above the heads of the villagers, the guards, and me.
My heart stopped.
It wasn't just a wagon anymore. It was a vessel, a thing of magic that rose toward the sky.
And then, as quickly as it had lifted, it was gone. Into the clouds. The fading trail of dust and wind was all that remained.
"No!" I screamed, but it was too late. She was gone.
Fayne was gone.
I sank to my knees, my body heavy with the weight of failure. My hands trembled as I pressed them into the ground, the dry earth clinging to my fingertips. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
I had failed her.
I had promised her I would protect her, that I would never let anything bad happen to her. But here I was, watching her disappear into the sky, unable to stop it.
A scream ripped from my throat, raw and full of grief. But there was no one left to hear it. No one who could bring her back.
***
The word rings through my mind as I snap awake, gasping for air. Sweat clings to my skin as my chest rises and falls with each ragged breath.
The nightmare—the memory—plays out in my mind, vivid and cruel. Fayne's face, pale and innocent, her small form disappearing into the sky, beyond my reach. The cold, unfeeling procession as they took her from me, just like they did five years ago.
It feels like I can still hear her cry out for me, even though I know she never did.
I roll over, my hands pressing into the sheets as if trying to hold onto something, anything that can pull me from the nightmare. The dark shadows of my room are oppressive, the silence suffocating. But no matter how many times I wake up from this nightmare, the pain is always there, gnawing at me, pulling me under.
Fayne would have been fifteen now. A young woman, not the child I still remember her as.
And she's still out there. Somewhere.
The only thing that keeps me from falling back into the despair is the knowledge that I'm no longer the helpless girl I was back then. I'm not waiting anymore. I'm doing something.
I'm going to find her.
The silence in the cottage is suffocating.
I sit on the edge of the small, rickety bed I've called mine for as long as I can remember, letting the faint morning light stream through the cracked shutters. It illuminates the empty, lifeless space I now inhabit.
The air feels colder these days. Not because of the seasons, but because of the absence.
I stand, dragging my weary body toward the living room. The old wooden floor groans beneath my bare feet, the sound breaking the otherwise dead silence.
The room looks the same as it always has—simple, modest, unremarkable—but it feels different now. My eyes wander to the empty rocking chair by the hearth, where Mother used to sit. She was always there, rocking back and forth, her hands busy weaving or mending something, her lips murmuring prayers to the gods who took everything from us.
I hate that chair now.
I hate the way it sits there, as if she might return at any moment, even though I know she never will.
She's been gone for a year. A fever took her, stealing what little strength she had left. I remember holding her frail hand as her breathing slowed, her face pale and sunken. She whispered Fayne's name as she took her last breath.
What would Fayne think if she knew? I wonder, my chest tightening. Would she blame me for letting her go? For not fighting harder?
I swallow the lump in my throat and look away, unwilling to dwell on the familiar ache of guilt that comes with every thought of my sister. Fayne wouldn't even recognize this place anymore. It's nothing but an empty shell now, a hollow reminder of what we've lost.
I turn toward the small mirror that hangs crookedly on the wall by the doorway. The glass is cracked in the corner, but it still reflects enough of me to remind me who I am—or who I've become.
I pull my hair up into a ponytail, my fingers working through the tangles. The strands are dark brown, a deep, earthy color that Mother used to say reminded her of the woods surrounding our home. My face, though thinner than it was years ago, still bears the same sharp features—high cheekbones and a stubborn chin.
But it's my eyes that always catch me off guard.
Deep blue, like the sky just before a storm, staring back at me. They don't look like Mother's or Fayne's, or even Father's. They're uniquely mine, and sometimes I wonder if that's a blessing or a curse.
With my hair pulled back, I look older. Tired. Determined, maybe, but also worn down.
I run a finger over the edge of the mirror's frame, my gaze distant. This life I've carved out for myself, this solitary existence in the middle of nowhere—it isn't what I wanted. It isn't what I chose.
But it's all I have.
And for now, it has to be enough.
I step outside the cottage, the crisp morning air biting at my skin. The woods surround me, their towering trees stretching endlessly toward the sky. The smell of earth and pine fills my lungs as I take a deep breath, letting the silence settle over me.
This place has been my world for as long as I can remember. The woods are both a sanctuary and a prison, enclosing me in their endless expanse of green. I've learned to survive here, though it's never been easy.
The trees are ancient, their roots tangled and gnarled, weaving through the forest floor like veins. The sunlight filters through the canopy above, dappling the ground with patches of light and shadow. To most, the woods might seem foreboding, but to me, they're familiar—every path, every clearing, every whisper of the wind feels like home.
I follow the narrow trail that winds through the trees, my boots crunching against fallen leaves and twigs. The sound is a comfort, grounding me in the moment. It reminds me of the many mornings I've spent walking this same path, heading to the lake or tending to my small garden.
The lake comes into view as I crest a small hill. Its surface glimmers under the morning light, calm and unbroken except for the occasional ripple from the breeze. I've spent countless hours here, crouched at the water's edge with a fishing spear in hand, waiting for the flash of silver beneath the surface.
Fishing is one of the few skills I've mastered over the years. It has to be—there's no one else to provide for me. When I'm not fishing, I'm in the small patch of earth I've claimed as my garden, planting and tending to rows of sweet potatoes. They're hardy and forgiving, even in the rocky soil of the woods.
It's a simple life, built on necessity rather than choice.
I glance toward the horizon, where the sun is just beginning to rise above the treetops, casting everything in hues of gold and orange. The sight is beautiful, but I can't bring myself to feel anything but exhaustion.
For five years, I've managed to survive without Father. He disappeared one winter night, leaving nothing behind but his axe leaning against the front door. I searched for him at first, scouring the woods for any trace of him. But eventually, I stopped. Whether he was taken by the gods, lost to the forest, or simply chose to leave, I don't know. And I've stopped asking.
I turn back toward the cottage, a small, weathered thing nestled between the trees. It's held together by sheer will at this point, with patches of the roof missing and the door barely hanging on its hinges.
Twenty years of life, and I've spent nearly all of them fighting to survive. The gods haven't made it easy, and neither has fate. Some nights, I lie awake wondering if there's more to this life than just scraping by. But most mornings, I wake up, push those thoughts aside, and do what I need to do to survive another day.
And today is no different.
I head toward the garden, my boots kicking up dirt as I walk. There's work to be done, and I can't afford to waste time feeling sorry for myself.