The cottage stood deep in the Eastern Forest, blanketed in ivy and whispers. Wind wound through the gnarled trees like ancient hymns, and moonlight trickled through moss-covered windows.
The guards had long returned to the castle, their orders fulfilled.
Elira stood alone beneath the threshold.
No palace walls.
No attendants.
No throne.
Just silence — thick and alive — broken only by the occasional creak of wood and the far-off hoot of an owl.
She stepped inside.
The interior smelled of cedar and herbs. A stone fireplace sat dark but inviting. A carved wooden table bore a faded map of the kingdom. And beside the hearth, an old woven blanket waited on a rocking chair like someone had only just left it.
The king's grandmother had lived here once — a reclusive woman rumored to be a mystic.
Elira ran her fingers along the old oak mantle. Her hands no longer trembled.
She had nothing now.
No kingdom. No title.
But the ring on her finger still pulsed faintly — and inside her, a new heartbeat stirred.
---
The First Signs
Three weeks passed in stillness.
Elira lived off dried fruits and fresh herbs from the woods. She gathered rainwater. Cooked simple stews. Read old spell-books she found hidden in trapdoors under floorboards — books that hummed in her hands as if they remembered her.
Then came the sickness.
Morning after morning, she'd rise dizzy and nauseous. Her appetite changed. Her emotions flared without warning.
At first, she thought it was grief taking physical form.
Until one evening, as she stood barefoot in the clearing, she pressed a hand to her belly.
> A warmth.
> A flutter.
> A second heartbeat.
Her breath caught. Tears welled.
"I'm not alone," she whispered to the forest. "I'm not… alone."
---
The Dreams Return
With the discovery of her pregnancy, her magic stirred like an ancient beast waking.
At night, dreams flooded her — not from her mind, but from others.
> She saw the throne room.
She saw Theron, seated but hollow-eyed, signing decrees with hands that shook.
She saw Sarith whispering into the ears of nobles.
She saw Malina poisoning hearts at court, dropping venom-laced stories into the ears of visiting envoys.
And she saw… fire.
Flames licking at the city gates.
An army. Unknown. Ruthless.
Elira bolted upright, heart racing.
The baby stirred inside her, restless with the same fear.
They were in danger.
Even in exile, she was still connected to the kingdom.
And it needed her.
---
The Letter She Never Sent
She sat by candlelight the next morning, parchment before her.
> "My king,
I carry your son."
The ink stained her fingers.
> "I know you sent me away not from betrayal, but from mercy."
Her breath hitched.
> "But the time is coming when mercy will not be enough."
She paused, fingers trembling.
> "He grows stronger each day. So do I.
Tell the people what I truly am. Let them decide if their salvation is worth the price of pride."
But she never sent the letter.
Instead, she tucked it under the floorboard where the spell-books lay, and turned to the window, watching the crows gather in the trees.
Omen birds.
Messengers.
Something was coming.
And when it did — exile or not — she would be ready.
The days passed in a strange, serene rhythm. Elira no longer kept time by sun or moon, but by the whispers of the forest and the movement of the life growing inside her.
She began to speak aloud to her unborn child.
"When you arrive," she said softly one afternoon while crouched beside a stream, "you'll never know the throne rooms, the silks, or the golden halls your father built. But I promise, you'll know truth. You'll know magic."
She traced her fingers over the water's surface. The stream stilled — perfectly, unnaturally.
With a thought, she raised it in a spiral from the brook, suspended midair like a silver ribbon. Her child kicked softly within her.
"You felt that," she murmured, smiling. "You're strong too."
The cottage had become a womb of its own — not just for her son, but for her power. Every night, she dreamwalked. Every morning, her truthseeing eyes caught glimpses of the world beyond her sanctuary.
And though she tried to ignore it, one recurring dream haunted her:
> The kingdom on fire.
Children screaming.
The royal crest burning.
The king… wounded. On his knees. Calling her name.
Every time she awoke, her pulse thundered with urgency.
But she could not return.
Not yet.
---
The Forest's Guardian
It was on the twenty-third day of her sixth month in hiding that she met him.
The creature.
No— not a creature.
A guardian.
He stood at the edge of the woods, tall and cloaked in bark-like armor, with antlers sprouting from his skull like ancient branches. His eyes glowed green, wild and sentient.
Elira had just stepped outside when she saw him standing beneath the old ash tree, watching her in absolute silence.
"Who are you?" she asked, not with fear, but with power crackling at her fingertips.
His voice echoed like rustling leaves. "You do not belong to the kingdom anymore, Queen. You belong to the forest now."
Her hand lowered. "Then why are you watching me?"
"Because you carry the child who will one day break a kingdom's curse."
Elira's breath caught. "Curse?"
He stepped closer, the ground sprouting moss where he moved. "The throne has long been bound by blood and betrayal. Your son will carry both in his veins — but also truth."
He leaned in.
"You must survive, Elira of the Mindbound Line. The child must be born."
Then — as suddenly as he appeared — he vanished into the woods, leaving nothing but a swirl of pollen in the air.
Elira placed her hand on her belly, and for the first time since exile… she felt awe, not sorrow.
---
The Spell of Sanctuary
That night, she crafted the spell.
Her magic had always been subtle — mental, psychic, hidden. But now, she dared to weave something greater.
From the ancient texts beneath the floor, she stitched together a spell of sanctuary. A protective dome of psychic silence that would mask her and her unborn son from scryers, dreamwalkers, and seekers.
She burned silverleaf, crushed memory blossoms, and carved old runes into the walls.
When she was finished, the air shimmered faintly around the cottage — and all who looked for her would see nothing but empty forest.
She sat back, exhausted, the baby kicking gently as if in approval.
"You are safe now," she whispered to her womb.
But the dreams told her safety wouldn't last forever.
She would have to face them again — the two wives who tried to destroy her. The people who once adored her, now turned hostile. Even the king, who had loved her more than life but still sent her away.
And she would — when the time came.
But not yet.
First, she would give birth.
First, she would survive.
On the eve of the seventh moon since her exile, the winds changed.
Elira stood barefoot at the edge of the stream behind the cottage when she sensed it—like a tremor in the magical current beneath the world. A storm was coming, not of rain, but of steel and fire.
And death.
She closed her eyes, reaching through her truthseeing. Threads of fate pulled into view—thick, tangled cords of destiny twisting violently toward a single point.
The kingdom.
A siege.
War.
Her hands clenched. She tried to turn away, to shut the vision out for the sake of her unborn child. But her magic screamed. Her womb seemed to pull forward with the weight of knowing.
> The city walls were cracked.
The towers burned red.
The king's banner—torn in half.
And blood on the marble floor of the throne room.
Elira gasped as the vision ended, falling to her knees. Her hands braced her belly, and for the first time since her banishment… she sobbed.
> "They're dying… my people are dying."
---
The Fire Within
Night fell heavy over the forest, the sky veiled in a bruised purple hue. Thunder growled across the horizon.
Inside the cottage, Elira lit every candle she owned. The light flickered on the walls where protective runes still shimmered faintly from her sanctuary spell.
But tonight, she wouldn't hide.
She knelt on the floor and placed her palms against the wood.
"Spirits of my bloodline," she whispered, "I summon you now."
The wind outside died instantly. Silence wrapped the cabin.
Then, a soft glow spilled over the runes as they activated. And before her eyes, four ghostly figures appeared — women from her lineage, each cloaked in silvery veils and bearing the same knowing eyes.
One stepped forward. "Daughter of power. Do you accept what you were born to do?"
Elira lifted her chin, tears drying on her cheeks. "I do."
Another ghost spoke. "Even if it means returning to the place that betrayed you?"
"I'll return… not for vengeance. But to protect."
The spirits circled her then, weaving a thread of light around her swollen belly.
"He shall be born in light," the first ancestor said, "but only after the dark has passed."
"Then I will stop the dark," Elira vowed, and her magic surged so strongly the candles all blew out at once.
---
Preparations of a Queen
The next morning, Elira packed only what she needed: dried herbs, a knife carved with ancestral sigils, two vials of dreamroot sap, and a silver ring bearing the crest of her family—the Mindbound Sigil.
She stood before the cracked mirror, tying her curls with a strand of black ribbon. She looked different now. Stronger. Her eyes clearer. Her stomach round with life and defiance.
"I am no longer just a queen," she murmured. "I am prophecy."
The cottage door creaked as she opened it.
Birds fell silent.
The forest hushed.
And then… a path unfolded before her.
A literal path—carved by roots and stone and fate itself, twisting toward the edge of the kingdom.
The forest remembered her.
And it would guide her home.