Alve was left alone with her uncle’s apothecary book. Scholar Palk had taken her brother and the Skiethalon apprentices to the school’s herb garden. Housing many of the kingdom’s greenery, the nursery was a store of vast seeds and saplings from all over Entherah. Alve may have drooled to see such earthy verdure but it was lay time to read her gift and avoid drowning in a sea of itch. The princess had then hidden in her study chamber, the young scholar had not required her presence, so she had the whole afternoon to herself. To her relief, the guards kept away from the chamber. Syvan and Aaphon had announced their patrol by the hallway, the slight tension she felt from the two were odd.

Alve was flipping pages of dried leaves and petals when a child’s voice crooned, “are you not going to read? He was a very good writer.”

Her hand stilled as the hair on them rose. Alve’s eyes went in search of the whisper’s owner. When she only saw the cold books stacked in the shelves and the melting winter wind singing the arcs of the circular terrace, Alve caught her breath. She wanted to call for the guards but the new buzzing echoing the corners of the study froze her throat. People were gossiping. People she could not see.

“You’re scaring her,” the same child disrupted the cacophony and all at once, the whispers disappeared. But his familiar cold babble remained. “Sorry about that, the dead can hardly stop talking when they can be heard.”

Alve did not reply. She couldn’t. Fear had settled in and despite the ghost’s assurance, her hand shook atop the table’s surface, the apothecary book forgotten, opened to the sketch of a daima flower. Alve’s vision stared at an empty air.

“Ah, you had found father’s greatest treasure,” the voice happily said, a barreling gust amongst the currents from the balcony. “It really helped when your mother was giving birth. Kept you and her alive, really.”

Anything about her mother was a treasure to her chest. Excitement broke the blanch of her trance. “My—my mother? You knew her?” she stemmed, relenting a glimpse to the rough drawn outline of the flower. It had been the first plant she had wanted to read about. Her uncle wrote…

Found mostly on the dark and hidden sanctuaries of the fae folk, the daima grows for the fae but aid to the humans. In thanks to my services, Princess Wilremma had graciously offered it. The dragoness had not thought of its rarity however, she foretold a vision for a future she will not be present and had brought me dread.

“Selfishness has brought this war upon us and is by giving, it will be restored. I give to you this, Prince Scholar, for it will be stepping stones to the rise of Krugan again.”

“Father could never stop Krugan from falling. Even with uncle Arleous and Dabhga’s union of strength and devotion, the greed still lurks the shadows and his power searches for restless spirits and of the divine.” The child communicated the strand of his disappearing presence, Alve could tell.

“Who,” she spurred. “Who were you?” her question, a droplet in the watery lonely alcove.

Moments passed when Alve thought the ghost child could ever reply, he had after all lacked the ear to her mother’s confused story.

His tone however, somewhat a mirror to now her own miniscule voice replied, “Mother had called me Alvenrade. Taken to had kept you safe, chained to you so I can change. Worry not cousin, for you will never be alone.”

The afternoon warmth crippled in return to her limbs. She had spoken to a ghost, she thought. Now, if only she could see them and draw them, maybe her brother would believe. Her mind in the end wondered to the lost cousin. The other horrible ghosts were gone as he had promised, the protection made her grin.

Alve read the whole hours into noon, Lady Oria now a rising peace in the east of her towering building. The shadows of the coming night were creeping upon the arcs but Alve had hardly noticed the growing dim. She jolted when the knock on the door heeded her to stop at a particular tea leaf, for headaches and the lack of sleep. She could barely read them anyway, so she stood and carried the book to the door. A grumble from her belly announced the up coming dinner.

“Coming.” She had barely reached the ancient egress when both of its wings opened inward to a figure clad in the dark. Alve blinked and questions flooded her head when she saw the heavily armored azure guards lay slump on the hallway. A rusty odor wafted to her nose but the dark figure barely gave her time to consider it before their hand clasped her mouth. Alve did not discern their speed but their strong large hand had cusp almost every inch of her face. The sweet smell was the last thinking she deemed attention before fading into the void.

There were moments. Visions. Smells. Words that had ran like Lord Tron’s storms the sooner Alve returned to the dark empty space.

“Bring her with the lot.” The same dark shade, the man was speaking to a much shorter boy.

“But she is not fae.” The younger man replied but the stench of manure compelled Alve to realize she was on stone cold floor.

“Green eyes speak enough.”

“Poor little petal.” A soft female voice pitied someone.

The banging of wood cut her short followed by, “Shut up! If any of you make any noise, I’ll kill one of your brats.”

“Halt! What do you have there?”

“Cheron, got good supply for the Liege Lord Resrive,” the boy replied from outside?

“Show us.”

And there was snuffling. Alve hungered to breath when warm and an abhorrent smell clenched her insides. She wanted heave but couldn’t as her body decline her wishes. Her body felt heavy. Her head ached and dizziness was right around the corner as she opened her eyes. Itches screamed at each inch of her skin but the beautiful bedraggled woman that had slowly rose to her vision made her forget everything.

“Ah, its good to see you awake earth ear.”