The air outside the manor carried the crisp bite of late autumn, and Caelen welcomed it with a slight grin as he stepped past the threshold. His new boots bit into the gravel with that satisfying crunch, the hobnails sparking faintly in the low light. On either side of him, Pit and Tiberan matched his pace—neither crowding him nor offering an arm unless asked.

  “You walk only a little faster than an old goat on a steep slope,” Tiberan teased, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

  “Old goat… still… faster… than you,” Caelen shot back, breathing heavier than he liked. His voice was clipped, but his smirk carried the point home.

  Pit chuckled. “Don’t start on him, Tib. He’s been walking for—what?— weeks? You try it after sitting in a chair for almost a year.”

  Caelen slowed to rest against a low stone wall. “Four… weeks. Still… faster… than Tib.”

  Tiberan made an exaggerated show of looking wounded, clutching his chest. “You wound me. Deeply. I’ll have to lie down in the road now.”

  “You’re both ridiculous,” Pit said, though he was grinning.

  They moved on, the three of them tossing light jabs back and forth. Even when Caelen had to stop again, the pauses didn’t dampen the mood.

  High in the manor, Lady Seraphine stood at the parlor window, a book forgotten in her hands. Her gaze followed the trio along the path, each step her son took striking her with equal parts pride and ache. There was something steady about his gait, something determined. She told herself it was the cold air that made her eyes sting.

  Inside, the manor was humming. Servants bustled through the corridors, arms full of linens and silver polish. In the dining hall, Garron, the butler, was directing the placement of the long table, while footmen adjusted chairs and unfolded banners of deep blue and black.

  “Not a single cousin or baron invited?” one scullery maid whispered to another as they passed with trays of candles.

  “Not a one,” the other replied. “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Strange, but… peaceful,” the first said, grinning.

  In the kitchens, the true contest of the day was fully engaged. Marla, the head cook, stood at the center like a general on campaign, wooden spoon in hand, hair tied up in a bright cloth to keep it out of the dishes. Her apprentices worked around her in a blur, chopping, peeling, kneading.

  “All of you listen to me,” she said, waving the spoon like a general's baton. “The young master may have impressed everyone with that apricot pork, but I’ll be damned if I let him think the kitchens have grown complacent. We will give them a meal to remember.”

  On a nearby board, she’d already scrawled the draft of the menu:

  Pork Loin in Honeyed Mustard Glaze

  Braised Lamb with New Winter Root Vegetables

  Stuffed Game Hens

  Whole Roasted Onion Soup

  Herb-Butter New Potatoes

  Spiced Apple Relish

  Pear and Almond Tart

  Winter Spice Cake

  One of the kitchen boys piped up, “Will there be pie?”

  “There will always be pie,” Marla said firmly, “or, as Lisette declared, this house will fall.”

  Marla tapped her chin as she considered the spread. “We’ll need more cream… and more chestnuts. And have one of you run to the cellar—bring me the small keg of cider, the one for the holiday feast. If we’re to compete with that boy’s apricot pork, we’ll need to pull out every trick we have.”

  Amid this flurry, the kitchen smelled of roasted fat, warming spices, yeast, and woodsmoke—an aroma that carried into the hallways and made passing servants pause to breathe it in.

  In the servants’ quarters, Garron made the rounds, speaking to every group he passed. “In the coming months, we’ll have nobles, lords, and merchants coming to the manor,” he said in that deep, measured tone. “We will maintain the highest standard, and we will be ready.”

  The air in the house was alive with expectation. Everyone knew change was coming.

  On the western garden terrace, Lisette and Aldric leaned against the balustrade, watching the sun fade into the hills.

  “I already know what I’m giving him,” Aldric said, arms crossed. “I have it arranged for months.”

  Lisette’s head snapped toward him. “You what?!”

  “Surprised? I’m prepared. Unlike someone.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You could at least help me think of something.”

  “You could give him slippers, like he gave you,” Aldric said casually, “or a handkerchief.”

  Lisette’s cheeks flushed. “Slippers? The slippers he gave me were special, Aldric. I could never match those.” She declared, knowing that they had kept the secret of the artifact from everyone, even Father and Aldric.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Aldric blinked. “Just ask the butler for something?”

  She groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re useless. A completely useless brother.”

  “Not my problem,” Aldric said with the infuriating shrug Lisette could not stand.

  Lisette stepped closer, pointing a finger at him. “If you don’t help me, I will freeze your bathwater. Or your socks. No, both!”

  He laughed. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll ask someone better.”

  Aldric arched a brow. “Someone better? Now that I’d like to see.”

  But she was already walking away, muttering about brothers, gifts, and how infuriating both could be.

  …

  The manor hummed with life. In every corridor, the warmth of preparation spread like a gentle tide—polished silver catching the light, bright fabrics laid over tables, and garlands of harvest treasures adorned the halls. The aromas from the battle in the kitchen of roasting meat and fresh baking bread wafted in the air, mingling with the laughter of servants as they exchanged small jokes while working.

  Down in the great hall, Garron strode the length of the table, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, eyes assessing every detail. A pair of maids stood on stools to adjust the banners, while a footman knelt to secure fresh rushes under the table’s legs.

  The air was bright with anticipation—some of it for the birthday feast, some for the months ahead. Though no guests beyond the household would come, there was a festive spark in the air as though the manor itself wished to celebrate.

  …

  Far from Avalon, up the valley in the town of Hollow March, in a candlelit dining room of a wealthy peat merchant, the warmth was of a different kind—thicker, heavier, carrying the faint musk of damp earth and burning peat bricks in the hearth. The merchant’s table was long and solid, laid with roasted fowl, boiled roots, and thick dark bread. Around it sat his family, his guests, and one man whose presence seemed to leech a little of the fire’s comfort.

  The White-Eyed Visitor sat among them, his pale gaze steady and unnerving even in the gentle light. He listened without interruption as the merchant spoke of mundane things—the thaw in the southern bogs, the price of wool in the city markets, the recent repairs to the eastern road.

  The merchant’s wife served another ladle of gravy over his plate. “You’re quiet, sir. Is the food not to your liking?”

  “It is satisfactory,” the visitor replied, his voice smooth but cool, as if measuring each word.

  A companion of the white eyed man, seated two chairs away, cleared his throat and smiled thinly. “Tell me, good merchant, has Lord Eldric invited his kin to his son’s birthday feast?”

  The merchant chuckled, waving a hand. “Oh, no. Not this year. It’s been an odd one, you see. First, none were invited to the young lady’s birthday—that was understandable, given the safety concerns and other issues that arose from the blessing of affinity awakening. And now, no one’s invited to the middle boy’s birthday either. Likely the same reason. A private affair.”

  There was no venom in his words—only the idle candor of a man who liked to talk while eating. But across the table, the White-Eyed Visitor’s gaze sharpened like a knife point. He did not speak, but the rhythm of his chewing slowed until it stopped altogether.

  So, Private celebrations. Twice. For the children. He weighed the information like a merchant might weigh gold. Such privacy often meant caution, and such caution often meant… something worth hiding.

  The rest of the meal passed in polite murmurs, the clink of cutlery, and the low hum of conversation. The visitor barely tasted what was placed before him.

  When the meal was done, the merchant rose to offer a cordial farewell. The White-Eyed Visitor stepped out into the cold air, his boots crunching on the cold ground, his cloak pulled close against the wind. His men, who entered the town, waited by the carriage and horses, their posture telling of discipline, their gear well-worn but cared for. The smell of oiled leather and steel lingered about them.

  The leader did not raise his voice. “Change of plans,” he said, pale eyes flicking from man to man. “We leave now. Meet up with the men outside. We make for the manor at all speed.”

  There was no hesitation. Saddles creaked, reins tightened, and in the pale moonlight, the dark shapes of armed riders began to melt into the night, heading toward Avalon.

  …

  Lissette lay sprawled across her bed, her face buried deep in the pillow, muffled sniffles betraying her. Her hair was a mess, her cheeks blotchy from tears. She didn’t care—she was drowning in the same looping thought: I don’t know what to give him.

  Her brother’s birthday was so close. And she—Lissette Avalon, who could usually talk her way into or out of anything—was empty of ideas. How could she match the gift he’d given her? Not just the slippers, enchanted and perfect, but the way he’d been there when she’d needed him most, the one who had brought her to Bella.

  The air shifted. A shimmer trickled into the corners of her room. The light dulled and cooled, and her breath turned silver in front of her lips.

  “Bella?” she whispered.

  The small, blue-winged fairy hovered at the foot of her bed, her luminous eyes full of concern.

  “Oh, Bella…” Lissette’s voice cracked. “I can’t think of what to give him. He’s going into the wild; he’ll be cold, tired, and far from home. I can’t just give him something pretty—or something that’ll melt away.”

  Bella tilted her head, thoughtful, then made a series of quick, sharp hand gestures.

  “No,” Lissette said, shaking her head. “No ice. It won’t last. I need something that’ll help keep him safe.”

  Bella darted her gaze around the room, her wings beating faster and faster until she suddenly stopped, hovering as though an idea had struck her like lightning. She gave one decisive nod and zipped out the window in a blur of blue.

  Lissette sat up, fingers twisting in her lap. Minutes dragged, her stomach tightening.

  Then Bella returned—bringing not one, but two others with her. The first was a fire fairy, her wings flickering like tongues of flame. The second was an earth fairy, with moss-green wings and dust of stone clinging to her hands.

  Lissette’s eyes went wide. She didn’t speak—which, for her, was a miracle.

  The fairies floated together, speaking in their high, musical tones. Bella finished whatever she was saying when the fire fairy nodded, and Bella darted to Lissette’s desk. In a flash, she was rummaging through drawers and baskets, tossing out tangles of yarn, ribbons, and thread until she found a small, shining needle. She lifted it above her head like a knight’s sword.

  She handed it to the fire fairy, who cupped it in both hands. Heat shimmered in the air, and the tip began to glow orange, then red-hot. Bella’s cool breath passed over it, quenching the metal.

  The earth fairy then floated forward, cradling a small, smooth stone. With patient, deliberate motions, she rubbed the stone along the shaft and point of the needle, leaving behind an almost imperceptible grain, as if the needle had been given roots, strength, and weight from the earth itself.

  When she finished, Bella hovered close again. The three looked at each other, and without a word, Bella darted out once more.

  She returned moments later with a fourth companion—an air fairy whose translucent, silver-edged wings shimmered like wind over water. The air fairy touched the very tip of the needle, a faint breath escaping her lips. The point began to glow with a pale, steady light, no brighter than a star glimpsed through fog.

  The four fairies gathered, their work complete. Bella flew forward and placed the needle into Lissette’s palm.

  “It’s beautiful,” Lissette breathed, awestruck. “But… what is it?”

  Bella’s chiming voice rose, underpinned by the other fairies’ soft, musical tones. The words were still music, not meaning—but somehow, Lissette understood. This was no ordinary needle. It would point the way. It would guide her brother when he was lost. And he would know, without doubt, how to use it.

  Lissette clutched it to her chest, her eyes bright. “Thank you,” she whispered to all four. “This… this is perfect.”