THE LADY IN THE GARDEN

‎As the Sun set, pixies of all colors and elements trooped into the sunflower garden. It had slowly become a tradition established by Latimeria Fiona: every evening, she would gather the pixies and tell them stories and the history of Eryndor. ‎ ‎“Gather around, Pixies! Let me tell you a story. Last time, Marybell asked about the last queen of Eryndor, Queen Liora,” Fiona, the eldest fairy in Eryndor, said, her voice warm and full of laughter. The pixies fluttered closer, eyes wide with anticipation and curiosity. ‎ ‎She chuckled at their enthusiasm, letting the golden light of the sunset catch the glimmer in their tiny wings, then began. ‎ ‎“Once upon a time…” ‎ ‎ERYNDOR, 200 YEARS AGO… ‎“Stop running, Princess! You’re going to trip over your wing!” Flora called, hurrying after little Liora through the meadow. The princess darted between towering flowers, her tiny wings leaving faint trails of golden light in the air. ‎ ‎Flora, one of the castle maids and the caretaker of the princess’s every need, sped up, careful not to lose sight of her charge. Liora giggled, darting past daisies and sunflowers, her laughter like the tinkling of a hundred tiny bells. ‎ ‎“Liora, remember today is training with Maven! We don’t have all morning!” Flora called again, catching a glimpse of the princess’s mischief-filled grin. ‎ ‎The meadow seemed endless, but Flora’s eyes never left the princess, ready to swoop in if her tiny wings faltered. ‎Flora finally caught up to Liora, gently guiding her by the tiny shoulder. ‎ ‎ “Princess, you’re late. Come now, we need to get you ready for—” ‎ ‎A shadow fell over the meadow, stretching long in the glow of the setting sun. Both Liora and Flora froze. Standing at the edge of the flowers was Maven, her posture rigid, wings folded neatly behind her back. Every movement exuded control and quiet authority, yet there was an unspoken warmth in the sharp lines of her face, the kind that only those closest to her could ever sense. ‎ ‎Liora blinked up at her, still grinning. “Maven! I was just—uh—practicing flying! Look, see how far I can go?” ‎ She spun in a small circle, her wings shimmering. ‎ ‎Maven’s gaze swept over her, steady and unyielding. “Liora.” The single word held weight, yet it wasn’t harsh. Liora’s grin faltered slightly, replaced by the obedient tilt of her head that only Maven could command. ‎ ‎Flora suppressed a smile. She knew better than to interrupt the silent dialogue between the princess and her mentor. Maven stepped closer, each step deliberate, and Liora straightened, wings quivering in anticipation. ‎ ‎“You are late for training,” Maven stated plainly, though the corner of her mouth softened just enough to hint she wasn’t angry—just firm. “Come. There is much to learn, and you are expected to keep pace.” ‎ ‎Liora nodded quickly, her playful energy subdued but not extinguished. She trusted Maven above all, second only to her parents, and obeyed without question. As she allowed Flora to guide her back toward the castle, she still didn’t realize how close she had come to falling—or how carefully Maven had watched, always one step behind, silently keeping her safe. ‎ ‎ ‎The trio made their way through the winding paths of the castle gardens, sunlight fading behind them. ‎ ‎Golden petals drifted lazily in the evening breeze, catching the last rays like tiny floating lanterns. Liora’s small feet barely touched the ground as she skipped, wings fluttering, but her movements were tempered by the ever-watchful Maven. ‎ ‎Flora hustled beside her, adjusting the princess’s tunic and brushing stray strands of hair from her face. “Almost there, Princess,” she whispered, a hint of exasperation underlining her words. “Maven doesn’t wait for dawdlers.” ‎ ‎Maven walked ahead, her gaze forward, unflinching, wings folded neatly. Every so often, she cast a brief glance toward Liora, her stern expression softening just a fraction. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Flora saw it—and that was enough. ‎ ‎As they entered the castle’s grand training hall, the air shimmered faintly with magic. Sunlight filtered through enchanted glass windows, casting dancing patterns of light on the polished floor. Weapons and staffs rested neatly along the walls, magical symbols glimmering faintly, humming with energy. ‎ ‎“Stand there,” Maven instructed, pointing to a marked spot at the center of the hall. Liora obeyed immediately, planting her tiny feet firmly, wings quivering with barely-contained excitement. ‎ ‎“You will begin with control exercises,” Maven said, her voice even, measured. “Your energy must flow through your body, not escape like wind through an open window. Concentrate, Liora. Focus.” ‎The princess tilted her head, curiosity sparkling in her eyes, yet she obeyed without hesitation. Maven’s presence had a gravity that grounded her, even when her own magic tugged at the edges of mischief and wonder. ‎ ‎Flora stepped back slightly, watching silently. For all Liora’s energy and playfulness, she had never seen the princess disobey Maven—not once. And Maven, for her part, never lost patience, even when Liora’s attempts faltered. The balance between them was a quiet dance of trust, discipline, and unspoken care. ‎Liora closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the faint hum of magic in the hall fill her senses. She raised her hands slowly, trying to feel the flow of energy that wove through every corner of Eryndor. ‎ ‎“Good,” Maven said, her tone firm but approving. “Now, direct it through your wings. Let them carry the energy, not scatter it.” ‎ ‎Liora wiggled her fingers, and a soft golden light shimmered along the edges of her wings. It flickered, unstable, like sunlight through moving leaves. She giggled softly. “It’s ticklish!” ‎ ‎Maven’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Concentrate, Princess. Magic is not a toy.” ‎ ‎Liora bit her lip and focused, forcing the light to hold steady. The golden glow stretched outward, forming tiny threads that danced and twirled in the air. Her wings vibrated, carrying the energy more evenly. ‎ ‎“Better,” Maven said, stepping closer. She extended a hand—not to touch, but to guide, a gesture of silent encouragement. “Feel it. Bend it. Know it. You are connected to Eryndor itself, Liora. One day, this energy will demand more than play—it will demand precision and responsibility.” ‎ ‎Liora’s eyes widened. “Responsibility? But—” ‎“No buts,” Maven interrupted, her voice softening ever so slightly. “You are the princess. That is enough reason to begin learning control now.” ‎ ‎Flora hovered nearby, hands clasped, watching with pride. Liora’s wings glimmered brighter with every careful movement, golden trails weaving intricate patterns in the air. The young princess’s laughter bubbled occasionally, but she kept her focus, driven by a mix of curiosity and the unspoken desire to impress Maven. ‎ ‎“Good. Again. And remember,” Maven added, her tone returning to its usual sharpness, “perfection comes from patience, not haste. Magic obeys those who respect it.” ‎ ‎Liora nodded, determination flickering across her small face. Even in her playful nature, she understood the weight of Maven’s words. This was more than a game—this was the beginning of learning the power that would one day shape her, and perhaps, the fate of Eryndor itself.