Clipped

​The silence of the Whispering Woods was never truly silent, but for Rhiannon Deeproot, it was the only music she had left. It had been three months since the Elder Council had stripped her of her life. The memory of the ritual still burned in her bomes- the cold iron shears severing her iridescent wings, leaving only jagged, aching stumps that throbbed with every heartbeat. They hadn't snapped her wand, though. In a display of cruel preservation, they had tucked the slender length of rowan-wood into a velvet-lined box, destined for the Vault of the Disgraced deep within the forest’s heart. It lived there still, vibrating with a connection to her that felt like a phantom limb. ​At eight years old, Rhiannon was a ghost inhabiting a child’s body. Her hair, the color of a midnight ocean, hung in lank, straight sheets past her waist, framing a face that was all sharp angles and hollows. Her eyes, a green so dark they swallowed the light like moss in a cavern, scanned the perimeter of her sanctuary. ​She had found a pocket of the woods that even the predators avoided- a place where the trees grew crooked and the air tasted of ancient, stagnant magic. Here, she had woven a perimeter. It wasn't the shimmering, high-frequency magic of the fairy courts; that required a wand to channel. This was something older, a blood-and-bone ward built from the sheer will of a child who refused to die. ​"Stay back," she whispered to the shifting shadows, her voice a raspy thread. "Only the worthy. Only the kind. If you have a heart of iron, you cannot pass." ​She sat huddled beneath a ribcage of exposed cedar roots, clutching a stolen, rusted paring knife to her chest. Her stomach let out a low, agonizing growl that echoed in the hollow of her ribs. She was tiny, her skin stretched thin over bone, dressed in scavenged moss-silk that was now little more than grey rags held together by grime. ​"Hungry, Rhia?" she murmured to herself, a habit born of isolation. "The blackberries are heavy today. Just past the Grey Oak. I can smell them." ​She looked at the shimmering, nearly invisible line she had drawn between two blackened trees. Inside the line, she was the ruler of her own pain. Outside, she was merely a discarded thing. But the hunger was a sharpened claw digging into her insides, and the meager roots within her ward had long since been depleted. ​Rhiannon stood, her legs wobbling like a newborn fawn's. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped in the mud and left to weather in the rain. With a shaky, rattling breath, she approached the boundary. ​"Just to the creek," she told the unmoving trees. "Just ten steps out. I'll be fast. I'm small. Nobody looks for things as small as me." ​She stepped through. ​The air changed instantly. The heavy, protective weight of her ward vanished, replaced by the sharp, biting chill of the open forest. Every snap of a twig sounded like a thunderclap in the oppressive quiet. She scurried toward the creek, her bare feet making no sound on the damp, decaying loam. ​She found the berries. They were lush, swollen with juice, hanging like dark jewels over the rushing water. Rhiannon didn't even wait to pick them; she shoved a handful into her mouth, the tart sweetness exploding on her tongue. Tears pricked her dark green eyes. For a moment, she forgot the weight of the missing wings. For a moment, she forgot she was an exile. ​"Look at that," a voice rasped, slicing through the sound of the water like a dull blade. "A little scrap of blue silk in the mud." ​Rhiannon froze. A half-eaten berry fell from her stained fingers, splashing into the creek. ​Standing on the opposite bank were two men. They weren't fairies; they lacked the ethereal shimmer and the cruel grace. They were tall, heavy-set humans, dressed in cured leathers and smelling of woodsmoke and stale ale. The one speaking had a jagged scar running through his eyebrow and a heavy, weighted net slung over his shoulder. ​"She’s got the hair of a noble," the second man said. His voice was lower, oily, and made Rhiannon’s skin crawl. "But look at the back of her tunic. Those scars. She’s a clipped one. An outcast from the hidden groves." ​"Makes her cheaper to keep and easier to sell," Scar-eye replied. He stepped into the shallow water, his heavy leather boots crunching the pebbles with arrogant weight. "Hey there, little bird. You look a bit thin for a sprite. You lost your way?" ​Rhiannon backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Don't come closer," she croaked, reaching for the knife in her belt with a trembling hand. "The forest... the forest protects me. I have teeth." ​The men laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that sent a murder of crows fluttering from the canopy above. ​"The forest threw you out, darling," the oily one said, circling to her left, his eyes fixed on her tiny frame. "We saw the stumps. No wings, no wand. You’re just a girl now. And a fragile one at that. You wouldn't last another week out here without a master." ​"I am Rhiannon Deeproot!" she screamed, her voice cracking with a mix of fury and terror. "My power is in the earth, even if my wand is in the vaults!" ​"Your power is in our pockets," Scar-eye said. He was halfway across the creek now, the water swirling around his knees. "Collectors love the clipped ones. They're more.... manageable. They don't fly away." ​Rhiannon turned to bolt back toward her perimeter, her small feet skidding on the slick mud. She was fast, fueled by a terror that transcended her malnutrition, but her body was failing her. Every stride felt like pulling her feet through lead. ​"Grab the little wretch!" ​She lunged for the gap between the blackened oaks, her hand outstretched to touch the safety of her ward. She was inches away. She could feel the hum of her own magic, the blood-ward waiting to pull her back into the protective gloom where no human could follow. ​A heavy, weighted net whistled through the air. ​It draped over her like a suffocating shroud. The lead weights at the edges slammed into her small frame, knocking the wind from her lungs and pinning her to the cold earth. She hit the dirt hard, the breath leaving her in a pathetic, high-pitched wheeze. ​"Gotcha," Scar-eye grunted, reaching down and grabbing a fistful of the net- and a painful tug of her long blue hair, to haul her upward. ​Rhiannon thrashed, her fingernails clawing uselessly at the hempen rope, but she was hopelessly entangled. "Let me go! Please! I didn't do anything! I was just eating!" ​"You existed," the oily man said, reaching into his pack and pulling out a set of iron shackles, far too large for her tiny, spindly wrists. He clicked them shut over the net, the cold metal biting into her skin. "And in this forest, little bird, that's the only invitation we need." ​As they dragged her away from the oaks, Rhiannon watched her sanctuary fade into the encroaching mist. The perimeter didn't flare. It didn't fight. It remained silent, a hollow circle for a girl who was no longer there. The last thing she felt before the world went dark from a heavy blow to the temple was the crushing realization that her wand- her only hope of ever being whole again, was now miles behind her, locked in a darkness she might never see again.