Page 1 of Cursed Dreams
Chapter 1
Thalia sat on the moss-covered bank of the river, legs folded beneath her, the cool evening air brushing her skin. Around her, the forest was slipping into twilight, the sun’s last golden rays spilling through the trees in fractured beams. The hush of dusk settled over the land, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, wildflowers, and old bark. Overhead, leaves rustled in the breeze, a soft chorus to the quiet murmur of the river flowing over stone.
Her fingertips traced the worn leather cover of her healing tome, its corners softened by countless readings. Inside, the parchment lay cool and smooth beneath her touch, its pages filled with faded script and intricate sketches she’d spent months committing to memory. Yet her emerald eyes skimmed the lines without truly seeing them, her mind adrift—half carried away by the river’s steady pulse, half knotted by the anxiety in her chest.
A dragonfly drifted by on lazy wings, catching the dying light in a flash of iridescent blue. Thalia watched it hover, the breeze stirring her vine-tied curls until stray strands tickled her cheeks. She brushed them aside without thinking, then let out a soft sigh and snapped the book shut. Concentration felt impossible.
All around her, the forest thrummed with life, the whisper of grass underfoot, the cool cushion of moss beneath her, the mingled scents of leaves and loam. It was a serenity that settled into her bones, the very reason she’d always come to this riverside at dusk. But tonight, even this familiar calm felt tenuous.
Tomorrow she would take her final exam as an apprentice healer. If she passed, she would leave the quiet village she’d known her whole life and journey to Vertrose, the great human city, to join the Grand Temple of Amara, goddess of light and healing. She had dreamed of thosemarble halls and ancient libraries for as long as she couldremember, the promise of purpose shimmering just out of reach. Now that it was almost real, her stomach twisted with nerves.
This trial was more than a measure of her knowledge; it was a judgment, a rite of passage before the master healers and priestesses. She would have to prove not only her skill but her worth.
In the world she inhabited, the fragile peace between humans and the lesser fae was maintained by a careful exchange: grain, stone, iron from human hands, and healing, weather-working, protection from fae magic. It was practitioners like Thalia who upheld that balance, healing wounds and tending to storms so both peoples might prosper.
At the Temple, she would learn from the most gifted healers, living within its sanctified walls and ministering to fae and human alike. She would bear their pain andtheir trust, honouring a pact that had endured generations. But none of that could begin until she passed.
What if I fail? The thought had shadowed her days and whispered through her dreams.
Her fellow apprentices seemed born for this path, confident, their chants effortless, magic flowing at their command. Thalia had no such natural flair. She’d burned midnight oil over her texts, practiced healing hymns under the moon while the others slept. She knew every remedy, every incantation, but still, sometimes, she felt like an impostor.
Most lesser fae wielded elemental magic, shaping earth, bending fire, calling wind or water with a single breath. Thalia’s gift never touched those forces. Instead, herpower turned inward, a gentle, luminous glow. When she laid hands on a wound or eased a fever, her palms shimmered with opalescent white light, delicate and ethereal,unlike the golden healing glow others produced. Beautiful, perhaps, but different enough to make her wonder if it meant her magic was somehow weaker.
No one had ever told her what it meant, no one seemed to know why, not her teachers, not the elders, not even the priestesses who came from the cities or the smaller temples dotted around the fae lands. They’d only looked at her magic with curiosity, some with hesitation. No one else she knew had magic that looked like hers, though she had studied tirelessly, learning every chant, every salve, every method, that quiet fear lingered in her chest –what if my magic is just not strong enough.
Still, underneath the layers of fear and uncertainty, there was a spark of excitement. A glimmer of hope. She longed for this fervently, not just for the title or the robes, but for a life beyond the confines of this village. It was an opportunity to become part of something greater, to finally fit into a world that had always seemed just beyond her grasp.
The village had never quite fit her. It was a small place, nestled at the edge of the ancient woods. Cottages of stone and thatchdotted the hillsides, clustered close around the market square. Smoke from hearth fires rose into the sky, carrying with it the scent of baked bread and drying herbs. It was quiet here. Predictable. Life moved with the seasons—harvest, planting, festivals under the stars. Children played in the fields, and elders sat outside their doors, trading stories older than the trees.
Thalia loved it, and she didn’t.
She loved her parents, her home, the winding paths she knew by heart. She loved the feeling of morning sun on the garden soil and the way the stars looked from her rooftop. But there was always a part of her looking beyond the trees. Dreaming of more. Of somethingelse.
Vertrose had always been her dream. The city of temples and towers, where magic hummed through stone streets and every day brought something new, exciting, vibrant. She wanted that world, even if it terrified her. Even if it meant leaving everything she’d ever known behind.
With a quiet sigh, she reached for the silver pendant at her neck, tracing its delicate design with her thumb. It had belonged to her grandmother, passed down through the women of her family for generations. A symbol of strength. Of family. Of faith.
The sky had darkened while she sat lost in thought. Stars now blinked above the treetops, and the breeze had grown cooler, rustling through the leaves. From the village came the faintsounds of evening: laughter, dishesclinking, a dog barking in the distance. Home calling her back.
With a shiver not entirely from the cool air, Thalia rose slowly, brushing moss from her tunic, and slipped her feet into her boots. She cast one last look at the river, still whispering secrets she couldn’t quite understand, beforeturning toward the path. Tomorrow, everything would change, ready or not, she would have to face it.
As Thalia approached her cottage, the warm, golden light spilling from the windows wrapped around her like a familiar embrace. It should have been comforting. And it was, mostly. But there was also that nagging feeling of impending parental concern waiting inside, which made her hesitate for just a moment before pushing open the door.
The small stone house, tucked at the edge of the village, was surrounded by wildflowers and curling vines, thriving under her mother’s meticulous care. Goldora's garden was more than just beautiful—it was practically enchanted, bursting with life in a way that made the rest of the village’s greenery look like they weren’t even trying.
Stepping inside, Thalia was immediately greeted by the rich, homey scent of roasting root vegetables and freshly bakedbread. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation, even as she braced herself.
Goldora stood at the hearth, stirring a pot with the practiced ease of someone who could likely commandthe soup to stir itself if she felt like it. Her golden hair cascaded in loose waves around her shoulders, glowing in the firelight. Everything about her radiated warmth, steady, nurturing, and deeply in tune with the earth itself. The villagers adored her, not just because she could make their gardens flourish with a flick of her wrist, but because she was the kind of person who never hesitated to help, whether it was with a bit of magic or a well-timed slice of honey cake.
Goldora’s magic was a constant, gentle force an extension of her own meticulous nature. She could coax plants into bloom, make fruit ripen at a touch, or summon vines from the soil with a flick of her fingers. She was respected not just for her skill but for the way she used it—thoughtfully, patiently, and with great care.
Her father on the other hand, was… not quite so delicate.
Though he shared Goldora’s gift for earth magic, his approach was far less refined. Where Goldora carefully cultivated plants with precision, Rodric tended to encourage everything to grow, often a little too enthusiastically. IfGoldora’s garden was a masterpiece, Rodric’s contributions were the occasional giant squash growing where it wasn’t meant to, or a tree sprouting overnight in the wrong place because he’d gotten carried awaytelling a particularly animated story while touching the ground. His magic was just as strong as Goldora’s, he simply used it with less restraint or precision. If Goldora was the steady, nurturing presence in the village, Rodric was the one who made people laugh. He never took things too seriously, always quick with a joke or a dramatic flourish, balancing out his wife’s fussing with an easy going nature that made him beloved. While Goldora had a quiet grace, Rodric had a boisterous charm—both forces of nature in their own right, just in vastly separate ways.
"Thalia, you're home! Just in time," Goldora called, her eyes softening as she took in her daughter. Her gaze flickered to the satchel slung over Thalia’s shoulder, andher expression shifted to something far too knowing."You’re still studying, aren’t you? You should be resting, you look exhausted! "
Thalia sighed, sliding into her usual seat at the table. "I’m not exhausted, Mother," she said, rubbing her temple. "I just want to be sure I’m ready."
