Page 22 of Cherished By the Gargoyle
“Goodnight, my savryl,” he whispers. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He gives me one last, lingering look before slipping into the night.
Fiora’s gaze settles on me again, something strange in her expression. A chill brushes the back of my neck, the joy in my chest faltering. “Aurora,” she says, voice tight. “We need to talk.”
Normally, I’d be worried about the harsh scolding coming my way. After all, I did fib and say that I was going to the bakery for a birthday party, not a bonfire at the old ruins. But I’m so happy Thalric is alright. We’re in love and we’re going to start our future together. I feel as if I’m floating.
“Oh, Fiora.” I take her hands in mine. “I know I’m in trouble, but before you get too upset, please listen. I have something wondrous to tell you.” A smile crests my lips as I turn to Lyriaand Maribel as well. “I’m in love with Thalric. We’re going to get married.”
Fiora exchanges a troubled look with Lyria and Maribel.
“Oh, my darling girl, I’m so sorry,” Lyria says, tears in her eyes.
“Sorry?” I blink at her. “Why?”
When she doesn’t answer, I look at Maribel. She appears equally as distressed.
“What’s wrong?” I frown. “Aren’t you all happy for me? I mean, I know we’re rather young, but I thought for sure you’d approve. It’s Thalric after all, and I—”
“It’s not that,” Maribel says. “There’s something you must know.”
Lyria’s wings flutter nervously behind her. “We planned on telling you this on your birthday, but we can wait no longer.”
Unease snakes down my spine. “What are you talking about?”
She glances at her sisters. “You could have died in those ruins, Aurora. You cannot afford to be so reckless.”
“I know you think we’re overprotective of you, my dear,” Maribel adds. “But there’s a reason why we fret so. A reason why we’ve sheltered you so much.” She shakes her head. “You’re not who you think you are.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps we should sit down,” Maribel says, guiding me to the sofa. “You are not an orphan. You are the Princess of Briarwyn.”
The world seems to tilt as disbelief ripples through me. “But… that cannot be. The princess is said to be in hiding at the Temple of Amara. And she’s in hiding because she was cursed.”
“I’m afraid it’s true, my darling girl.” Maribel rests a hand on my shoulder. “On your first birthday, your parents gathered therealms in celebration, presenting you as their heir. As friends of the kingdom, we came to gift you blessings of magic.”
I listen to her, stunned.
Lyria cups my cheek. “Fiora gave you the gift of grace, and I would have granted you the gift of song, but I gave my magic to Maribel, to strengthen the spell she cast upon you for protection.”
“What spell? Why?” I turn to Maribel. Her eyes are misty, glistening with unshed tears. “Tell me.”
“Malvara—the Goblin witch—arrived, interrupting your ceremony,” she explains. “She was furious that she hadn’t been invited, claiming your father had slighted her intentionally. To punish your parents for the offense, she cursed you. Before the sun rises on your twenty-third birthday, she said you would prick your finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die.”
Fear tightens my chest until it hurts to breathe. My hands tremble in my lap, the room spinning as their words crash over me.
“But Maribel softened the curse, with the combination of her magic and Lyria’s,” Fiora adds. “Instead of death, you will fall into an enchanted sleep.”
Despite her reassurance, I’m still terrified. “What is a spinning wheel?” I ask, but deep down, I think I may already know. The image of the wooden wheel and the dark threads from my nightmare resurface in my mind.
With a flick of her wrist, Fiora conjures an image in red smoke—the same dark wheel from my dreams, turning slow and silent.
Ice fills my veins. “I’ve seen this before.”
“Where?” Lyria asks at the same time Fiora blurts, “You shouldn’t have.” Her expression hardens. “We cast an enchantment over the entire village. There are no spinning wheels here, and no one even remembers them.”
“The spell is woven into every mind and memory of any who enter Oakvale,” Fiora continues. “Even merchants who once traded in textiles forgot their craft. The very word was erased from thought, so you could never stumble upon one by chance.” Her eyes shine with concern. “Tell me: where did you see a spinning wheel?”
