JOVANNA'S MUSIC BOX escapes my grasp, falling to the ground.

What's left of its scarred delicate exterior cracks open, exposing the intricate gears and cogs within. The clatter of the music box hitting the floor echoes, followed by the tinkling of metal rolling across the wood. The sound is eerie and haunting.

A forgotten melody.

Memories rush back to me like a river breaking through a dam.

Images flicker across my vision as I stumble back.

The circling raven over the village.

The dagger-like bolts of lightning.

The ear shattering thunder, the howling wind, the snow, the prince.

Aunt Elora.

Memories swarm around me like a whirlwind. Crash over me like waves that threaten to pull me under.

Aunt Elora's face, her crinkled crows feet smile darts before my eyes. Her laughter, her wisdom, her gentle touch— torn away from me like pages ripped from a book.

The Prince—Noadok. His eyes like dark storm clouds, his presence supernatural and regal.

As I stagger into my bookshelf, I'm suddenly aware, he is not who I had dreamt of last night, and I'm left with yet another mystery to solve. Books tip like dominos, crashing to the ground as I grasp for something, anything to anchor myself. I struggle to breathe, clinging to the edge of the furniture, my knuckles aching with the effort. The room spins around me, the broken music box forgotten on the floor as bursts of lightning and thunder crash through my mind. The conversation between Prince Noadok and my father unfolds again before me.

A prophecy that the Prince thinks is meant for me.

My mother.

MY MOTHER.

She's alive.

She's alive, out there somewhere. And... a Princess? Of the Summer Court? Did that mean my mother was fae?

That I'm part fae?

And my father's been lying to me about it.

About all of it. Hadn't the fae prince called my own father Prince Orion?

Then it dawns on me, that is who Orion had been raised by. Not just Fae, but Royal Fae.

Why?

Did Aunt Elora know the truth? Is that why she hated Orion telling stories of the other realm?

Did it matter if I couldn't ask her? If her body was frozen, cold and still, laying in a coffin of the very thing that had killed her?

No, it wasn't the ice that killed her. It wasn't the storm that killed her. It wasn't the cold.

It was that Prince.

From somewhere downstairs, my father yells. "Kaia? Are you alright?"

The sound barely registers in my ears as the revelation of my mother being alive burns through my thoughts like a raging fire. I struggle to compose myself, pushing the overwhelming emotions down like a heavy lid on a boiling pot. Swallowing heavily, hands clenched into fists at my sides wrapped in my undergarment skirt, I speak, afraid that it might still be sore from screaming in the storm.

"I... I'm fine!" I manage to utter, though even to my own ears, the words sound hollow and unconvincing.

How could I be fine?

"My books just fell," I say, this time with more conviction.

Miraculously, my throat's been healed. Just to be safe, I test it again, my fingers gently hovering over, afraid, hesitant to touch my own skin as my throat bobs, and I let out a small cough.

No pain.

With trembling steps, I make my way back to the mirror. In my reflection, eyes Orion says are the same color as my mother's blink back at me.

How could my father keep her being alive from me?

Was it to protect me or control me?

I raise a hand, fingertips brushing against the surface of my dark skin, searching for any sign of yesterday. There is no pain, only rosier cheeks, and a strange sensation of pressure building behind my eyes, as if something long forgotten is trying to claw its way back into the light. I gaze down at my feet, expecting to see the cuts and bruises from running through snow in my sandals still marring my skin. But to my surprise, they are nothing more than faint lines, barely visible beneath the soft light of early morning.

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As I turn away from the mirror, my heart pounding in my chest, a sudden urge pulls me towards the window.

The trees, I remember. The trees had been full when I looked!

Just as they had when I first opened my curtains this morning, the world outside held no hint of the chaos of the storm from Prince Noadok's arrival. The trees that had been stripped bare, then tossed around and discarded like mere toys by the relentless wind, are now planted again, lush and green. Leaves rustle in a gentle breeze as if they had never known the icy touch of winter. The ground, once a pristine blanket of white, is now back to its previous state - grass peeking through the soil, wildflowers blooming in every color.

And there, at the edge of the garden where the shadows of dawn still lingered, I see it. Or rather, the absence of it. Aunt Elora's coffin is gone. The spot where it once rested now lay bare, as if it had never been there in the first place.

In a daze, I stride over and begin to pick up the fallen books, stacking them back on my shelf.

The damaged music box lays on the floor. The broken pieces seem to mirror the shattered fragments of my reality. I crouch down, picking up the scattered gears and cogs. With a deep breath, I stand up, clutching the remnants of the music box to my chest. The pieces dig into my palms, grounding me with the sharp pain. The smooth brass feels cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the anger burning within me.

With resolve hardening in my gaze, I cast one last look at the shattered remains of the gift before tucking it carefully into a drawer, and hiding it under another garment. There's no point in dwelling on it, or trying to fix the music box now. The Prince offered his personal service to all repairs on our village, and by the Gods, he's going to fix this too.

Mysterious prince and dangerous quest or not, my friend is getting a gift.

A sense of determination settles in the pit of my stomach.

That Prince is going to fix it all.

But if I want to know anything about what's really going on, the only one who's willing to give me any real answers is, unfortunately, also the Prince.

And according to what he told my father last night, I should be meeting him for the "first time" today. Or at least I would think I'm having my first meeting with him if the Prince had not let me overhear their conversation.

Let me find out the truth of my mother. Let me remember what had really happened.

Did that mean I could trust him? Based off of what? Because I got at least some information on what's happening? Okay, sort of trustworthy.

But then again, he only said he was the only one who was letting me "see and hear everything" I needed to. During a conversation he knew I was listening in on. Not as trustworthy.

My father didn't trust the Prince, obviously, but now how am I supposed to trust my father?

I turn my attention to the basin of still steaming water, and with a shaky breath, decide to finish my thoughts while I bathe.

I finish undressing, and let my light undergarments fall to the floor with a soft rustle. Dipping just a foot in, the warmth seeps into my bones and chases away the last remnants of cold from the storm. As I fully sink into the comforting embrace of the bathwater, my mind whirls with questions and uncertainties. The steam rises around me like a veil, shrouding my thoughts in a haze of confusion.

I close my eyes, allowing the warmth of the water to seep into my weary muscles, soothing the tension that has settled deep within me.

Water prepared by my father. Every day since I was born, he's woken early for it. But I'd be surprised if last night he had even slept at all. There's no need to chop or gather today, we'll have left over wood that Aunt Elora never got to burn.

My stomach tightens at the thought.

He'd have cleared the ground, and started a fire over her juniper branches. Flint strikes steal and there are flames. After boiling, Orion separates it into pots for what we need for the day. Cooking, cleaning, and bathing. He'd have slipped in quietly, poured some cool water into the small basin, and the hot water into the one I use for bathing, all while I slept. When I go downstairs, he will be cooking. Last week was eggs from local chickens, honey oat bread he baked, and bacon cured from a wild boar that strayed too close to our village. Typically, Aunt Elora's tea kettle will be steaming, sat next to her bowl of berries plucked from the edge of our meadow. I will eat until I'm full, drink until I'm quenched, and always then some.

How can I question the actions of a man who does so much for me?

I dip my head into my hands, willing my palms to draw out the painful thoughts. There had to be a reason he didn't tell me the truth, right? Or is there really just more I don't know?

The Prophecy wanted the Prince to find the one not told and I couldn't feel like I know less right now. But an eater of apples? Sure, when I have a craving, but golden ones?

I know nothing of that.

It's safe to assume that's something along the lines of my father's other victories- Taming Solaris and killing the Daenara. Both of which happened way before I was even born. Orion wasn't lying about that- I didn't fit the Prophecy.

I start to scrub at my skin with a cloth. The soap bubbles and froths, filling the air with lavender and honey, but it does little to relax me.

My fingers move in hurried circles, desperate to rid myself of the second skin I have developed of doubts and uncertainties. The shampoo foams as I wash my hair, and even though it just barely hurts anymore, my fingers find themselves careful around the back of my head, almost as if pressing will remind myself of the wound that's supposed to be there. The events of the past day repeat in my mind, each memory crashing into the next with relentless force. My mother's survival, where she really is now, what else my father has been lying about, what that creature Shivnook is, and the role that Prince Noadok plays in this.

Or the lack thereof, as he so boastfully claimed.

No, I can't trust the prince. Not completely. Not when Aunt Elora's fate hangs in the balance.

But hadn't the Prince said he was living proof someone could be revived? He had said even my own father had himself been revived.

By the necromancer.

Just the thought sends icy fingers dragging down my spine. The vivid images of my dream burn bright suddenly, the light glacial blue eyes flickering before me, a stark contrast to the darkness of shadows around them.

Even at just the memory, the water around me suddenly turns cold, despite its warmth mere moments ago. I cup water to splash my face, kneading my palms in my eyes to rid myself of the sight as goosebumps race up my arms

Murky with the remnants of the storm, the water and soap carry away the dirt and grime of the past day. But no amount of scrubbing can cleanse me of the uncertainty that now darkens my thoughts.

I rise from the bath, water cascading off my skin in rivulets, and step out, wrapping myself in a thick towel.

As I dry myself, I stare at my mother's garment. I can't remember the last time I wore it. It's a bit on the fancier side for most of my usual activities, but I guess to be fair, I am having an encounter with a prince today. With trembling fingers, I slip into the delicate fabric, a strange sense of nostalgia washing over me.

I brush out my dark waves and steal glances at my reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back at me is different somehow, as if the events of last night have left an invisible mark on me. Will Orion notice?

The world outside seems to have forgotten the chaos, and so must I.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself.

Descending the stairs, I find my father in the kitchen, his back turned to me as he tends to a pan simmering on the hearth.

There is no tea kettle.