The Secret World of Briar Rose(104)
“What’s the story behind this one?” Elly asked, pointing at the oil painting of an ocean filled with stars.
At first, Corin could not recall her dreams or explain to her family what happened. Her mind had quickly forgotten the details, like the color of the shirt she was wearing, or the warmth of her lips meeting another’s. But when her hand held a brush, and the bristles mixed oils together, memories surged back in paint. Her hands pieced faraway lands and retold the lives of horned demons and ravens, and a girl with sunflowers in her hair, someone she had met once upon a dream.
She told herself these were not fairy tales imagined from her mind. The stories were true. What she felt had been real. In another world, she had rested her weary bones in a haven long enough to heal something broken inside her. She had found some foolish hope in that wretched heart of hers to save others, and in turn, saved herself.
There became new stories for her to tell, too. Drawings of mismatched mugs in the kitchen and crowded marketplaces full of life. Windows with slanted light and dust motes floating in the air like fireflies. Rainy afternoons and quiet mornings and Elly’s hair spilling across her pillow. These stories were not epic tales. They had no swords and dragons, no mystical lands or noble battles. Survival did not need to be grand. In these stories, there were tiny plants that survived the harshest of winters, sisters that survived the worst of arguments, and simple relics that survived generations of people, who fought for a reason to keep living.
And sometimes, like on this autumn day, Corin didn’t need to fight at all.
EPILOGUE
100 YEARS AGO
AMELIA OPENED HER eyes to a new reality. Flames ran over her skin, the smell of smoke thick and suffocating. Her hand had gone limp, a sharp spindle left on the ground. Blood soaked her dress and Malicine’s hands as the demon ‘s body sprawled over hers. She placed a gentle palm on Malicine’s cheek, her fingers slicked with their tears. Regret coursed through her body from causing them pain.
“I’m scared, Mal,” she confessed, “but I want to try again.”
She gave Malicine the amulet from the dreamworld, which had been hanging from Corin’s necklace. The gem unraveled from the pendant and lodged itself onto Malicine’s staff. Magic sparked from the demon’s skin as familiar blood ran through their veins. Centuries of another life rushed back to them. Their eyes glowed in recognition. Stories cast from generations, birthed from different worlds and times, shared from past lives and histories, all culminated in this very moment.
The flood of memories hit them all at once. They reeled backward, steadying themselves on the overturned spinning wheel. A shuddered gasp escaped their lips before they collected themselves again.
“Are you certain about this?” they warned. “I can’t cast the sorrow away from here. If we stay, there will be pain beyond our control. The world will not thank us if we survive it.”
Their palm pressed against the hole in Amelia’s chest. She winced as flesh materialized in her wound. Her heart slowly pumped into a steady rhythm once more.
“Does it still hurt?” Malicine asked.
Amelia pressed a hand over the closed wound, where her fragile heart solidified.
“It always will,” she said. “But I need to know if there’s more than surviving the hurt.”
The walls surrounding them rumbled with the sound of intruders. A crowd of shrill cries, a strained bray from a running horse. Light sparked behind the foliage that had hidden the two of them, tearing through tangles of vines. The first drops of rain that permeated their barrier felt like tiny knives against her skin. She would see the man who nearly killed her moments ago in her dream. If she didn’t die, she would have to face the people of Gyldan, whose fate unfairly rested upon a frightened girl with no readiness to rule a kingdom. This was a world that paved only two paths for her.
The cacophony rang louder as their barricade thinned to a single layer of rotting leaves. Malicine seized Amelia by the wrist. She could feel the scales spreading across the demon’s skin, the flare of heat running down their veins.
“Stay back, Amelia.” Spikes studded their tongue, and the pupils of their eyes narrowed into slits. Amelia remembered the distant echo of a dragon’s roar in another version of this scene. How the stories told of a man who vanquished a monster to save a sleeping princess. That was how the world kept turning: The one who conquered the land and its people became the ruler of all.
But Gyldan had once been nothing more than sand before those rules were made. The seeds of a new path grew in Amelia’s mind, one that Lilith had planted long ago.
“No,” she told Malicine. “I will be the one who will burn it all down.”
And so, the fairy tale went like this: A brave prince battled against a vicious dragon that fateful night. Her faerie godmothers carried her sleeping body to the castle, where Gyldan would mourn and weep.
And then, the ending went like this: After the prince kissed his sleeping beauty, she finally woke up.
Amelia opened her eyes and parted her lips, feigning a full gasp of air, as if life were restoring to her veins. Ezran’s silver eyes widened, the first suspicion of her trick, for they both knew that true love did not exist between them. Anger twisted in the snarl of his lips as he realized her pretense. She called for her godmothers before he grabbed his sword. The faeries swarmed her in an embrace, blocking themselves between the two as they cried in celebration.