She Sings at Dawn

XXI. Forest Song

Music ripples through the forest. I stir from sleep, opening my eyes to the forest. Sorrowful melodies envelop me, their echoes whispered from tree to tree. Yet amongst the mourning, brighter chords emerge, sure as the daylight raises the pitch of night. It isn't carefree and bubbly like the court's music. Instead, it's a hopeful optimism, the promise of triumph against all odds.

I rub the back of my neck as I listen. It's sore from pressing against the tree trunk all night. Minutes later, a realization hits me. This is the bird I hear every morning, starting the year my mother died. It's beautiful at the palace, but out here, it's captivating. The song has an undeniable magnetism. I push myself to my feet, testing my ankle. To my relief, it doesn't hurt as much as yesterday, so I hobble away from my sleeping spot.

Trying to pinpoint the sound's direction is hard, especially since it encircles me. But the volume grows with each step I take. More harmonies join in until a full symphony pulses through the trees. A burst of energy floods my veins, and I hurry my pace despite a limp for fear that the chorus may end before I reach it.

I don't know why I feel so compelled to find it. I only know that I must. Perhaps my brain hasn't fully awoken yet and doesn't know rationality. Or perhaps the reason runs deeper—an inherent tie to my mother. Either way, I don't stop, even when the voice begins to fade.

Pale wood arches in the distance, a portal from dirt to smooth stone, dense trees to a courtyard. I pass under, into a garden bursting with pastel flowers and satin-leaved bushes. A misty-blue castle rises beyond, and steps cascade from the elevated entrance to a lake shrouded in weeping willows. Clear, whistling notes emanate from it, piercing the still forest.

What is this place?

The air seems to sparkle, perhaps from fireflies, though if I didn't know better, I'd call them fairies. I follow the gray path that reflects the moon's final light. The cobbles wind through the garden, passing by a break in the trees. I stop to stare at the stretch of shining waters, at the musical spring I hear every morning.

I would've continued on my way, explored more, but suddenly, I can't move. A woman stands in the lake's center, surrounded by swans. White silk drapes over one shoulder and ripples into the water. Her sleek platinum hair spills to her knees as if the sky poured liquid moonbeams over her. She starts to turn around, and I duck behind a willow tree.

My body freezes, solidifies into bark. I can only stare at her as an aria pours from her lips. I fear my heart might stop beating too until I feel it quicken in my chest. That face—her blue eyes, diamond-shaped jaw, and petite nose—I've seen it. I know it.

I know her.

"Princess... Odeia?" I breathe.

I steal another glance at the singing woman. It can't be, yet there's no mistaking who she resembles. Princess Odeia, the long-lost heir to the throne, the one announced as dead, stands before me. She, or at least the image of her, is whom I've heard every morning for the past four years.

But how did she end up here? Where even is "here?"

Before I can stop myself, my feet step from behind the tree. The moon casts a mystical glow over the lake, onto Odeia's pure, blue eyes. Her irises land on me, and the song dies on her lips. Only the swans' accompaniment continues.

For a minute she seems paralyzed, a statue among the waters. Then, she clutches her soaked skirt and takes a step forward, then another and another, faster and faster until she reaches the shore.

"Aylo? Is that you?" Her voice is light and silvery, like she's singing instead of talking. I'm unable to respond. She's a ghost, pale as the swans. I'm certain I'm dreaming, yet I can't wake up. Reality never felt more certain.