A Court of Graves and Flowers

CHAPTER ELEVEN

This chapter is dedicated to @TamalMcClure Glad you're liking the story so far! 💙

The wind whipped at Callisto's face, a cold caress against the unfamiliar heat of exertion. Her wings, once extensions of her spirit, felt like borrowed plumes, stiff and awkward against the sky. Her muscles groaned, stiff and weak, as she fought for altitude, each flap a testament to the forgotten grace of flight.

Below, the emerald cloak of the woods surrounding the Spring Court offered no clues. She'd searched from above, scouring for a glint of sunlight against a baldric of knives or a flash of golden hair, but there was only the swaying canopy and the panicked chittering of unseen creatures.

She had no map, no trail, only the desperate plea that still echoed in her ears and the concern that made her pulse race faster than the beat of her wings. Then, a flicker of movement - a knot of lesser faeries spilling from the trees like startled rabbits. Hope, a fragile ember, flared in her chest. She veered, wings slicing through the air like blades.

She angled towards the exodus, diving low beneath the tangled branches. The air grew stagnant, heavy with the musk of damp earth and decaying leaves. The light dimmed, filtering through in distorted patches.

Landing was tempting, but the ground below remained a blind spot. Just as she considered a risky descent, the trees parted, revealing a meadow bathed in the golden tears of the midday sun.

And there, in the center of that sun-drenched circle, stood Tamlin.

Callisto gasped, wings flaring momentarily as she watched the scene before her unfold. Tamlin was a warrior sculpted from marble, his face remaining impassive, even with his Spring Court finery torn and stained. Six Naga—scaled serpents with eyes like polished rubies—circled him like hungry wolves. Their obsidian bodies gleamed with malice; their fangs bared in a grotesque parody of a smile.

Callisto's breath hitched, and she told herself that it was for the children. She saw the fear in their eyes as they huddled by the schoolhouse window, their small faces pressed against the glass. Tamlin, ever the protector, stood his ground, his own emerald eyes blazing in defiance.

The Naga pounced.

Their movements were quicksilver, a blur of black scales and razor-sharp claws. Tamlin, weakened by the ambush, parried their attacks with a dance born of desperation. But they were six to one, their blows finding purchase, leaving crimson trails blooming across his skin.

He stumbled, the shift into his beast form incomplete. A guttural roar ripped from his throat, but it was a shadow of its former power.

It was the sight of the blood and the sound of that growl—painful and desperate—that launched Callisto into action.

She didn't hesitate. She tucked her wings, a silent prayer on her lips, and plummeted. The meadow rushed up to meet her, but she ignored it, eyes fixed on the unfolding chaos.

She hit the ground, rolling, dust billowing around her. Her eyes snapped open, seeking him, and there he was, Tamlin, the High Lord of Spring, still standing defiantly in the meadow's center. The earth trembled beneath Callisto's boots, the tremor echoing the fury in her heart. The Naga, startled by this unexpected arrival, turned their heads, their red eyes widening in surprise.

Callisto didn't give them time to react.

With a growl that rivaled Tamlin's, she launched herself into the fray. Her fist, imbued with the raw power of an Illyrian warrior unleashed, slammed into the nearest Naga's head. The creature recoiled, stunned, its scaled face twisted in pain.

The others lunged, but Callisto was a whirlwind of fury. She danced through their attacks, her every blow a testament to the fire that had always burned within her. Wings, once a burden, became extensions of her will, whipping the air with the force of a tempest.