In a dark and deep land lives young Marjorie, a woman desperate for something more than her conventional life in her tiny village, Core. She aches for something dangerous, something like the dark forest, Mirkwood, which borders her home.
Yet, there...
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Marjorie's crimson cape bellowed in the night wind. She twisted her home key inside the silver lock and gave it an experimental tug before she stepped off of her wooden porch.
Around her, men and women made their way to the heart of Core, where Mother River split the village in half. On one side, the Woodsmen and their families—people like Marjorie—lived. On the other, Ravenport— a port home to the few and rich merchants, those who made their living by fishing the river for salmon and, sometimes, even sailed in a boat of imported goods from Beyond, the land that lay farther than Woodsman Landing or Mirkwood.
The full moon shone above, lighting up the cobblestone path to the ports. Like each year, the village feasted on fish, bread and mead. Together, they danced underneath the stars, and when the night grew impossibly dark, firelight led the way home.
Marjorie plaited her long ginger hair back into two loose braids and pulled them over her slender shoulders to frame her heart-shaped face. Like always, she wore her crimson cape, the only surviving relic she had from her late mother. Like every Festival of Eve, the villagers wore their finest dresses and suits.
Tonight, she wore one of her mourning dresses, a black skirt fastened to her cream bodice and ruby-colored corset. Along the spine, golden thread laced together to compress and exaggerate her soft curves. She wore the same leather boots she always did. Years of wear meant that she could dance all she wanted. There was no room for blisters, even with all the moving she would do tonight.
Red lanterns led the way to the port, where the villagers picked and sat at two long banquet tables. Tonight, the people of Ravenport and Core mingled, and in the moonlight, fine fabrics and jewels were concealed by shadows.
In the middle of the growing crowd, one giant bonfire illuminated the village square. Around the pit lined with red cobblestone, a circle of young people ran and danced, hand in hand. They kicked their feet to the flames and threw their heads back in laughter.
Marjorie smiled the moment Petyr caught her eye. He spun with his fellow Woodsmen and their wives, his long limbs wrapped around shoulders and his blonde hair tucked inside a neat braid. He was flooded in golden light. His smile caught the attention of the women swaying nearby.
Petyr paid no mind to them, instead he halted his dancing and walked straight to where Marjorie stood, hiding near the shallows of Mother River and sipping mead.
Eyes followed him the entire way.
"You're hiding," Petyr said.
"I am not," Marjorie objected over the rim of her cup. "I am simply enjoying the performance."
