Archive of Our Own ^beta

Madeline kneels before the king.

The marble floor is veined white and gray like the bones of an old skeleton, and the cold autumn air seeps through the doors, through fabric beneath her armor and skin, deep inside her. She keeps her spine straight, her hands steady against her thighs, her breath steady and calm—just as any knight would. A knight does not yield, not even in the presence of the king himself.

The throne looms above her, too large for this narrow room, too ornate for this old kingdom. Leaves made of gold curl along its armrests and back in elaborate vines, and wild beasts crouch at its base, carved mid-roar. Beside it stands the queen’s smaller seat, where she’d once proudly sat, now draped in black since her passing.

Behind both hangs a great tapestry of Helen, princess of the kingdom.

Helen at an undetermined age, woven forever a young girl and an adult in gold-threaded silk. Helen, rendered in careful stitches and reverent hands. Her eyes are worked in pale green, her hair in fiery red, the thread almost luminous in the filtered light. A beautiful portrayal of an equally beautiful girl, the kingdom's future queen.

And at her center—just below her ribs—there is a space where the embroidery has loosened. Not accidentally torn by time, but pulled back from itself, violently untangled and unraveled, leaving a perfect circle piercing across the princess’ embroidered shape.

Madeline cannot bring herself to look at it for long. She has learned, over the past months, that looking too long makes something inside her feel unstable. The light seems to seep through the torn threads of the tapestry and straight into Madeline's eyes, always forcing her to look away. It’s almost as if the tapestry itself does not want anyone to look at it, perhaps ashamed of its own strange condition.

The court lines the hall in quiet rows. No one speaks above a murmur, only the faint sound of silk rustling and armors creaking cutting through the thick silence.

The king stands before the empty throne, before his devoted court and his devoted knight, his back turned to the twists of thread depicting his daughter’s mysterious fate. He doesn’t look at the tapestry—he hasn’t looked at it since the day Helen disappeared.

Instead, he looks at Madeline. His expression is calm and controlled, but there is something sharp beneath it. An impatient glint behind his green eyes, the same eyes woven in silk, staring at his back, almost pleading.

“Rise.”

Madeline stands in one fluid motion, her light armor whispering as she moves. She keeps her gaze lowered, respectful.

“As you might already know, my daughter,” the king begins, and pauses as if the word tastes unplesant, “has been… afflicted.”

The silence beyond his words thickens. Every person in the room stiffens—everyone except Madeline.

“An unknown ailment has taken root within her. A corruption of some sort. The physicians have no name for it.” His jaw tightens slightly. “Some even dare call it a curse.”

The word hangs in the air.

Curse.

Madeline keeps her expression unperturbed, but her pulse begins to thrum against her ribs. Her eyes flicker to the tapestry. She remembers Helen’s voice echoing down stone corridors, calling her name, sometimes between chuckles, other times an angry scream. Helen’s ink-stained fingers curling around Madeline’s own hands, soft skin against rough skin. Helen’s shoulder brushing hers in passing, in corridors and stables and empty rooms, neither of them stepping away on time.

For a moment, she feels as if Helen’s embroidered portrait is staring back at her.

The king continues speaking, his tone sharper now. “She has withdrawn from court, and refuses examination.” Something dark—anger or fear, Madeline can’t quite tell—flashes across his face. “She refuses obedience.”

Madeline feels her stomach twist uncomfortably. If there’s anything the king has never been able to tolerate, it’s disobedience.

“She wanders somewhere beyond the southern woods now, or so they say,” the king says. “Alone. Villagers whisper all sorts of nonsense about her. They claim,” he continues, voice tensing, “that her body has… altered.”

A soft murmur fills the throne room. The king doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to: everyone knows. Rumors fly, and they have already reached the ears of everyone present. Madeline has heard them too.

They say light slips across her skin like it does across stained glass. That you can look right through her, if you dare to get close enough. They say wind howls through her, and if you listen close enough, you can hear your future in whispers.

They say that she’s looking for something. That there’s a space in her where something else should be.

“She will not allow herself to be brought home,” the king says, and for the first time his composure fractures for a split second. “She has become unreasonable.”

The king descends one step from the dais, away from the safety of his high throne. His boots strike stone with each step.

“You trained together,” he says. This time, he speaks only to Madeline.

Madeline lifts her gaze, forcing herself to look at the man before her, and not at the depiction of his daughter behind him.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You were companions.”

The word is chosen carefully, but they both know the truth. Madeline is Helen's personal rebellion against her parents, against her duty. Her friend, chosen not because of their social standing or their blood, but because they both wanted it.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

He studies her. There is calculation in his eyes, an assessment of the girl before him. Madeline holds his gaze, unwavering. The corner of her mouth twitches, threatening to curl into the faintest of smirks—a challenge to the most powerful man she’s ever met.

At one point, the king hated her. Today, however, he comes to beg her for help.

If Helen were here to witness it, she’d be quite amused.

“You are to retrieve her,” the king says. “Whatever delusion is gripping her, blinding her from reality, you will see it corrected. You will remind her of her duty to the realm, of her role. Of what she owes this kingdom.”

Madeline’s throat feels tight.

“She is not to be indulged,” he says. “If she speaks of foolishness or fantasies of any sort, you will ignore it. If she resists, you will restrain her. She is not well,” the king finishes. “I will not have my heir parading her affliction before the kingdom like some kind of freak show.”

The words sound distant and cold. Not his daughter, but his heir. Without thinking, Madeline’s gaze flickers to the tapestry behind him.

The circle at Helen’s center is larger than she remembers.

“She needs a reminder,” the king says, voice final now. “Of what she is. Of where she belongs.”

Madeline thinks, fleetingly, that perhaps Helen has remembered too clearly.

“As you command,” she says, bowing before her king.

He nods once, already dismissing her, and the court suddenly seems to remember how to breathe. Everyone steps aside to make way for Madeline—not out of respect or admiration, as she so often dreams of, but out of something akin to fear. As if the very affliction that plagues the princess were already affecting her too, and everyone in the court feared becoming infected as well.

Good thing Madeline is a knight, and she isn't afraid of a stupid curse.

This is a quest, a request made by the king himself. This is the first step in Madeline’s path towards glory—if she makes it back home successfully, she’ll be hailed as the hero who saved the princess and the realm. Poets will write sonnets about her; bards will compose songs inspired by her bravery. Her name will go down in history.

Find the princess, end the curse.

As she turns to leave, Madeline lets herself look at the tapestry one last time.

Behind her, in silky red and gold thread, the space at Helen’s center continues to widen.

Madeline rides south, into the long stretch of land where the kingdom begins to thin, the population becomes sparse and the rumors abundant. She knows the way well, has ridden across the dirt paths hundreds of times before—on hunting expeditions with the princess, on exploration missions when relations with neighboring kingdoms were tense.

She rides for what seems like a long time, the steady gait of her loyal steed Stefan beneath her, but her mind far away, somewhere beyond the woods and villages and castles, wherever Helen has decided to hide. Madeline still finds this whole situation entirely too unbelievable. She has to find Helen—the princess of the kingdom herself!—who had not only managed to evade the castle's security to escape in the middle of the night without being seen, but had also found a way to stop any previous attempt at bringing her back.

Why did she leave? Curses could be cured, and the king would surely spare no effort. Was she okay, alone in the woods? And most importantly, would Madeline be able to bring her back? There’s only way to find out, she tells herself as she spurs on Stefan.

Madeline rides past the town surrounding the castle, past the fields surrounding the town, past the hills surrounding the fields. It’s autumn, but today is one of those warm days where you can close your eyes and pretend that summer isn’t gone just yet. A perfect day to ride, so that’s what she keeps on doing, only stopping to drink from a crystalline stream next to the road before continuing, her mind set on finding Helen, on the memory of Helen’s image on the tapestry slowly destroying itself, on the terrifying possibility of Helen’s real body actually doing that.

As the sun threatens to set on the horizon, Madeline finally catches a glimpse of it—the edge of the southern woods, rising before her like an impossibly tall wall of lush trees. The forest has always served as a natural border between kingdoms due to its size and density; venturing into it alone is something only a brave knight or a madman would do.

This is the last place Helen was seen.

A shepherd boy near the road swore he saw an unknown woman walking through the trunks at dusk. He mentioned a flash of a red dress, a shape that did not quite move like humans move. Madeline gave him a golden coin for the information, though she still isn’t sure whether she believes him or not. Some people will say anything to please a knight, either out of fear or out of hope they'll have some coins to spare.

The moon begins to rise, and Stefan’s pace starts to become slower, so when they find a small grove not too far from the edge of the woods, Madeline dismounts, ties the horse to a tree, and makes a small fire to keep herself warm as she curls up on the soft grass, using her small leather bag as a pillow and her arms crossed over her chest as a blanket. It’s certainly not comfortable, but Madeline is a knight, so she’s already used to sleeping under the stars, and there’s always something exciting about it, something that reminds her of the stories her mother would tell her when she was a child and that made her dream of becoming a knight so she could have stories written about her.

Madeline closes her eyes and sleeps. She dreams of a woman watching her beyond the trees.

—

Thunder splits the night apart above Madeline.

She wakes with her hand already reaching for her sword, her pulse loud beneath her skin and breath sharp in her throat. For a moment, she doesn’t remember where she is—all she can think of is Helen, alone somewhere far beyond her reach.

There’s another thunder, so loud and violent that it makes the ground shake beneath Madeline. Lightning follows, white and furious, turning the trees into strange veins against the night. Rain crashes down in the same instant, soaking her cloak and her light armor, drowning the embers of the small fire she’d built. Above her, there’s no night sky, no moon, no stars.

Madeline is on her feet before she feels the ache in her limbs. She stumbles toward Stefan, neighing loudly in fear, trying to free himself from the rope Madeline used to tie him safely to a tree trunk. The mud is already slick beneath her boots, and she can barely see anything.

“Stefan!” she calls, trying to pull at his tether to hold him in place, though she knows it’s futile. “Calm down, please! I’m here!”

Another loud roar in the sky, another flash.

She sees them then: dark shapes, moving just beyond the reach of lightning, slipping between the trees, circling the grove in ominous silence. Bright, wild eyes, watching them in anticipation.

A growl threads through the storm.

Madeline takes a deep breath. Her pulse steadies, the rhythm of her heartbeat familiar and comforting. She’s always worked better under pressure; fear sharpens her senses.

“Back!” she shouts into the dark, drawing her blade. The steel catches lightning and flares, so unnaturally bright that it feels like it has absorbed the storm. But Madeline is no sorcerer, and her sword is nothing but human metal. Still, she takes a step forward, unyielding. “This is your last warning!”

The shapes do not retreat.

Thunder crashes again, closer—so close the ground shudders, making Madeline lose her footing for a moment. Stefan rears, tearing the tethers free from the tree. Madeline lunges for the reins and barely catches them before he bolts.

“Easy, friend,” she says, though it comes out in a shaky breath. That damn horse is too smart for his own good, he can tell Madeline is uneasy and not just because of the wild storm. His muscles tense beneath his rain-slick coat, ready to ride away into safety.

Beyond the trees, another howl rises. It’s longer, fiercer this time. Not a warning anymore, but a threat. Somewhere in the trees behind her, another beast answers.

They are surrounded.

Madeline doesn’t think. She sheathes her blade, throws her bag over one shoulder, and swings into the saddle in one smooth motion, gripping with her knees as she tries to hold on to the soaked reins. Stefan needs no urging—he’s already moving by the time Madeline manages to tell him “Go!”. They burst from the clearing at a reckless gallop. Heavy raindrops blind her, branches whip across her face. The storm erases direction, making the trees appear and disappear in wild flashes of white.

She doesn’t know where they are going. All she can do is trust Stefan, running half-mad with fear, hooves sliding on wet roots. Madeline leans over his neck, one hand tangled in his mane, the other gripping the reins.

“Steady—”

Lightning explodes overhead, lighting up the forest ahead of them almost mockingly. There’s no path ahead, only an endless maze of identical trees, some of them already ravaged by the storm.

Madeline sees the fallen trunk a second too late. She closes her eyes as Stefan tries to clear the obstacle. His hind leg hits the wood, and the world tilts.

Madeline feels herself lift from the saddle, weightless in the darkness of the night—

And then she’s falling.

Madeline wakes to warmth.

For a long, suspended moment, she thinks she’s still falling—the world around her moving in stop motion, the dark sky looming over her as she watches Stefan ride into the night, leaving his rider behind. But there’s no thunder, no lightning. No wild beasts surrounding her. The surface beneath her is soft—a bed, with a feather pillow and a rough but warm crochet blanket covering her body. There’s no rain on her face, no storm, only the low crackle of fireplace and the dense scent of crushed herbs.

She opens her eyes, and wonders if she’ll find herself dead.

Instead, when she glances around her, she doesn’t see heaven or hell. The room is small, with a hearth across the bed keeping the cold from the previous night away. A tiny table, scattered with jars and glass vials containing murky liquids and dried items, sits by the window, the timid rays of the morning sun sneaking through thin linen curtains. The ceiling above her is wooden, crossed with beams strung with drying bundles of all kinds of plants. Madeline recognizes some—lavender, rosemary, sage, plants in Helen’s gardens and books—but most of them she cannot name.

Madeline can instantly tell: this is either the house of a botanist, a cook, or someone much more dangerous.

She tries to pull herself out of the bed, but pain answers from every single one of her nerves at once. Her shoulder screams at the faintest movement. Her ribs protest when she inhales too sharply. Her head feels as though it has been struck with a flail. Her vision goes blurry when she sits up.

At least I’m alive, she thinks.

Her armor and boots are gone; someone has undressed her down to her linen shirt and bound her ribs with careful hands. When she licks her dry lips, feeling her throat beg for water, she can still feel the coppery taste of blood on her tongue.

Even though her body begs her not to move, Madeline tries again. Her sword is leaning against the wall, wiped clean as if has never been used in combat ever before. She stands from the bed, hands itching to feel the comfortable and reliable weight of the hilt between her tired fingers.

She moves too quickly, and the world tilts again. Thankfully, the bed is there to soften the fall after Madeline stumbles back, though the blow on her pride is deadly.

“If I’d known you were trying to get yourself killed, I wouldn’t have helped you,” a voice says.

Madeline’s hand goes instinctively toward where her dagger should be strapped to her thigh. It isn’t there, of course, so all Madeline gets is a sharp jab of pain that flashes all the way from her fingers to her neck.

Across the room, near the hearth, stands a woman.

Madeline forgets how to breathe. The sleeves of her purple dress are rolled up to her elbows. Dark hair falls perfectly over her shoulders, framing a face with a dark, inquisitive eyes. She is, without a shadow of doubt, the most beautiful woman Madeline has ever seen. So beautiful, in fact, that Madeline thinks she might not be entirely human, but rather one of those creatures that fables are written about—a mermaid, a nymph perhaps.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” the woman says rather flatly. Her expression is neither welcoming nor hostile.

Madeline forces herself to hold the woman’s gaze, though the pain blazing through her aching limbs makes her vision flicker.

“Where… Where am I?”

“In my home.”

The answer is simple, but for all Madeline knows, this ‘home’ could be anywhere in the world, far beyond the woods. Maybe somewhere in the sea, a small island that only magic can reach. Maybe in an entirely different dimension, a place fit for a witch. She could be dead, and this could be the beginning of her eternal torture in hell.

The woman turns back to the hearth and stirs something in a small iron pot. The smell shifts to something earthy and slightly spicy. It makes Madeline’s stomach growl quietly. She doesn’t know how long she’s spent unconscious, but she’s starting to suspect that it’s been a little longer than a single stormy night.

“You’re the witch,” Madeline says.

The woman glances at her over her shoulder. Her dark eyes glint with something dangerous. “Is that what they’re calling me now?”

“Viola,” Madeline says, the slightest tremble on her voice. She tells herself it must be the ache in her bones. A knight should never be afraid of anything. “You’re Viola, right?”

“Ah,” the woman says after a beat. Her tone softens ever so slightly and Madeline’s breathing steadies. “So you do know my name.”

The witch—Viola—moves away from the hearth and heads for the table. Her slender hands open and close the various jars, putting ingredients away and taking them out, silently observing the contents of the vials as if searching for something. Madeline studies her more closely now, still struck by her beauty and her poise. Viola is nothing like the witches she’s heard stories about—evil crones, decrepit monsters of pure evil. She’s not old. Not young, either. She’s just… a woman.

“You saved me,” Madeline mumbles, almost in disbelief.

Viola raises an eyebrow. She looks like she’s seriously wondering if Madeline might have suffered a concussion. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“I thought you might be someone else, but then I saw you fall down the ravine and on top of my garden,” Viola says, shrugging. “You ruined my lavender.”

Madeline almost smiles in spite of herself. “I am grateful.”

Viola doesn’t answer. For someone who made the effort to save Madeline and tended to her wounds, she doesn’t seem particularly interested in her guest. She lifts the pot from the flame and pours the contents into a porcelain cup. Steam curls upward as a warm, spicy smell reaches Madeline’s nostrils.

“You were riding blind under that storm,” Viola says, her gaze fixated on the cup between her hands. “Either very brave or very foolish.”

Madeline tests her strength and manages to stand. Pain flares in all of her limbs, but it’s bearable for now. With trembling legs, crosses the small room slowly, too aware of how exposed she is, of how dangerous the situation actually is. No armor, no blade within her reach. A witch standing before her.

Viola is right. Brave and foolish.

“Both,” Madeline accepts.

That earns her a brief glance. Viola makes a small noise, something akin to a reluctant chuckle. Madeline swears she sees the slightest curl of her lips, but it’s gone in a moment.

Her legs can’t hold her up for too long, so she takes a seat at the table. Much to her surprise, Viola does the same. She hands her the porcelain cup, her expression unreadable.

“Drink.”

Madeline hesitates. For all her beauty, Viola is still a witch, and one with quite the reputation.

“What is that?”

“A tonic,” Viola answers, simple and quick. It doesn’t ease Madeline’s suspicions, but she seems honest—in the way witches can be honest, at least. “It’ll help with the pain.”

“How do I know you’re not trying to poison me?”

“I saved your life before, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you—”

Viola doesn’t let her finish. “If I wanted you dead, Madeline Ashton,” she says, Madeline’s name spoken like a curse, “you would be dead by now.”

Cold fear settles in Madeline’s bones. Viola glares at her, something strange and unfamiliar in her eyes. Madeline’s instincts activate. She glances around the room, searching for a way out. She considers the door, the window. The ache in her every bone.

She drinks.

The liquid is sharp and tangy, then sweet, burning its way down her throat. Warmth blooms inside her veins and her nerves. Within moments, the pain dulls—not vanishing, but ebbing.

She closes her eyes, letting her breathing deepen, her fingers steady.

Viola watches her closely, as if studying the effects of her potion.

“You heal quickly,” the witch says.

“I’m a knight,” Madeline replies. “I’m stronger than most.”

“I can see that,” Viola says, not kindly.

Silence settles between them, not uncomfortable but dense. Now that the pain has subsided, Madeline's mind begins to clear. She has so many questions that she doesn't know where to start. She needs to know how long she has been in the witch's house, exactly where in the forest she is. She needs to know how to get back on the path to continue her quest. She needs…

Madeline sets the cup on the table, loud and sudden. “Stefan,” she says, breathless. “My—my horse. Where is…?”

“Alive,” Viola says. “He found his own way out of the woods. Smarter than his rider, as most horses are.”

The knot in Madeline’s chest loosens. Relief moves through her so quickly it nearly buckles her knees again.

“Thank you.” Madeline exhales. “How… How can you possibly know?”

Viola waves her hand, not interested in more of Madeline’s gratitude anymore, and even less interested in her stupid questions. “I’m a witch, aren’t I?”

Madeline considers it. As far as she’s aware, Viola has saved her life, taken care of her for an unknown amount of time, and given her what seems to be a healing potion. Perhaps Madeline owes her some trust.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care,” Viola says curtly. “I would like to know, however, what brings a knight this deep into my forest. As you might already know, I want nothing to do with that kingdom of yours, and I know your king doesn't want anything to do with me either.”

If Madeline intended to lie about her quest, any chance of doing so successfully vanishes upon hearing Viola's question. The pain and the strange encounter with the witch have distracted her, but suddenly the memory of Helen—Helen cursed, Helen’s body pierced by unknown magic—appears in her mind, clear as day.

Viola tilts her head, waiting for an answer. She knows, Madeline can tell, so she doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“The king has tasked me with finding princess Helen,” Madeline explains, avoiding Viola’s gaze. She feels a kind of shame whenever she mentions Helen’s mysterious escape from the castle. “She was last seen near these woods.”

Viola stills, only for a fraction of a second—but Madeline sees it. A clue, found in the strangest of places.

“She’s been missing for weeks now,” Madeline continues carefully. “They say she’s cursed.”

“That’s one way to call it,” Viola says.

Madeline’s heart skips a beat upon understanding the meaning behind Viola's words.

“You’ve seen her.”

It’s not a question.

Viola stands, walking away from the table to rearrange some jars that do not need rearranging on the small shelf over the hearth.

“One can see all kind of oddities in these woods.”

Madeline, feeling steadier now that the tonic is starting to settle in her muscles, also stands and follows Viola.

“Is she harmed?”

“That depends on what you mean by ‘harmed’.”

Madeline’s jaw tightens. She takes a step closer to Viola, who doesn’t waver.

“Is she dying?”

The answer comes clean and certain. “No.”

Madeline swallows. Hope catches at the edge of her heart like a fishing hook. As long as Helen is alive, their destiny is not set in stone just yet. As long as Helen is alive, Madeline will be able to find her. She would search every corner of the world looking for her and never tire. As long as Helen is alive, Madeline will be able to bring her home.

“Then what has happened to her?”

Viola holds her gaze.

“Why are you here, Madeline Ashton?”

“The king has tasked me—”

“I heard you the first time,” the witch interrupts, and her voice echoes in all of Madeline’s bones. “That is not what I asked.”

Madeline hesitates. What answer is the witch expecting? What kind of riddle is she trying to make Madeline solve? There are so many things she could say. Because it’s her duty. Because the king needs his heir back. Because it’ll make her a hero. Because Helen is—

Her thoughts falter.

“I knew—I know her,” she says instead.

Viola’s gaze sharpens. “So what?”

“We grew up together.”

“That means nothing to most people.”

Madeline’s throat feels unexpectedly tight. “She’s my oldest friend. I can’t—I won’t let her go, not like this. She means something to me and to the kingdom, way more than she knows. I won’t let her disappear and become a scary story to tell children before bed.”

Viola studies her as if she is one of her strangely colored vials. She’s entirely unfazed, not moved at all by Madeline’s little speech.

“You already did,” she says.

The words land right between Madeline’s ribs. She stiffens, breath knocked out of her lungs as if struck. Fear creeps down her spine, into her veins and her bones. She feels her chest being ripped open by the barbed edges of that little hook of hope. Helen, already lost. No, it can’t be.

“I have done nothing to her.”

“Haven’t you?”

The room—the entire world—feels suddenly smaller.

“I would never harm Helen,” Madeline says, more fiercely than she intends.

It's a lie. Madeline knows it's a lie. Viola knows it's a lie. Helen, wherever she is, knows it's a lie. Time and again, Madeline has done things with the intention of harming Helen. ‘Accidentally’ severing the skirts of her favorite dress with her sword. Making fun of her horse-riding skills. Trampling the flowers she worked so hard to grow in her personal garden. Flirting with the stable boy who always makes her blush.

Madeline is a knight. She knows how to wield the blade. It’s all she knows.

The witch says nothing for a long moment and Madeline fleetingly considers begging for her help. Asking Viola to curse her instead in order to free Helen. But Viola isn’t that kind of witch and Madeline isn’t that kind of knight.

“She has been here.” Viola says quietly. “She does not stay long anywhere.”

“Is she—alone?”

“Yes.”

That word falls heavy between them.

Madeline exhales slowly, trying not to think of Helen, wandering the world alone for eternity, the hole in her chest growing bigger and bigger each day.

“Where did she go?”

Viola does not answer immediately. Instead, she moves to the window, pushing the linen aside just enough to let in a slant of brighter light. For a brief moment, Madeline thinks that she’s looking for something—or someone.

“She thinks she’s already been abandoned,” Viola says. “She didn’t want my pity nor my company.”

Madeline flinches.

“You care for her,” Viola continues. Not an accusation, not a question. Just a simple observation.

Madeline opens her mouth to deny it, but no sound comes out of her throat.

“Do not look so startled,” the witch says. “You are not subtle.”

“I am—I am a knight.”

“Yes, you've made that clear,” Viola agrees dryly. “And you're also a rather poor liar.”

Madeline’s hands curl at her sides. Her fingers itch to reach for her sword. “If you know where she is, tell me.”

“Why should I?” Viola asks, her tone mocking. “She doesn’t want to be found.”

“Because I am the only one who can reach her.”

Viola tilts her head, considering Madeline’s words.

“Perhaps,” she says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Madeline demands.

Viola crosses the room again, stopping just within Madeline’s space. In spite of herself, Madeline takes a step back. Viola’s gaze isn’t threatening nor gentle, but Madeline’s instincts keep telling her to stay away from her. She’s dangerous, she reminds herself. A flower, beautiful yet poisonous.

“Not all wounds are caused by blades,” Viola says evenly.

Madeline feels the echo of a thought she has been refusing to finish since the villages and the fields and the hills.

“She’s not cursed,” she says slowly.

Viola’s mouth curves faintly—a smile, honest. Madeline’s breath catches.

“She definitely is, but—all curses are different. More often than not, they’re nothing but a convenience,” Viola says knowingly. “They spare everyone the discomfort of truth.”

“The truth?”

The witch studies her face with unnerving care.

“Sometimes,” she says, “when love has nowhere to go, it finds a way to carve out a place for itself.”

Madeline’s insides are burning up, blood boiling, pulse beating wild beneath her skin.

“Love?” she asks, voice venomous with disbelief. “What could a witch possibly know about love?”

Viola's smile disappears. Her gaze darkens, and all the gravity in the room seems to suddenly pull towards her. More than ever, she looks like a witch from the tales Madeline heard as a child—powerful and terrifying.

“Be careful with questions you ask,” Viola says, “and who you ask them to, Madeline Ashton.”

Madeline lowers her head, clenching her fists, her whole body shaking with fear and rage. Her voice is barely steady when she speaks. “Can it be undone?”

“That depends,” she says, “on whether you are brave enough to give back what you took from her.”

The words lodge beneath Madeline’s ribs like a knife. If she pulls them out, she’ll bleed to death, so she lets them stay inside her chest, inside her heart and soul.

“You speak as if you know,” she says quietly.

Viola’s expression closes. She looks outside the window again, past her ruined garden, past the empty grove where she waits alone for someone who might not come. Toward the forest beyond, where Helen is hiding somewhere.

For the first time, something almost human—almost raw—flickers there.

“Something happened,” the witch says after a moment. “It was a long time ago.”

She does not elaborate.

Madeline doesn’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t know what to do with the understanding of someone she’s been taught to fear.

“She’s deeper in the wood,” the witch says. “Beyond the lake in the west, where the red flowers bloom all year long. There’s a cave there. It’s a good place to hide.”

Relief and dread arrive together. Madeline exhales, feeling as though she was breathing for the first time in her life.

“Thank you,” she says earnestly. “Thank you, Viola.”

Viola retrieves a small glass vial from the table and presses it into Madeline’s hand. Another tonic, she guesses. The liquid is purple and bright, almost glowing against her the calloused palm of her hand.

“This one is for the road,” Viola says. “You will need your strength.”

Madeline straightens instinctively, testing her weight against the solid ground. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, feeling the healing potion tingling faintly beneath her skin. The pain is manageable now. Distant, almost forgotten.

The wonders Viola could do, if people hadn’t chosen to be afraid of her for no reason.

“You could have let me die out there,” Madeline says, her fingers closing around the vial.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Viola’s mouth tilts again, not quite a smile.

“No matter what your king might say, I am not cruel,” she says. “Merely particular.”

Madeline inclines her head. A knight’s bow, stripped of ceremony. Something usually reserved for only those above her—the king, her captain. Madeline believes Viola has earned it.

Silently, Madeline picks up her armor and puts it back on slowly, meticulously. Each piece is a reminder of her quest. The weight of the metal on her limbs is pleasant and familiar, helping her to keep herself grounded. She grabs her sword and her bag, safely storing the vial inside.

Viola waits by the door, arms crossed over her chest and her expression surprisingly gentle.

“I will not fail her,” Madeline says.

Viola’s gaze sharpens.

“Do not make promises that you cannot keep,” she replies.

Madeline doesn’t answer, not now. She’ll answer when she proves Viola wrong—when she finds Helen and brings her back. She steps into the trees, alone in front of the woods, alone in front of her fate. Somewhere beyond the thicket, Helen is waiting for her.

Behind her, the cabin door closes.

Madeline walks. She walks for minutes that turn into hours, walks until the day becomes night, and then sleeps under the stars, knowing deep in her heart that no storm will divert her from her path this time because she knows her destiny now, so she sleeps until the sun begins to timidly rise over the tops of the trees and then she’s back on her feet, her body tingling with energy as if she never fell from her horse. Besides the strange vial, Viola was also kind enough to hide a loaf of bread inside her bag, so when the sun is high enough in the sky Madeline eats and drinks the contents of the vial, sitting against the trunk of a birch tree, thinking of how she’d like to find a way to thank Viola for everything she’s done for her, with the warmth of food in her stomach and the strength of the potion in her veins.

The deeper she goes, the less the forest resembles the one she’s seen on maps and paintings, the one she’s read about in books. Light thins and sounds quiet. The grass is taller, untouched, and the trees are so tall that all she can see above her head is an endless sea of green and orange leaves. Even the birds seem to turn their tiny bodies away from something further in.

She knows what waits ahead.

Viola talked about a lake, red flowers, a cave. A runaway princess the kingdom has already turned into a myth.

Madeline curls her fingers around the hilt of her sword and keeps walking.

Pine needles muffle her steps, cracking softly underneath her boots. The air smells of wet bark and fresh grass, the storm still lingering in the air. Her mind wanders fleetingly back to the castle, back to the nights watching the city under the rain while her gaze kept flickering to the faint candlelight coming from Helen’s window.

Viola’s voice follows her with every step. That depends whether you are brave enough to give back what you took from her. But the question still hangs heavy over her shoulders—what did she take from Helen?

Madeline presses her palm flat against her chest over her breastplate, as if she might feel something beating there—something stolen, not hers.

If she’s really taken something from her, it wasn’t intentional. She’d never choose to do that. A knight doesn’t choose to steal from her princess, her future queen. Knights choose duty. They choose crowns. They choose bright futures for their kingdoms and safety and protection. But perhaps there was something else she could have chosen. The way someone watched her when they thought she wasn’t looking. The silence thickening between two girls standing too close as they walk down the corridor. The warmth that rises unbidden late at night, when a girl sneaks out of her room, past the guards and past the rules, to sit by her friend in the gardens to talk about nothing and everything.

Madeline thinks—Madeline hopes—that it’s not too late to make that choice.

Branches scratch along her shoulders as the forest tightens around her and the path, or whatever her instincts call a ‘path’, narrows to a thread between brambles. The trees thin suddenly, revealing a small clearing cupped around clear water. The lake lies unnaturally still—no insects, no wind disturbing its surface.

Madeline stops at the water’s edge.

She could still turn back. If she returned to the kingdom with a made-up story, everyone would believe her. Everyone would believe whatever they wanted to believe, anyway. She could tell them that the princess is lost beyond saving, that the curse consumed her and there was nothing to be done. People would mourn Helen, praise Madeline’s bravery. The king would find another heir in his many nieces and nephews, and he would not shed a single tear for his daughter, always too sensitive and unfit for a queen.

Helen would be alone forever, and so would Madeline.

Her reflection stares up at her from the lake’s surface.

When she lifts up her gaze, she sees it: on the far side of the lake, half-hidden by ivy and stone, is the mouth of a cave.

Outside, there are no guards or signs, unlike what you could find before Helen’s room back in the castle. There’s no sign of anyone here, except the words of a witch that Madeline shouldn’t trust but does with all her heart. Inside, the air is cool and smells faintly of damp stone and wild herbs. When Madeline takes a step, only the echo of her armor against the rock answers. She listens closely, trying to make out any sound, any sign that the princess is actually there.

Just silence.

Madeline takes a deep breath. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, her heart loud against her ribs.

“Helen?” she calls.

Her voice sounds wrong here, the rock repeating her words like they’re mocking her.

She makes her way through the dark cave, calling Helen's name from time to time, never receiving a response beside the echo. She walks for what it feels like hours, lighting the torch inside her bag so as not to get lost in the darkness of the long stone path.

Just when she’s starting to think that perhaps Viola was wrong, she sees it. Something shines at the end of the tunnel.

An exit.

Madeline doesn’t think. She runs toward the light until it becomes bigger and bigger, until it becomes an opening on the stone, until it becomes a small grove, hiding somewhere beyond the lakes and the woods and the kingdom.

There is silence as Madeline tries to recover her breath. Then, a voice:

“I knew he would end up sending you here.”

Helen steps from the deeper shadow of the trees as if she has always been standing there.

Her auburn hair falls loose over her shoulders. Her dress is simple, travel-worn but clean. Her hands are steady, holding some small branches and plants between against her body. She looks the same.

Except for the fact that the woods beyond are visible through her.

The hole in her body is not grotesque. It’s not a bloody wound, the same Madeline has seen and caused battle. It’s perfectly circular, as if the world has taken a careful bite from her abdomen and left the rest intact. Around it, the fabric of her dress has burned to match the shape. Madeline thinks it must be part of the curse—forcing itself to be seen.

“It’s you,” she says, before she can stop herself.

Helen’s mouth tilts. Not quite a smile, but enough to make Madeline’s chest ache.

“It’s me.”

Madeline takes one step forward, then stops, as if approaching a wounded animal. Helen stands still, glued to the very same spot Madeline found her, but there’s wariness in her eyes. She’s been running for a while, and she will do it again if needed, Madeline knows.

“I came to bring you home.”

“I know,” Helen replies. “They must be very worried.”

They. Madeline feels the word like a blade sliding between flesh. Helen thinks she’s here out of duty, not out of genuine care for her.

“You should not be here alone,” Madeline says. It sounds absurd even to her ears. Helen has survived this long without her.

“I like being alone,” Helen says. “It spares me the shame of having others look at me.”

Madeline feels her cheek flush with shame, and moves her gaze away from the hole. Just like the tapestry, she cannot look at it for long. The light through it bends slightly, distorts. When a breeze passes over the grove, it moves through Helen as well, whistling softly.

“I met Viola.”

Helen raises an eyebrow with amused interest. “And she tolerated you enough to let you live?”

“She saved my life,” Madeline says. “She told me where to find you. She said… She said it was my fault.”

“Your fault?”

“She said it’s my fault you’re cursed, Helen.”

Helen’s gaze sharpens. Scoffing, she moves and places the branches and plants in a small cane basket next to the twisted roots of a tree. She wipes her hands on her skirt, which flutters gently in the wind.

“You shouldn’t be here, Madeline,” Helen says, not looking at her. “Go back and tell them I’m dead. That all you could find where some bones. You’ll return as a hero, just like you always wanted, and everyone will forget about me soon enough. It’s the best—for all of us.”

“I don’t want to be a hero,” Madeline says. She takes a step closer to Helen, but stops when she sees her flinch. “Not if it means leaving you behind.”

Helen turns slowly to her, studying her face, searching for something that might fracture under pressure.

“Don’t lie to me. You’ve never cared about leaving me behind.” Her voice is cold but firm. Like she’s thought about this before and now she finally gets to say it out loud. “You were more than happy making fun of me, of the way I talked, the way I carried myself. You said I had no talent for books or blades. You said I would only be loved for my status, never for who I am. So tell me, Madeline,” she says, and there’s the slightest crack in her voice, “why should I believe it when you say that you care about me?”

For a long moment, Madeline just stares at her in silence. All the speeches she prepared on the road scatter like frightened birds.

Her sword slips from her hand. It strikes the ground with a thud, but Madeline isn’t listening. Instead, she’s quick on her feet, moving towards Helen.

Her knees hit the ground hard enough to bruise.

Helen inhales sharply.

“Madeline—”

But Madeline bows her head. The posture is older than both of them, it comes to Madeline by instinct: knight before queen, blade before crown.

Before Helen.

“I was sworn to protect you,” she says, voice rough with something she has never allowed herself to feel. “But I didn’t. Instead, I tried to hurt you. I envied you. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I fought, you would always be more powerful than me. Because you are a princess and I am nobody. So I looked for ways to hurt you, to feel better than you.” She presses her face against Helen's body, against her warm skin and the edge of her curse. “I didn’t realize I would need to protect you from myself.”

The air that passes through the hollow in Helen’s body brushes Madeline’s damp cheeks. She forces herself to look up.

The sight of it steals the breath from her lungs—that perfect circle, and then, Helen’s eyes, filled with a deep-set sadness Madeline has never seen before.

This is all her fault.

“Forgive me,” she whispers. She offers the words like she would offer her own chest to be pierced by a blade, as long as Helen is the one wielding it. “I saw it. I felt it. The way you looked at me. The way my body craved to be near yours. I might be a knight, but I’m also a coward. I thought if I buried it, it would spare us both.” A broken cry escapes her throat. “I never wanted my love to curse you.”

Helen doesn’t move or speak, but Madeline can feel the slight tremble of her body beneath her fingertips.

“I thought you’d never choose me.” Her voice sends a shiver down Madeline’s spine. She lifts up her gaze again to meet Helen’s eyes. “When I realized there was no hope for this—for the way I felt about you—I tried to bury it. I was stupid. I didn’t realize—” She chuckles quietly, sadly. “Love doesn’t just shrink and disappear. It has to go somewhere.”

One of her hands moves, fingers tenderly tangling in Madeline's hair, caressing her cheek. Madeline leans into the touch, surprised of how desperately she wants it.

She’d forgotten how much she missed this. How she felt an unspeakable ache in her chest on those days when Helen was away in her lessons or visiting some kingdom far away, and all Madeline could do was think of her, wonder if Helen was thinking of her too. She couldn't have lived like this much longer, she now realizes. She would have gone mad.

She sees it so clearly now. That hollowness exists in her, too.

Madeline stands, pulling her body away from Helen’s for a second until she’s on eye level with her, close but not too close. Never close enough, when it comes to Helen. She reaches forward, hesitant. Her hands move not as a knight, but as a supplicant seeking absolution. Her fingers hover near the edge of the hollow. Helen flinches, but doesn’t push her away.

“If I’m the reason for this burden, let me bear what I can. If there is space in you carved by my absence, then let me fill it with my presence. If this burden must exist, then let it belong to us both,” Madeline says. “If it’s your heart that you lost, I’ll give you half of mine. If it’s a life that you need, I’ll give you mine.”

Devotion is a knight’s most precious value. Madeline always believed that was her fatal flaw, she couldn’t bring herself to truly devote her life to the kingdom, or the crown, or duty. But now, standing in front of Helen, she means every word when she says she would give her life to her. She wants to press her body against Helen’s, fill every empty space caused by her selfishness and her fears.

“I am yours to forgive or cast aside,” she says quietly. “But I am yours forever.”

Helen’s eyes are bright, not with tears. It makes Madeline think of the image of Helen woven into the tapestry, so beautiful yet so distant.

“You are too late to save me,” Helen says.

Madeline nods. “Then I won’t.”

Helen’s hand rises and covers Madeline’s where it rests, near the edge of Helen’s hollowness. So close that Madeline could move her hand and reach for Helen’s heart, hold it close between her fingers so nobody, not even Madeline herself, could hurt it again.

“Do you understand what you are giving up?” Helen asks.

“The kingdom?” Madeline almost smiles. “That means nothing to me without you there.”

Helen shakes her head.

“Everything you’ve fought for will be gone. Your dreams, your story,” Helen says gravely. “All of that will be gone the moment you choose not to return. There won’t be songs and poems written about you. Children won’t be told stories about your heroic deeds. Your name will be just one of many, forgotten. Is that what you really want?”

Madeline thinks of the tapestry—of red and gold thread woven in the shape of a girl she knew. A beautiful memory that the kingdom will forever keep, but so far removed from Helen’s actual existence it might as well be someone else.

“Let them have their stories,” she says. “I have mine right here.”

Helen studies her one last time, searching for hesitation, for doubt.

All she finds is her knight.

Slowly, deliberately, Helen leans in and presses her lips to the corner of Madeline's mouth. It’s a forbidden gesture for royalty and a commoner, for a princess and her knight, but neither of them cares anymore. The castle is far away now. The kingdom is but a distant memory in their minds. All that matters is here, in this grove, in this enchanted forest, in the space between them.

Madeline feels something shift inside her own chest. A loosening, a yielding. A pain that rips her open, then stitches her back up. A burden that is no longer only Helen’s.

It belongs to both of them.

The trees around them rustle softly, the wind howling quietly between the trunks and the bushes. Suddenly, the place no longer feels frozen in time, but more alive than ever. It’s like the world has been set back into motion.

“We won't go back,” Helen says.

“No,” Madeline agrees.

“We’ll find another place. Somewhere far beyond this kingdom and these woods.” Her hands tremble slightly as she presses her fingertips against the warm skin of Madeline’s hands. “Let’s run away and never look back. Let’s find a place that’s only for us. A home of our own.”

Madeline gently takes her hand, brings it to her lips to press a soft kiss on her knuckles.

“Whatever my queen desires.”

She intertwines their fingers together and starts walking into the woods.

Her sword lies forgotten on the ground. The small fire that Helen had built is already starting to die. The world beyond the cave is calling for them, but neither of them looks back. Neither of them wants to.

By morning, the kingdom will wonder. In a few days, rumors will start to blossom. Perhaps they will say the witch devoured them. Perhaps they will say the curse consumed them both. In a few months, the king will declare them both dead, and Madeline’s mission, a failure. The kingdom will mourn. Perhaps, in a generation, they will be nothing more than a cautionary tale told to rebellious daughters. Helen will be nothing but an empty tombstone in the royal family's graveyard, and the kingdom that once claimed to love her will forget her. Madeline will be one of many knights, fallen in combat, lost during a quest, a brave and loyal subject that died for her kingdom but who didn't achieve anything worth writing down in history books.

Or perhaps they will become something else entirely. Two figures woven into tapestries and paintings and story books. A legend passed down from mothers to children, a tale shared between girls holding each other too close while hiding from the world. A memory told by a witch to a woman who finally came to visit. A dream for princesses who want more and a nightmare for their fathers. A mystery for brave, lonely knights to solve. A song to be sung or a legend to be written.

They’ll be forgotten, and they’ll be remembered, and they’ll be together.