(1307 AD, March 27. Day 1)

  HER GRANDMOTHER HAD always warned her that the Lichwood caged a great menagerie of beasts. Creatures of old and new, born of moss and mud, lurking deep within that fortress of bone-white sentinels. Things that aught not to be spoken of, least of all sought. Things that should be left well alone, if not avoided entirely. Regardless of the tale, the moral of her grandmother's stories had always been the same; do not enter the forest. Those who ventured into the jaws of the Lichwood did not return.

  Not that she could have entered the Lichwood even if she wished. The Raging River was all that separated them from whatever lived beyond that tree line, and it was, somehow, enough. Neither man nor beast crossed the aqueduct. Even in the deepest winters it did not freeze, and in the warm summers the thrashing waters were backlit with the brightly coloured bellies of spawning fish.

  Despite all her grandmother's warnings, her ranting and raving and promises worn into fire, there she stood; rain-slick and shivering. Barefoot at the edge of the river when she saw a ghost emerge from between the trees.

  An apparition with the face of her sister.

  She stared across the bank, at that almost perfect rendering of her idol and felt her blood run cold. It had not even been six months since they had received the letter informing them of her death. The wound still hurt to touch, that gaping hole that had been left behind that day the Senate kicked down their cottage door and dragged her sister screaming from their home. Once she had believed that within their little corner of the world, they were safe. As if some magic really did live within the runes carved above the front door, at least enough to keep malevolent spirits at bay. But it had not been enough that day, nor all the ones after when the plague came knocking.

  Wraithlike draped in tattered linen but alive nonetheless, the figure looked lucent despite the thundering downpour and the dark that had long begun to settle.

  It was the curved horns protruding from her sister's skull that gave her pause, to wonder at what stood before her, an apparition? Or was this one of those wicked forest faeries her grandmother had forewarned, a malignant spirit intent on cruelty. All the things wrong with it suddenly seemed so obvious, the skin so pale it was almost translucent, the creature, whatever it was, stared back; with wet unblinking eyes, grey as ditch water and cut a saccharine smile. Though the words were caught in the roaring tumble of the river, she saw her sisters lips to move, beckoning.

  Ascella.

  She jolted, her name ringing through her skull as clearly as a bell. She could have even sworn to feel a hiss of breath against her neck, plainly as if her sister had whispered into her ear. A shiver crawled down her spine and the fine hairs on her nape stood on end.

  Come to me, sweet sister.

  Across the river her sister raised a ghostly pale arm, outstretched and fingers grasping as if for an invisible string. Then Ascella felt it, the earth beneath her feet beginning to rumble and saw the river boiling to froth as from its depths rose seven stone pillars, rising above the foamy broth. There was an almost illusive quality to her, the outer edges of her facade glittering like sunlight on steam.

  Be with me, Ascella, and I will show you a great many things.

  With a flick of her arm the river fell flat, sedated to a stillness she had never seen, even the ripples of rain rounded as the pillars became stepping stones, echoing the call of her sister.

  All her life she had heard tales of magic, night after night Ascella had begged for the stories until she was almost certain that her grandmother had long ran out of originals and just began making them up as she went along. Surely it was impossible for such a great many things, for such magic and wonder and horror to all be contained within within the tree line, to be overthrown by people like her, so mortal and fleshy soft. Men with no greater power than words and no greater force than the swords and bows they wielded, paltry to such an ancient horde. Ascella knew they left by choice, no one could convince her otherwise. Not if the fae were really all people said they were; so adroit with lies and trickery.

  Now confronted with her first taste of magic she knew it all to be true, every heinous tale she had ever heard. Every doubt she had ever dare let fester had been blown away as easily as cobwebs at the sight of such raw power. Power she now felt thrumming through her bones as vividly as the sodden mulch of mud beneath her feet.

  Her body was not her own, her movements arrested, captured in the thrall of familiarity. Her sisters smile became became the yank of puppet strings, urging her across the water as she stepped warily onto the first of the seven stones, half expecting it to falter beneath her feet. Ascella tried to force down the terror that she may fall into the water and disappear like every other man that had ever dared set foot upon the river. No matter how still seemed, she expected it to lash back to life at any given moment and swallow her whole; though her heart quieted a little when she felt the first stone was sturdy. Only a foot of open water separated each of the stones, and yet each felt like a mile, every step became more frightening than the last as she became further and further from the safety of the village. On the fifth stone she overstepped, arms windmilling to keep from toppling.

  There was a horrid moment when she thought she was going over, until the wind whipped at her hair and dress with such force it righted her. Ascella fought the urge to sink to her knees and clutch the stone, all the while her heart felt like it was pounding in her head. She tried to inhale long and slow to calm the horrid thrashing of her heart in her chest, it had become a raging thing, a madman intent on escape. She held that intake until her lungs bellowed and her vision swam before she let it go, a shaking rattle of breath.

  Ascella had never felt more traitorous than when she tore her gaze from that effigy of her eldest sister, allowing herself one last agonising glance back at the village. Even from here, she could see the plumes of pale grey smoke she knew to belong their cottage. Astra was burning damp wood again, impatient as always, despite how many times Ascella had explicitly told her not to. She knew how it irritated their mother's already ailing lungs.

  The moment she turned away there was a flurry of movement as the faerie turned and bolted.

  Ascella was running before she realised it. The remaining two stones flying underfoot, suddenly incidental as she leaped on to the mossy bank, all at once adept with foreign grace. Except these lands were unfamiliar, the forest twisted and queer.

  Little light permeated the thick canopy of sentinals and the forest was far darker than she had expected, eyes straining to keep track of her sister's shimmering form darting through the undergrowth, hurtling fast as a fallen star through the forest. Ascella was a little less refined, brambles snatching at her skirts, in seconds shredding what had once been years upon years of needlework, both her grandmother's and her own. She tried not to think of the painstaking hours it would take to patch back together, let alone trying to explain it to her grandmother or the fact that she had used the last of their thread weeks ago fixing Astra's veil. Instead Ascella focused on feeling the frigid bite of wind was against her bare legs, the hot flush of blood creeping into her face as she ran flat-out for the first time in years. Sprinted. Became a wild thing tearing through the backwards forest, drunk as a Dathmari on the thrill of the chase. Sentinals leered across the sky, those skeletal arms arching out in stark relief against the harvest moon. The sky had not been nearly so dark when she entered, belying more wicked at work in the forest than just asingle solitary faerie.

  The more she looked the more she noticed, footsteps faltering as she fell into a clearing. Even the trees did not move as they should, black leaves blotting out the strange moonlight like ink in water; a curling cloud of ash that suffocated the night. Ascella stopped dead, turning in place in the heart of the minor glade; something was wrong, she could feel it in her gut. In that horrid gnawing guilt that coiled in the pit of her stomach. Which way had she come? She span again, each time more frantic than the last but no matter which way she turned none of it looked familiar and Ascella swore the sentinals had shifted. The Lichwood had swallowed her trail. Perhaps that was the magic of the forest, she thought with sickening terror, to entice and trap her in an ever-changing maze. Was that what had happened to the others? — To Seren?

  No. Ascella shook herself, she just had to think.

  Then a ripple of ghostly white, weaving itself between the trees, little more than a whisper of fabric carried on a wind Ascella could not feel. It was only then she became aware of just how still the air stood, stagnant with a weight she could not trace but thrummed against her nonetheless. A prickling sensation rolled across her skin, static screaming in her ears as her sister's ashen face appeared from the trees.

  She moved with a predatory grace, winding between the sentinals like a serpent, only now she did not smile. Her face was bloodless; cold as winter frost. Eyes burning like wildfire flares in the dark. It made Ascella falter, falling back in fear as the monster neared. Her horns seemed to grow impossibly taller, sharper, her features infinitely crueler; darker. Certainty hit her like a lead weight, this was not her sister.

  "Do not be afraid." Said the creature, but whilst its voice was sweet its grim face held no reassurance. The resemblance was unnatural, like an acquaintance had tried to cast her sister's likeness from memory alone. The brow and cheeks a fraction too high, the nose slightly too sharp. The eyes were the greatest disparity — when the creature had stood across the river from her, Ascella could have sworn them to be grey — where now they blazed a vicious shade of violet. "I have something for you..."

  It came nearer still, only this time Ascella did not balk, until it was so close she could see the way the shades in its irises squirmed like maggots. It made her sick to the stomach, something about this strange, impious creature. Something so inherently blasphemous in the curl of its horns. She looked the image of the dark Mother. What are you? "Who are you?"

  It unfurled an ebony fist and in its palm lay a ring, slight and glistening. A core of molten fire surrounded by a crown of diamond teeth.

  "But first a boon...." The creature grinned; slick with wicked intent, "A game, a riddle perhaps?"

  Ascella remained frozen, all too fearful to bargain with the fae. All too aware that any spoken word was a weapon to be wielded against her.

  In the absence of an answer the creature continued,"I can only live in light and always the first witness to every fight. Though I will never tell a lie, feed me fire and I'll die. I do no harm, feel no pain, yet there is still fear in my name." Then the faerie's voice pitched upwards, becoming Andromeda, "Who am I, sweet sister?"