Forbidden Bloom: A Dark Fae Romance of Bargains and Rebellion

Echoes and Bargains

The scent of damp earth and something older, something like crushed stone and regret, clung to the air. It wasn’t a smell for living noses, not anymore. I was bound to this place, to the roots of the oldest hawthorn in the Shadowlands, a spirit worn thin by centuries. I remembered a time when the hawthorn’s blossoms were white as bone, celebrated by Fae who didn't fear the dark. Now, even the blossoms were tinged with grey, mirroring the ash that fell from the volcanic peaks.

I watched her, of course. I always watched. The girl, Elara, knelt amongst the herbs, her fingers stained green and brown. She didn’t see me, not truly. Few humans did. They felt a prickle on their skin, a shift in the air, and dismissed it as the wind. But she was different. She listened to the plants.

Not with her ears. With something deeper.

The hawthorn pulsed faintly, a tremor I felt in my nonexistent bones. Elara touched a sprig of rosemary, and her brow furrowed. A flicker of images, a sun-drenched kitchen, a woman humming a lullaby, the scent of baking bread, passed across her face. Plant memory. A rare gift, and a dangerous one in these times.

She was seeking vervain, I knew. For a fever, a child in the village. A simple request, a kindness. But even kindness attracted attention, especially when you were…different. The Obsidian Court had long arms, and they weren’t shy about grasping what they wanted.

A raven landed on a gnarled branch above her, its obsidian eyes gleaming. A messenger for Lord Valerius Nyx. Even I, a creature of shadow and dust, felt a chill at the mention of his name. He collected things. Power, secrets, and now, it seemed, herbalists with unusual talents.

Elara didn’t seem to notice the bird. She was too focused on sorting the herbs, her movements precise and efficient. She spoke to the plants as she worked, a low murmur lost on the wind.

“Almost, little one. Just a bit more sun, and you’ll be strong enough.”

It was foolish, really. Plants didn’t listen. But there was a tenderness in her voice, a genuine care. It reminded me of a time when the Fae weren’t so…hard.

The raven cawed, a harsh, grating sound. Elara finally looked up, startled. The bird dropped a sealed scroll at her feet, then took flight, disappearing into the mist.

She hesitated before picking it up, her fingers tracing the black wax seal. The Obsidian Court’s crest: a shadowed wolf’s head, its eyes burning with an unnatural light.

I knew what that seal meant. A summons. A demand. A threat, carefully veiled in elegant script.

She broke the seal with a sigh, her shoulders slumping. I could feel her fear, a cold knot tightening in her chest. The letter was short, precise, and devoid of any pretense of politeness. Lord Valerius Nyx requested her presence at the Obsidian Court. Immediately.

Her brother, Rhys, appeared then, his face bright with youthful energy. He was painting, a canvas propped against a crumbling stone wall. Vivid wildflowers bloomed on the fabric, a splash of color in the grey landscape. He was everything Elara was not: open, optimistic, oblivious.

“What is it?” he asked, approaching her. His eyes fell on the seal and the color drained from his face. “The Obsidian Court? What do they want with you?”

Elara’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “They want…assistance. With a rare ailment affecting one of their courtiers.”

A lie. A thin, fragile lie. I tasted the bitterness of it on the wind.

Rhys wasn’t fooled. “Elara, you know that’s not true. They don’t ask for help. They take.”

“I have no choice,” she said, her gaze fixed on the distant peaks. “They mentioned you. Said they would…harm you if I refused.”

Rhys’s hands clenched into fists. He ...