The Forest King and the Butterfly

Chapter One: Of Thread, Bread, and First Light

There's a stillness to Choosing Day, like the trees are holding their breath.

Choosing Day is here. It's Official name is the Moontide Masquerade and the ceremony happens at night. There's an all day festival going on though to celebrate and prepare everyone for the day.

It's also my birthday.

I opened my eyes slowly, my cheek still warm against the pillow, and listened. The creak of old beams. The whistle of the kettle downstairs. The smell of rose jam simmering on the hearth. All of it wrapped around me like another quilt.

Sunlight spilled through the shutters, soft and golden, dappling my blanket with leaf-shaped light. It was a familiar sight, but today, it felt different. Brighter. Wilder. Like the world was preparing to open just a little wider than it had before.

I’d just started to sit up when the door creaked open and soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor.

Liana.

She held a bundle wrapped in linen, her braid still damp from morning washing. She didn’t speak until she reached the edge of my bed.

“You’re awake,” she whispered.

“I’m not sure I’m ready,” I murmured.

Her smile was soft. “Then you’re exactly where you should be.”

She climbed up beside me, cross-legged like she used to when we were little, and handed me the bundle. Inside was a pressed lily blossom, its white petals preserved so perfectly they looked alive. Faint runes lined the parchment in a language I almost recognized.

“It’s for your pillow,” she said. “It keeps the bad dreams away. And the wrong names.”

I laughed quietly and leaned into her shoulder. “Thank you.”

She didn’t say anything, just took the brush from my nightstand and began to smooth my hair with the same care she pressed into her calligraphy. Her strokes were patient. Gentle.

“Are you hoping to be Chosen?” she asked after a moment.

“I think so.” I hesitated. “No—I know so.”

“It’s not wrong to want love.”

“I don’t want just love.” I exhaled. “I want what they have.”

Liana didn’t ask who I meant. We both knew.

“They still walk at night,” she whispered.

“And leave offerings on the orchard stones,” I said. “They love like nothing’s faded.”

She set the brush down and looked me in the eye. “Then wait for that. No less.”

--------------------------------------

The warmth downstairs hit me like a welcome. Bread baking. Porch sunlight stretching in through the open door. The murmur of my mother’s voice as she stirred porridge at the hearth, humming some old Choosing Ballad beneath her breath. I didn’t know all the words, but I recognized the rhythm.

Roselie was already seated at the table with jam on her fingers and her sleeves rolled too high. She looked up and smirked.

“Finally. The birthday girl graces us.”

“You do realize the Choosing doesn’t start before dawn, right?”

“And yet,” she said, licking jam from her thumb, “we’ve already begun arguing about who’s wearing the best color today.”

My father, Coren, chuckled softly from his work stool by the window. He was hunched over a small bit of wood, carving a spiral pendant with his knife, shavings piled around his feet like snow.

I crossed to him and kissed his cheek.

He looked up at me with a smile that didn’t need words.

“This is for you,” he said, slipping the leather cord over my head. The spiral was smooth and warm from his hands.

“It’s cut from the same branch I used for the spiral tree hook,” he added. “So you’ll always find your way back.”

It nestled perfectly at the hollow of my throat. I clutched it like a vow.

My mother came to me next with a soft-wrapped bundle smelling faintly of clove and old petals.

Inside was a handwoven satchel, lined with dried blossoms,honeysuckle, elderflower, columbine. I ran my fingers across the silked interiors and felt something in my chest go tender.

“They all bloomed the spring you were born,” she said. “I saved them. I thought maybe they’d fade. But they didn’t. They held on.”

Like you, she didn’t say.

But I felt it.

Roselie came up behind me and slipped something into my braid. A carved rosebud pin,rosewood polished to a shine, its stem etched with swirling lines.

“To remind the court we’re bound by blood,” she said, smiling into the mirror.

“You think I’ll need reminding?”

“Just in case one of them gets clever.”

And then of course, Alder came crashing in from the back door, barefoot, breathless, and holding something cupped in his grubby hands.

“I made you something!” he declared, proudly holding out a butterfly-shaped bundle of cattail fluff tied with water reeds.

Its wings were lopsided and full of heart.

“It’s perfect,” I said, taking it with both hands. “Did you name it?”

He tilted his head. “Sticky.”

“Well then. Sticky’s coming with me.”

He beamed.

We’d just started to eat—tea poured, warm bread torn and shared—when the door opened without knocking.

Joren stepped in.

His jacket was deep forest green, fitted and freshly brushed. His boots looked too clean to have walked here. He carried a velvet-wrapped box and a smile like he expected to be kissed for bringing it.

“Happy Choosing Day,” he said, eyes on me. “And happy birthday.”

I stood slowly as he crossed the room.

He opened the box to reveal a polished butterfly comb, carved from bone and inlaid with silver. It was elegant. Sharp. Cold.

“It reminded me of you,” he said. “Graceful. Meant to be seen.”

I didn’t quite know what to say.

So instead, I took Alder’s cattail butterfly, and gently tucked it across the base of the silver comb before sliding it into my braid.

“There,” I said. “Now it’s just right.”

He didn’t hide his confusion. But before he could say anything else, he extended his arm.

“I thought we could walk early,” he said. “See the booths before the rush.”

“We were still—” my mother began, but I had already stood.

“It’s alright,” I said quietly. “I’ll meet you all at the spiral.”

As Joren opened the door for me, I heard Roselie mutter under her breath.

“She’s the flame. He’s the moth. That never ends well.”

And my father, just before it shut behind us:

“She walks like her mother did. Like the forest already misses her.”



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Lyonesse