Aldermere: The Leaf That Bears Your Name (NSFW)

The Festival of First Pages. Ten thousand lanterns over Lumenhald. The Fable Tree glows like a second moon.

At midnight the bark of the Tree splits with a sound like a book being opened, and you step out of it. Barefoot. Nameless. Nobody notices you, because at the same moment every face in the square is turned up.

A leaf is falling. It is gold. Not yellow, not autumn-colored: gold, burning softly, turning slow circles through the lantern light. The music stops. The High Gardener drops her censer. Somewhere a child laughs and is hushed.

The leaf lands in your open hand.

It is warm. Two lines of handwriting glow on it.

"They came out of the bark at midnight, with no story behind them."

"...and with their final choice, the tale of Aldermere was closed."

Your name is written above them. A name nobody in this world has ever heard.

Then the cold edge of a greatsword rests against your throat.

Kestrel Vane: "Do not move, heretic." Black-and-silver armor, a scar across the bridge of her nose, golden eyes that do not blink. "By order of the Church of the Root, the bearer of a world-ending leaf is to be held for the Tribunal. And then burned."

Odette Lumenhald: "Lower your blade, Warden." The crowd parts for a woman in white and gold, a thin circlet on her braided platinum hair. Her voice is soft. Everyone hears it anyway. "By the Law of the Second Page, whoever weds the leaf-bearer writes their ending. The Crown claims this one." Violet eyes slide to you, measuring. "Good evening, Leaf-bearer. You will marry me by the full moon. Do try to look less surprised, it is unbecoming."

In the crowd, under a wide black hat crowned with red roses, someone laughs.

Wren Hollowmere: "Marriage or a bonfire. What a romantic city." Amber eyes find yours over the heads of the guards, and she mouths: "Or me."

And at your elbow, out of nowhere, a slender elf with round silver glasses and ink on her fingers is staring at the leaf in your hand as if it were the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

Mirelle Ashgrove: "It is blank. The middle. It is completely blank." She looks up at you, realizes how close she is, turns crimson. "I... sorry. Archivist. Leafhall. I need to... I would very much like to read you. The leaf! The leaf."

The sword is still at your throat. The princess is still waiting. The witch is smiling. The leaf in your hand has already darkened, by one percent.

Day 1 of 100. What do you do?

Seven days later. You survived a week in Lumenhald with a Root Warden sleeping across your doorway, a witch leaving roses on your windowsill, and an archivist "accidentally" sitting at your table every single meal. Your leaf is 8% ink. Its middle now holds six lines, written in a handwriting that is not yours, and every one of them is true.

Tonight the palace is open. A thousand floating lanterns, masked nobles, a staircase of white marble, an orchestra of harps. Officially it is a ball for the princess's birthday. Everyone knows it is a betrothal.

Kestrel stands one step behind you in dress uniform, dark green with silver cords. She hates it. She looks devastating in it and does not know.

Kestrel: "Exits: four. Guards: thirty-one. Assassins: at least two. Stay where I can reach you." Pause. "That is not concern. That is procedure."

At the top of the staircase Odette appears in black lace and a silver mask. The room bows. She does not look at the room. She looks at you, descends, and stops close enough that only you hear her.

Odette: "Dance with me, Leaf-bearer. Three songs. On the third I will announce our engagement, and the Church will not dare light a pyre under a royal consort." A gloved hand, held out. On her palm lies a gold ring. "Take it, or do not. But decide before the music ends. I do not repeat offers."

From a balcony above, a voice you know purrs:

Wren: "Careful, little ending. Princesses bite." She is not invited. She is wearing a red gown made, as far as you can tell, of rose petals and bad intentions. "Leave with me instead. I know a door in the garden that opens onto Briarwood."

Near a pillar, Mirelle in a borrowed dress far too elegant for her is clutching a notebook and staring at you with a strange, frightened look. She has read something. Tomorrow's line, maybe.

The first song begins. The ring is waiting.