I waded past the reeds into the clear water. It was snow-melt cold. I knelt and let the frigid current wash over me, soothing my aches. I had almost forgotten my broken arm. I ripped the hem of my dress to create a makeshift sling. Medicine had been a one constant in my life. It was something I was good at. There weren’t many who would treat someone from a family like mine. A cursed blood-line, like mine. 

I found a small pool where the water eddied and created a sort of looking glass. I examined my reflection. From this angle, I was all double chins and nostrils. I was hideous. Wretched, wretched, wretched. My deep amber eyes wide and long. My tousled locks unkempt. My pale skin bruised lightly from being thrown around like a rag-doll. 

My dress was heavy and cold and damp. It clung to my petite frame, wet upon my bumpy booty. The lace panel upon my breast had become sheer with the water. I quickly folded my thin arms over my chest, shame burning at my ears. 

I bit my lip. Who was I worried about seeing me? A cat? 

I sat in a sunny spot to dry and hug my knees. 

Obie, who had made himself scarce whilst I bathed yonder, appeared between the tall grass as if summoned. 

Okay, time for some exposition. He said with a feline stretch. I took note that his voice, which seemed to sound in my mind unbid, was unaltered by his wide yawn and curled tongue. So 16 years ago the Fae war began. That was also the exact day of your birth. Does that seem like a coincidence to you?

“Like, 9 babies are born every second. That’s 18 babies every two seconds.” I offered. 

That’s…not wrong…I guess. But not all of those babies are from a cursed family. A family who cannot love or be loved. Who are shunned from society, and must light the cauldron wheel every full moon with their own blood, or be ripped apart by wolves.

“Everyone has their quirks. I knew a boy who was born with a full set of teeth.”

That's strange and gross. But also how are you not getting this?

I sucked in my lip and twirled my hair in frustration. A girl like me? I had learned not to question my life. Questions led to more questions, or worse, to answers. Answers I didn’t want answered. Answers I questioned. Questions I questioned with the answers I answered with the questions I questioned. 

Archer. You are the chosen one. Why do you think your sister hates you? You are the one that can break the cycle. It is foretold that the girl-child with “Lilac Eyes” will be born to break the curse. Obie bowed his head. 

I put my hand over my chest, trying to slow the dizziness that was overtaking me. This made no sense. This felt shoehorned and overdone. But there were signs I couldn’t ignore. My wretched purple eyes. My talent with a bow. With math. With binding broken limbs. 

Your father made a deal with the Wolves the day you were born. They’d hide away your family in their forest, so long as you never breed. The flame wheel must be kept spinning, or the swift river that creates a magical boundary will dry up and the Fairy lords will cross into the Forest of the Wolves and take you away. That is why the wolves wait to devour you should you fail, to keep you from the Fairy lords.

“What will happen if I fail and the fairies come?” My voice was quivering. My face felt numb. 

They’ll force you to marry one of their high-princes.

“Oh. Okay!” I sat up. That didn’t sound so bad.

Are you daft? The mingling of your bloodlines would create a power so destructive…so insidious… Obie shook his head. And meanwhile, a war wages beyond the boundaries of your existence. A war over YOU, Archer Flamewheel. A war only you can end…but they’ve broken through. Your sister…she’s been patiently plotting. Tonight her plan came to fruition. 

“Andromeda?” My mouth fell open. Her plan? But why…why would she plot against me? Especially with tits like hers? 

Let me ask you this, Archer. Have you ever seen the Bogmogog Witch AND your sister in the same room?

I gasped softly. I hadn’t. How could I have been so stupid? How could my own sister betray me? Betray all of mankind? I had to ask. I had to ask the question I didn’t want the answer to. I’d question that answer. I’d question that question. But I had to have the question answered. 

“If the Bogmogog Witch is Andromeda, why did she look so old and wretched?” 

That is her true form.

“But how is that possible? She’s only seventeen. I’m only sixteen. That’s only one year difference.” I counted on my fingers. 

Archer, how long, exactly, do you think you’ve been sixteen?

I thought back three months, to my sixteenth birthday party - a dim affair, a day more or less like any other, which I chose to mark by treating myself to training with my good arrows, and granting myself an extra ten minutes of gazing into our single tarnished mirror at my horrible reflection. Of course, no one shows up to the sweet sixteen of a Degeneraté girl. Mother, Andromeda, and Obie gathered for tea, as well as my younger sister who I don’t have much to say about, because she’s not important or relevant in any way. But as I held the memory of that day in my focus, something scratched at the very back of my mind. An uneasy feeling. 

“Three months,” I said finally, my mouth dry and raspy.

Oblegaimon swished his tail. 

Are you certain?

The feeling unbalanced me. I felt a knot twisting in my stomach, a deep discomfort washing over me. Or perhaps there were parasites in the wolf meat. 

I thought about the last three months… how very identical they had been. How routine, boring, and static my life was in the manor, how days seemed to bleed into one another, how the cycle of the monthly Rite seemed to feel endless. And I thought it had been about three months since my birthday, but now that I really put my mind to it, I could not parse any one of those days from the other. 3 months: 90 days. The math came naturally to me. But each day had been more identical than the last. Could I account for each one? 

I gulped.

 “I…I don’t know.”