Kaelen of the Silverwood Court walked through Brooklyn as if treading on broken glass.
The human world was a cacophony, a relentless assault of jarring sounds and acrid smells that scraped at his Fae senses.
The shriek of a distant siren, the cloying sweetness of manufactured perfume, the greasy tang of street food—it was all a kind of slow poison.
He had wrapped his glamour around himself like a shroud, muting the sensory overload and shaping his appearance into something mortals would find palatable, if not forgettable… dark, well-fitting trousers, a charcoal Henley that hinted at a physique sculpted by centuries of swordsmanship, and a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
He was Kael, a landscape consultant. The lie felt heavy and clumsy on his tongue.
But amidst the dissonant symphony of the city, one pure note sang out, a low, resonant thrum that had guided him from the alley.
It was the hum of life, of raw, untamed magic, and it emanated from the oasis of green nestled between two brick tenements.
The community garden.
From across the street, he watched its heart beat.
The magic wasn’t subtle; it pulsed in waves of emerald and gold, visible to his eyes as a faint shimmer in the air.
This was the work of the Heartseed, a relic of the Old Magics that had been lost for generations. And here it was, sunk into the dirt of a mortal city, tended by unsuspecting hands.
His mission was simple, desperate, and cruel: retrieve the Heartseed, take it back to his fading realm, and save his people, even if it meant turning this vibrant paradise to dust.
He crossed the street, the wrought-iron gate of the garden standing open like an invitation.
Inside, a woman was on her knees, her back to him. She wore faded jeans, a stained t-shirt, and had a wild mane of auburn hair pulled back in a messy knot, from which several tendrils had escaped to frame a face smudged with dirt.
She was humming softly, a tuneless melody, as her fingers worked through the soil around a cluster of tomato plants, coaxing a stray vine onto its stake with a practiced gentleness.
This was Rowan Finch. The garden’s tender. The obstacle.
As he drew closer, Kael’s senses sharpened, and a frown tightened his lips.
He had expected the garden itself to be the sole font of power, the Heartseed its engine.
But as he focused, he realized he was wrong.
A significant current of that raw, green magic wasn’t just in the soil—it was flowing from her. It coiled around her wrists like living bracelets, infused the air she breathed, and pulsed in time with her own heartbeat.
She wasn’t just the garden’s keeper; she was its anchor, its conduit.
This changed everything.
He cleared his throat, a sound intentionally designed to be polite yet firm. “Excuse me. Rowan Finch?”
She startled, her head snapping up.
Her eyes, the color of moss after a rain, widened before narrowing in suspicion.
She rose to her feet in a single, fluid motion, wiping a muddy hand on her jeans. “Can I help you?”
Her voice was wary, laced with the defensive edge of a New Yorker who knew that nothing good ever came from a stranger in a clean shirt.
“My name is Kael,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone he’d carefully calibrated for human ears. “I’m a landscape consultant. I was hoping to speak with you about this incredible space.”
Rowan’s eyes swept over him, taking in the expensive-looking boots that were entirely too pristine for a garden, the sharp line of his jaw, and the unnerving stillness in his gaze.
He didn’t look like a consultant. He looked like a predator who’d wandered into the wrong ecosystem. “A consultant for who?” she asked, her tone flat. “If you’re from Vex Development, you can turn right around. We’re not selling.”
“I’m not with Vex,” he replied, managing to keep the distaste from his voice.
Dealing with Unseelie-backed corporations was an unwelcome complication. “I work independently. I specialize in urban green spaces facing… aggressive redevelopment.”
He chose his words carefully, weaving a plausible fiction. “I heard about your garden’s fight. I was in the area and was drawn to the… vitality here. It’s remarkable.”
He took a step closer, his gaze sweeping over the beds of thriving vegetables and flowers, but his Fae senses were stretching out, probing, trying to pinpoint the Heartseed’s exact location.
He could feel it now, a deep, warm pulse beneath the earth near an ancient-looking rose bush at the garden’s center.
Rowan didn’t relax. If anything, she grew more rigid. “The ‘vitality’ comes from good soil, hard work, and a community that cares. It’s not a commodity.” She crossed her arms, a clear barrier. “So, what do you really want, Kael?”
He was struck by the directness of her challenge. In his Court, conversation was a dance of layered meanings and subtle gestures.
This mortal woman wielded honesty like a blade. It was… refreshing.
And deeply irritating.
“I want to understand what makes this place unique,” he said, meeting her gaze.
His eyes, a cool silver-grey, held an intensity that made the back of her neck prickle. “Every successful garden has a focal point, a source of its unique bio-energetic signature. Yours is stronger than any I’ve ever encountered. I’d like to study it. Perhaps I can help you articulate its value in a way that city planners and, more importantly, your opponents, can’t ignore.”
Bio-energetic signature.
The corporate jargon was like a red flag. Rowan felt a familiar wave of protective anger.
This man, with his smooth words and designer clothes, saw her garden as a data point. He wanted to quantify its soul.
“It’s dirt, compost, and water, not a science experiment,” she retorted. “We don’t need our ‘value articulated.’ We need developers to leave us alone.”
Kael felt a flicker of impatience.
This was not going as planned.
He needed access, time to study the Heartseed and her connection to it before he could devise a way to sever them both.
He could compel her, of course.
A simple glamour, a whispered suggestion, and she would welcome him with open arms.
But the raw power flowing through her gave him pause. A compulsion might backfire, alert her to his nature, or worse, damage the very connection he needed to understand.
He softened his approach. “Forgive me. I’m being clinical. What I mean is, this garden feels different. Alive in a way that defies simple explanation. You’ve created something special here, Ms. Finch.”
He allowed a sliver of genuine admiration to color his tone. It wasn’t entirely a lie.
The life force here was a balm to his starved senses, a stark, painful contrast to the creeping decay of his home.
For the first time, Rowan hesitated. His compliment landed differently than the fawning praise of visiting politicians or the polite remarks of neighbors.
There was a weight to his words, as if he truly saw the life humming beneath her feet.
And then there was the way he looked at her, an unnerving focus that seemed to see more than just a gardener with dirt under her nails. It was distracting. He was distracting.
“It’s just Rowan,” she said, her tone softening a fraction. “And the garden is a team effort.”
“Of course,” Kael inclined his head. “But you’re its heart, aren’t you?”
The question was too intimate, too perceptive.
It sent a jolt through her, a strange mix of recognition and alarm. “I’m just the one who pulls the most weeds,” she deflected, turning away to pinch a yellowing leaf from a basil plant.
The simple, familiar action helped ground her.
Kael watched her, a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. She was a beautiful, infuriating paradox.
Her hands, though stained with soil, moved with an innate grace. The sun caught the red highlights in her hair, making it gleam like polished copper.
For a fleeting, unwelcome moment, he felt a stir of warmth in the cold, hollow space his mission had carved inside him. It was a flicker of curiosity about the woman herself, not just the magic she unknowingly wielded.
He ruthlessly crushed the feeling. Such distractions were a weakness his dying world could not afford.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the bed of prize-winning roses near the garden’s center. He knew, instinctively, that this was the epicenter. “The soil composition here must be perfect.”
Warily, she nodded. He knelt, his movements unnervingly silent, and placed a hand flat on the earth beside the oldest, gnarliest bush. He closed his eyes.
The world fell away. He was no longer in Brooklyn. He was adrift in a sea of pure life.
The Heartseed pulsed against his palm like a living thing, a torrent of magic so potent it made him dizzy.
He felt the network of roots spreading beneath the entire block, each one a conduit for its power.
And woven through it all, as inextricable as thread in a tapestry, was Rowan’s own life force.
Bright, fierce, and wild.
Taking the seed wouldn’t just kill the garden. He suspected it might kill her, or at least sever a part of her soul.
He pulled his hand back as if burned, his breath catching in his throat.
He opened his eyes to find Rowan watching him, her expression a mixture of suspicion and a new, unsettling curiosity.
“Find what you were looking for?” she asked, her voice quiet.
Kael stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his knee. His carefully constructed composure was fractured.
She was not an obstacle. She was the lock, and the key, and the treasure itself, all in one. His mission had just become infinitely more complicated.
“Yes,” he said, his voice strained. “And no.”
He looked at her, and for a moment, the mask of the consultant slipped, revealing the grim weight of a prince on a desperate quest. “This place is more complex than I imagined.”
An unwelcome thrill went through Rowan. He saw it. He actually saw it. But the feeling was immediately chased by suspicion. Who was this man?
“Look, Kael,” she said, her resolve hardening again. “I appreciate your… interest. But we’re not looking for consultants. We’re fine on our own.”
It was a clear dismissal.
A foolish part of him, the part that had felt that dangerous flicker of warmth, was stung by the rejection.
The prince, the warrior, was grimly amused by the sensation.
“I believe you are,” he said smoothly, the mask back in place. “But Vex won’t give up easily. You may find you need an ally who understands the value of what you’re protecting.” He gave her a long, unreadable look. “I’ll be in touch.”
He turned and walked away, his stride measured and silent, leaving Rowan standing alone among her plants.
The garden felt suddenly too quiet, the air still humming where he had stood.
She watched him disappear onto the bustling sidewalk, a perfectly tailored enigma who had seen straight through to the garden’s heart and left her with a thorny, unsettling feeling of being truly seen for the first time.
And she couldn’t decide if that was a promise, or a threat.