True Love's Kiss

The Sleeping Goddess
The spell had worn off long before Alexander reached the outskirts of Bellaflor’s village.

Dust clung to the hem of his cloak, the once-pristine fabric now dulled by forest grime and long hours of trudging through dirt paths, meadows, and watchful silence. Now, within the kingdom’s walls, he could feel the weight of invisible eyes lifting off him. The sense of being hunted gave way to something almost foreign—civility.

He walked slowly through the outer edge of the village marketplace, his boots landing softly against the cobblestone road, still damp from the morning mist. The air here smelled different than the capital. In Vermiore, the scent was always sharp—leather, oil, metal, the bitterness of control. But here… here it was alive.

Freshly baked bread wafted from open stalls. Wild herbs hung in thick bundles from merchant stands—sage, rosemary, witch’s thyme, moonroot. Wooden signs swung lazily in the evening breeze, etched in both common script and magic runes. Some glowed faintly. Others blinked curiously, imbued with small spells that caught the eyes of passing children.

Vendors called out in singsong voices, each louder than the last.

“Salted kelven meat! Fresh from the cliffs!”

“Enchanted scarves! Cold-proofed and charm-stitched!”

“Spiced crystalberries! You won’t find sweeter!”

Color was everywhere—banners, fabrics, painted carts. Laughter rolled in the air as both humans and witches bartered for goods, their familiars perched nearby. A young girl ran past Alexander with a gleeful squeal, her cat—white and winged—fluttering just behind her like a lazy guardian.

It was a world he didn’t recognize, not truly. A world he'd been told was dangerous, dark, savage. But there was no blood here. No fire. Just life.

Alexander adjusted the dark hood of his cloak over his head and moved cautiously through the crowd, careful not to draw attention. His eyes scanned the people around him—human and witch alike. No one looked twice at him. Not yet.

He approached an older woman tending a stall filled with tiny glowing vials and potion-stained books. She wore her silver hair in a braid down her back, her brown eyes sharp and knowing.

“Excuse me,” Alexander said softly, lowering his voice. “I’m looking for the God Witch.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, though not in suspicion—rather in reverence.

“You mean her resting place?” she asked, gesturing for him to come closer, away from eavesdropping ears.

He nodded.

The woman looked him over, then pointed with a crooked finger. “Go past the spice alley. When you reach the white fountain shaped like a dragon, turn left. Follow the vine-covered wall until you see a mural of a woman made of stars. That’s where the clearing starts. Keep going straight—you’ll see the palace in the distance. The meadow’s just next to it.”

Alexander thanked her with a small bow and began to walk again. The directions, while simple, became a maze in practice. Bellaflor’s streets were curved and unpredictable, not rigid and angular like Vermiore. They flowed like a river, and if one didn’t pay close attention, they’d end up where they began.

Several times he had to stop and ask another local. A group of teens playing cards near the ivy wall pointed him the right way with skeptical glances. A quiet man tending to a floating lantern post corrected him when he veered toward the herbal district instead of the mural. By the time Alexander found the white fountain with the dragon, the sun had started its descent into the horizon.

Bellaflor transformed beneath the orange and gold sky. Lanterns lit on their own, floating in the air and drifting lazily across the streets like fireflies. Music played somewhere far off—a fiddle, a flute, the low beat of a drum. Evening in Bellaflor wasn’t sleepy. It was sacred.

Alexander’s breath caught when the palace finally came into view.

It stood like a myth given shape. Forged of stone and marble, crystalline vines curling around, and towering glass towers that shimmered in the dying sunlight. Magic pulsed faintly from its structure. It wasn’t imposing—it was beautiful.

Just past the trees, he saw it.

The clearing.

He followed the path, carefully weaving through the final line of trees until the settlement revealed itself.

Small house filled the area. Witches of all ages moved about—some tending to potion kettles, others sharpening weapons, and many simply talking, laughing, sharing food. A few rode on broomsticks, low to the ground. A pair of children drew symbols into the earth with glowing chalk, giggling as sparks flew up from the ground.

Alexander pulled his hood lower and forced his face into a mask of calm. Every step felt weighted. This was the heart of the rebellion. The sanctuary. If anyone recognized him here…

He kept to the edges of the settlement, nodding slightly at passing witches when necessary but saying nothing. He moved like a shadow between camps, passing rows of candles and wind chimes that sang songs in languages long forgotten.

Then he saw the field.

It burst like a dream into view—an endless meadow of wildflowers, so many that it looked like a living painting. Roses the color of blood and snow. Daisies. Lilies. Dandelions glowing with golden light. Bluebells that hummed with magic. Sunflowers so tall they bowed under their own weight. The scent was dizzying—sweet and pure, cloying with magic.

And there, laying at the heart of it all, was her.

Aurora.

Unmoving, untouched, her body resting as if in deep sleep. She lay on a bed of flowers, dressed in flowing white that shimmered faintly in the twilight. Her long golden hair was splayed around her like a halo, tucked with petals and vines. She looked like a fallen star.

Alexander staggered forward, hjs breath caught in his throat.

He dropped to his knees beside her, the weight of the exhaustion—and everything else—crashing down like a tide. His gloved hand trembled as he reached out and gently touched her cheek. She was warm. Not cold. Still living.

A tear slid down his face.

“I found you,” he whispered, voice cracked with emotion. “Gods, I found you.”

He brushed his fingers through her hair, voice barely above a breath. “I thought— I thought I lost you. I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve—”

But the words broke. Silence took their place.

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, just… looking at her. Remembering her laugh. Her fire. The way she looked at him like he was more than just a prince raised by my wolves.

Then all of a sudden—

“What are you doing here… Traitor.”

The voice snapped through the meadow like a whip.

Alexander’s hand froze against Aurora’s skin. Slowly, his head turned.

Behind him, silhouetted against the horizon, stood a figure.

Their face was shadowed by the setting sun, but the rage in their voice was unmistakable.

A dozen witches in the distance had turned to look.

The wind stirred.

And for the first time since he entered Bellaflor, Alexander felt truly afraid.