Young Writers Society

a/n: hey, thanks for checking out Starry Veins! This is the novel I wrote for Round V of LMS, and it's still a first draft! While I don't discourage any feedback, I prefer not to receive feedback on grammar! I'm not polishing this draft up yet, so I'm not as concerned about editing. I am, of course, open to all feedback, but I ask that you keep this in consideration! Thanks <3

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[Rowan]

There was a bird on the windowsill trilling softly, and Rowan was doing their hardest to remain quiet.

It was a goldfinch with feathers like chrysanthemum petals, hopping along the sill of the opened pane and tapping at the seeds scattered across the varnished wood block. They had sprinkled them there earlier, after they’d opened the window. By the now, the birds new where to land for the food.

Once the bird had remained for several minutes, Rowan resumed brushing their long, ebony hair. The brush caught on a few snarls, but they were made quick work of by Rowan’s deft fingers, pulling apart the knots a few strands at a time before running their fingers through the silken strands.

They set the brush down on the vanity and stared at the reflection in the mirror as if it would show them which hairstyle to settle on for the day. The mirror, with fog-like stains bordering the silvery surface, offered them no answers.

Someone knocked on the door then. The clock hanging on their wall, of brass and bone, ticked quietly as they turned to glance at it. Quarter past eight. Ma was out to work at the fields, so it could’ve been anyone.

“Enter,” Rowan called.

In the mirror, they could see as the door opened and Mishal stepped in. He glanced over to them immediately, dressed and ready for the day with a deep red vest and close-fitting black breeches.

The bird trilled sharply and took flight, veering sharply to the left and disappearing from view. Mishal frowned at the place it had been.

“Bun or braid?” Rowan asked. They were sorry to see the bird leave, but at least it had gotten some of the seeds.

Mishal turned his frown on them. “What? I—” He blinked. “Bun, I guess? It’ll keep it out of the way for potions. That’s why I’m here, by the way. Potions lessons start in five minutes.”

Oh. Potions. Right. “I’ll be ready in a moment,” they said, pulling the length of their hair back and twisting it at the back of their skull. “I was helping mum in the greenhouse. Had to take a bath.”

“It takes ten minutes to get there,” Mishal pointed out, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

They twisted a tie around the tangle of hair pulled back. Strands fell from the mass and tickled the base of their neck. They stood from their chair and grabbed a pair of green, shimmering earrings, long and pointed with gold hooks.

“You’ll survive if we’re late,” Rowan said, pointedly making no moves to be hasty in putting the earrings in.

Though Mishal looked mildly irritated, the way one would look who had just gotten a sliver in their finger, he said nothing. He directed his attention towards the dark oaken bookshelves on the far-right wall to him.

He would usually say something about being late. He was withholding today, for some reason. Rowan picked up the flowing, silvery tunic resting on the back of their vanity seat and shrugged it on.

They gave Mishal a moment to make some comment on their collection of oddities lining their bookshelves. Usually something along the lines of, “You need to stop collecting every bone you find,” to which they would reply with, “What are you going to do to stop me?” Mishal never had an answer to that question, and so they would go about their business as if the conversation hadn’t happened.

But he said nothing. Rowan cleared their throat and he turned, nodding when they gestured towards the door.

As they left Rowan’s room and the main living space of their quarters, a thick silence blanketed them. Mishal’s shoulders were tense and he was evading Rowan’s gaze.

When they stepped out into the hall, Mishal hesitated to continue.

Then, “Are you mad at me?”

They tilted their head as Mishal finally glanced over to look at them. “What do you mean?”

Mishal began down the hall, moving away from the door they’d left with the copper plague that read Eluna and Rowan on the front. His boots scuffed against the fading wooden flooring.

“About the expedition,” he said. “You seemed… upset.”

Rowan chewed the inside of their mouth and frown, stomach squirming. “I am, but not at you.” They glanced down and traced the purple laces of their shoes. “The ruins have been a mystery for… well, ever. The three fallen kingdoms are the only ones that hold any clues for questions everyone has about our history. Why is trueblood so important? Not a single person in this country could answer that question, but everyone says it’s the reason for their downfall. And what about the ruins at the centre of the land? What does anyone know about them?”

Mishal wasn’t going to be able to answer that, and they knew it. Nobody knew where the centre ruins had come from, or what they meant. Expeditions that went there never came back—not that nicer sentiments could be said of the other ruins—and anyone who had ever gotten close claimed it was haunted. Cursed. It varied.

“I’m not mad at you,” Rowan said, gently reaching for Mishal’s arm to halt him. “Seeing the ruins is… incredible. It’s a dream. Promise me that it will mean something to you later, that you’ll put your heart into this expedition for me.”

The sconces flickered on the walls, burning brighter and hissing softly into the atmosphere. Mishal looked down at them, expression softening considerably.

“I’m sorry you aren’t allowed to come,” he said. “From what the Guildmaster said, I’m not sure she even wanted me to go. I think it was so that Isadora didn’t go alone.”

Rowan let go of his arm. “And you’ll be careful? The ruins are dangerous. Ember was right, you know, people say their haunted.”

Before he could continue, Mishal shook his head and set off again. “Haunted by what? It’s superstitious. You can’t believe that there’s… what, spirits?”

“In my opinion, there is no benefit in discrediting anything. I won’t put weight on what might be there, but people have disappeared in those ruins. It’s not superstitious to consider all possibilities.” Rowan turned before Mishal to the staircase that spiralled downwards, the walls and pillar in the centre all cobbled, smooth stone.

The passage was darker than the hallways, no lights lining the walls. There were windows overlooking the forests to the east, but they were scattered.

Mishal said nothing as he followed them. Rowan wasn’t sure if it was because he had no argument, or he was actually considering what they had said.

Rowan paused at the bottom of the staircase that opened into the main floor’s hall as Mishal finished descending.

“Do you even want to go?” they asked, pulling the open folds of their tunic tighter to their chest. New Bloom might have been upon them, but the cold hadn’t left the air, or the citadel. Not by a long shot.

“The Guildmaster asked me, and I’m not going to let Isadora go alone,” Mishal replied. He turned right down the hall. The alchemy lab was closer towards the front of the citadel. Rowan could walk to it from anywhere in their sleep.

They folded their arms together as they followed. “Calor ad mortale vasa pretiosa,” they muttered. Warmth spread over their skin, sinking deep into flesh and wrapping around their bones. “That’s not what I asked.”

Rowan extended their hand, the cold and stagnant air no longer nipping at their fingers. Mishal glanced back, and then took their hand. They mumbled the same spell again, and the line of Mishal’s shoulders relaxed as he let out an inaudible sigh.

word count:

1,290