A Cage of Silver and Stars

The portal felt like heat shimmer on a road, and then it was gone. I have tried to find the spot again, in the clearing where the trees have silver leaves and the moss glows faintly after dusk. I press my hands against the air there, hoping for some resistance, some warmth. There is nothing. It has been four months.

My existence here is quiet. I am the only human in Silverwood, a fact that affords me a strange kind of status. I am not a citizen, but a curiosity, like a flightless bird discovered in a cage. The elves watch me. Their eyes, the colour of river stones or new leaves, follow me as I sweep the public squares. They don't speak to me, not usually. They murmur to each other in their fluid language, the words like water over rocks, and I feel the shape of my own name in their mouths. Ella. It sounds clumsy here.

In the mornings, I polish the crystal balustrades that line the public walkways. The city is built from living wood and light-infused quartz, twisting into spires that seem too delicate to stand. The light isn't like sunlight back home. It filters through the crystalline structures, casting everything in a pale, aquatic green. It makes the elves look ethereal. On me, it just highlights the fine, dark hair on my arms and the way my skin is a different texture, more opaque.

I live in a small room above a bakery, the smell of sweet, nutty bread a constant presence. The baker, an old elf with deep lines around his eyes, leaves a loaf for me each morning without a word. It is an act of either charity or pity. I don't know which, and I know better than to ask. Payment for my work is lodgings and food. It is enough. I keep my head down. I do my work. I try not to meet anyone's gaze for too long.

Sometimes I think about my old life. My flat, the traffic noise, the specific taste of coffee from the shop on the corner. These thoughts are sharp and painful, like pressing on a bruise, so I try to push them away. I focus on the here and now. The smooth, cool feel of the quartz under my rag. The rhythmic scrape of my broom on the stone paths. The way the air smells of damp earth and something like ozone, clean and sharp.

The elves are beautiful. It is an objective fact, like the sky being blue, except here the sky is a soft violet at midday. They are all tall and slender, with a grace in their movements that makes me feel perpetually clumsy. Their faces are all sharp angles and smooth planes, their ears tapering to elegant points. To them, I must look unfinished. Soft. My features rounded, my body shorter, thicker. An earlier draft of a person.

I have learned to be invisible, or to try. I move at the edges of things, in the early morning or late evening when the walkways are less crowded. I am a ghost in their perfect city, a smudge on a flawless painting. And for four months, that has been enough to survive.

On days when the air is warm and smells of pollen, the Queen holds court in the Sunken Gardens. From the upper walkway where I work, I can see everything. It’s like watching a silent play. The gardens are meticulously arranged, with flowers that glow with their own internal light and hedges carved into impossible, flowing shapes. A fountain at the center makes a sound like crushed glass, and the elves gather on the tiered lawns, their silk robes shifting in the breeze.

And at the heart of it all sits Queen Lyriana.

She sits on a throne of woven silverwood, unadorned and simple. She doesn’t need embellishment. Her power is in her stillness. Today she wears a gown the colour of deep twilight, and her hair, so pale it’s almost white, is braided with strands of what looks like actual starlight. I have never seen her up close, but even from this distance, her beauty is a physical force. It’s sharp and intelligent, not soft. There is nothing soft about her.

An elderly elf in a scholar’s robe stands before her, pleading a case with earnest, fluttering hands. Lyriana listens. She doesn’t nod or offer any encouragement. She simply watches him, her head tilted slightly, her long-fingered hands resting on the arms of her throne. The entire garden, filled with dozens of elves, is silent, waiting for her to speak. I find myself holding my breath, too.

She is the absolute center of this world. Every eye is on her, every action she takes is weighted with meaning. When she finally speaks, her voice is too low for me to hear the words, but the cadence is clear and final. The old scholar bows so low his forehead nearly touches the grass, and then he backs away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Lyriana’s gaze lifts, sweeping dispassionately over the assembled court. For a half-second, her eyes seem to catch on my shape, high up on the walkway. My heart seizes. I press myself back against the cool quartz wall, my cleaning rag clutched in my hand. The feeling is dizzying, like being noticed by a predator. Of course, she hasn't seen me. I am a speck. A servant in drab clothes, part of the architecture. But the near-miss leaves my pulse frantic.

Her presence is the most potent reminder of how alien I am here. It’s not just the pointed ears or the impossible grace. It’s the certainty. She belongs here in a way I can’t comprehend. This city, these people, this light—they are all extensions of her. I am just a piece of debris that washed up on her shore. My life here is entirely dependent on her continued indifference. If she ever truly looked at me, truly saw me, what would happen? The thought is terrifying.

I should get back to work. Lingering is dangerous. It draws attention, and attention is the last thing I need. But I stay for a moment longer, my eyes fixed on her. Another elf approaches the throne, a stern-faced male with silver clasps on his tunic. He leans down, speaking to her in a low murmur. She turns her face toward him, and the light catches the severe, perfect line of her jaw.

A hollow feeling opens up inside me. It’s the specific ache of homesickness, so sharp it’s almost a physical pain. Back home, I was just a person. I had a flat, a job, friends. My existence was my own. Here, I am a creature, an anomaly, and my entire world is contained within the whims of a queen whose name I am not even worthy to speak. I watch her dismiss the stern-faced elf with a subtle gesture, her composure absolute, and I feel a profound and unshakable sense of being out of my depth, as if I’m treading water in an ocean with no land in sight. I force myself to turn away, the image of her burned into my mind. I have to forget, to go back to being invisible. It’s the only way to survive.

I retreat from the balustrade, my hands clammy. I focus on the grit under my fingernails, the rough texture of the cleaning cloth. I spend the rest of the day in the lower parts of the city, pulling weeds from the cracks in the cobblestone paths that wind behind the grander avenues. It is mindless work, and for that, I am grateful. My world shrinks to the space between the stones, the stubborn roots of dandelions that look almost, but not quite, like the ones from home.

I am tugging at a particularly stubborn root when a shadow falls over me. I freeze, expecting a guard, a reprimand for some unknown infraction.

"That's silver-thistle," a voice says. It is melodic, like all elven voices, but lower, with a warmer tone. "The root is good for poultices, if you dry it correctly."

I look up. An elf stands there, but she is different. Her hair is the color of dark honey, streaked with grey and tied back in a messy braid. Her face is kinder than the sharp, perfect faces of the court, etched with fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Her hands are stained with dirt and the juices of crushed leaves. She wears simple, practical clothes of woven green cloth.

I say nothing. I just stare, my hand still gripping the weed.

She smiles, a genuine expression that softens her entire face. "You don't talk much, do you?" She crouches down, her knees popping softly, an oddly human sound. "I am Lirael."

"Ella," I say. My voice feels rough from disuse.

"I know," she says. "I run the apothecary near the West Gate. I've seen you working." She gestures with her chin at the thistle in my hand. "You have a feel for it. You know what to pull and what to leave."

I look at the small pile of weeds beside me. It’s true. I’d instinctively left a patch of what looked like wild mint, its scent familiar and comforting. "I had a garden," I say, the words feeling like a confession.

Lirael nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful. "This is poor work for you," she says, her voice quiet but clear. "Polishing stone and pulling weeds. It's work for those with no skills." She looks directly at me, and her eyes are the colour of moss. "You have skills."

I don't know what to say. No one has spoken to me like this. No one has spoken to me at all, not really.

"I need help in my shop," she continues, as if sensing my confusion. "Someone to sort and bundle herbs, grind powders, make deliveries. Someone with careful hands." She glances at my own, which are calloused and smudged with dirt. "The pay is better than this. You'd have your own room above the shop. It's small, but it's warm."

The offer hangs in the air between us. It sounds too good to be true. A real job. A room of my own that isn't contingent on the silent charity of a baker. It feels like a trick.

"Why?" I ask. The word comes out sharper than I intend.

Lirael doesn't seem offended. "Because my back aches," she says with a wry twist of her lips. "And because it is a waste to have someone who knows plants pulling them up for compost." She stands, brushing the dust from her knees. "And perhaps because it is good to have a friend who did not grow up thinking the world ends at the Shimmering Peaks."

Her honesty is disarming. I feel a knot in my chest loosen, a knot I didn't even know was there. I stand up, too, suddenly conscious of how much taller she is than me.

"Come," she says, already turning. "I will show you."

I follow her through the winding streets, away from the pristine center of the city. Here, the buildings are older, the wood darker. The air smells of drying herbs and woodsmoke. Her shop is a small, cluttered space, every surface covered with jars of dried leaves, bundles of flowers hanging from the rafters, and bowls of strange-colored powders. It smells wonderful. Earthy and alive.

She shows me how to tie bundles of lavender with twine, her movements practiced and efficient. As we work, she talks. She tells me about the city, about the different factions in the Queen's court—the traditionalists who distrust all contact with the outside world, and the progressives who push for more trade.

"They are all proud," she says, her voice low as she strips leaves from a stem of rosemary. "It is their greatest strength and their greatest weakness. They believe their way is the only way, that their society is perfect." She pauses, looking at me. "It is not. There is resentment under the surface. Old families who believe the Queen is too young, too lenient."

Her words are a quiet warning. "Be careful, Ella. You are... conspicuous. To them, you are a disruption. A piece that doesn't fit their perfect pattern. They fear what they do not understand, and they do not understand you." She sighs, a soft, weary sound. "Stay away from the court. Stay away from the politics. Keep your head down, do your work, and you will be safe here with me."

I listen, my fingers fumbling with the twine. For the first time since I arrived, I feel like I'm standing on solid ground. This small, cluttered shop, this kind-faced elf. It’s an anchor. It’s a place to be.

"Thank you," I say, and I am surprised by the sincerity in my own voice.

Lirael just pats my hand, her skin warm and dry. "There is stew on the hearth," she says. "You look like you haven't had a proper meal in months."

The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal. I learned the names and properties of herbs I’d never seen, their strange, alien scents clinging to my clothes and hands. I learned to grind roots into fine powders with a heavy stone mortar and pestle, the repetitive motion a kind of meditation. Lirael was a patient teacher, and her quiet, constant presence was a balm. The small room above the shop was mine. At night, I would lie on the narrow cot and listen to the muted sounds of the city, feeling a fragile sense of security I hadn't known since I arrived.

One afternoon, Lirael handed me a large wicker basket filled with neatly wrapped parcels of herbs. "A delivery for the palace kitchens," she said, her expression neutral. "The head cook is particular. Make sure you get the receipt signed."

My stomach tightened. I hadn't been back to the palace grounds since I’d left my cleaning duties. The thought of walking through those gates, even as a delivery person for a respected herbalist, made my skin feel cold. "Can't you take it?" I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

"My knees are complaining today," she said, giving me a knowing look. "You'll be fine. The kitchens are on the lower level, through the service entrance. You won't see a single noble."

Her reassurance did little to calm the flutter of anxiety in my chest, but I took the basket. The service entrance was a stark, arched doorway in the outer wall, a world away from the shimmering public gates. The air inside the corridors was cooler, smelling of damp stone and baking bread. Elven kitchen staff, their sleeves rolled up and their fine features smudged with flour, moved with a silent, hurried grace. No one paid me any attention beyond a cursory glance. I was just another delivery.

I found the head cook, a tall, severe-looking elf with a long white apron, who took the basket from me and began inspecting the contents. He grunted his approval and turned away to find a quill to sign Lirael’s receipt. I stood awkwardly to the side, trying to make myself as small as possible. I backed into a shallow alcove where empty crates were stacked, the scent of onions and root vegetables thick in the air.

It was from here that I heard the voices. Two guards, their gleaming silver armor looking out of place in the rustic kitchen corridor, were speaking in low, clipped tones. They must have thought the clatter of pots and pans would cover their conversation.

"He'll not stand for it," the first guard said. His voice was a low grumble. "Valerius will see this trade agreement as a final betrayal of our bloodlines. Allowing dwarves to haul their metals through the Silverwood?" He made a sound of disgust.

"The Queen's will is the Queen's will," the second guard replied, though his tone lacked conviction. "She believes it will strengthen our position."

"Strengthen us?" The first guard scoffed. "By inviting filth to our doorstep? Lyriana is too young. She forgets the old ways, the rituals that kept us strong. Valerius says her reign is weakening the very soul of our people. He speaks of the ancient pacts, the blood-rites she has forbidden."

My breath caught in my throat. I pressed myself further into the shadows of the alcove, my shoulder blades hitting the rough stone wall. These were not the respectful whispers of the court. This was dissent. The name, Valerius, sounded important. The words ‘blood-rites’ sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the cool air.

"Careful how you speak, Taron," the second guard warned, his voice dropping even lower. "Faelan has ears everywhere."

"Faelan is a lapdog. He sees only what the Queen shows him," the first guard, Taron, said dismissively. "But others are listening. The council is divided. Valerius is not alone. He says a cleansing is needed. A return to purity."

The head cook returned then, holding out the signed receipt. His presence made the two guards fall silent. They straightened up, their expressions becoming blank and dutiful again, and moved off down the corridor. I took the parchment from the cook, my hand trembling slightly. He gave me a sharp, questioning look, and I mumbled a thank you before turning and walking away as quickly as I could without running.

I didn't slow my pace until I was back outside the palace walls, the familiar scent of Lirael's herbs a welcome relief. The seemingly perfect, harmonious city suddenly felt different. Lirael’s warnings echoed in my mind, no longer abstract advice but a concrete threat. There were cracks in the crystal façade of Silverwood, and I had just peered into one of them. It was dark and deep, and I had the terrible feeling that the entire, beautiful structure was more fragile than anyone knew.

When I returned to the shop, the scent of rosemary and drying mint felt like a flimsy veil over the stench of rot I’d just uncovered. Lirael was grinding something in a large stone mortar, the rhythmic crunching sound usually a comfort. Now it just sounded like bones breaking.

She looked up as I closed the door behind me, the small bell above it giving a tinny, cheerful jingle that felt entirely wrong. "There you are," she said. "Did the cook give you any trouble?"

"No. He was fine." I placed the signed receipt on the counter, my hand still not completely steady. I busied myself with unlacing my boots, avoiding her gaze. I could feel her watching me.

"Ella," she said, her voice soft. The grinding stopped. "What is it?"

I thought of the guards, of the name Valerius, of the words cleansing and blood-rites. Lirael had warned me to stay away from court politics, to keep my head down. Telling her what I’d heard felt like dragging her into the danger with me, a danger I had no right to bring to her door.

"Nothing," I lied. "The palace is just... intimidating. It makes me feel like I don't belong here." It was the truth, but not the whole truth. It was a coward's truth.

She didn't press me, but a line of concern settled between her brows. She resumed her work, but the rhythm was slower now, more thoughtful. We ate the stew she’d made in a tense quiet, sitting at the small wooden table in the back of the shop. The silence was thick with the things I wasn't saying. I felt like a fraud, accepting her kindness while hiding this ugly secret I’d stumbled upon. Every shadow in the room seemed to lengthen, to twist into new shapes.

It was then that the sound came.

It wasn't a bell, not in the way I understood bells. It was a single, resonant tone that seemed to come from the very stones of the city, a deep, vibrating hum that made the jars on the shelves tremble. It was a sound of immense and final authority.

Lirael froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. The colour drained from her face. "No," she whispered, more to herself than to me.

She rose and went to the front window, peering through a gap in the shutters. I followed, my heart beginning to pound a heavy, clumsy rhythm against my ribs.

The street outside, usually filled with the soft glow of lanterns and the low murmur of elves returning home, was being systematically erased. Tall, silent figures moved down the centre of the lane. They were made of a substance that was not quite light and not quite metal, their forms slender and vaguely elven but lacking any feature. They were faceless, seamless things of polished silver and white luminescence, and they carried long pikes that pulsed with the same cold light. Sentinels.

They made no sound. They gave no orders. Their presence was the only command needed. As they passed, doors were bolted, shutters were slammed shut, and lights were extinguished. The city was holding its breath. The silence they left in their wake was absolute and terrifying.

Lirael turned from the window, her movements brisk with a fear she was trying to control. She went to the door and slid the heavy iron bar across it, the sound echoing loudly in the now-silent shop. She moved from window to window, checking the latches, pulling the heavy curtains closed until we were sealed in a dim, herb-scented tomb.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice a dry rasp. "What's happening?"

"A full curfew," she said, her back to me. "Enforced by the Sentinels." She finally turned, her moss-coloured eyes wide with a fear that went far beyond worry. "This hasn't happened since the War of the Brothers. Not in my lifetime."

The War of the Brothers. I'd read about it in one of the history books she'd given me. A brutal civil war, centuries ago. A conflict that had nearly torn the elven race apart.

I stood frozen in the middle of the room, the last of the day's light gone, the shop lit only by a single, flickering candle on the table. The air was thick and still. Outside, there was nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no wind. Only the deep, pervasive silence of a city under lockdown. The conversation I'd overheard in the palace kitchen played back in my mind, the words sharp and clear. A cleansing is needed. A return to purity. The unspoken fear that Lirael radiated was now a living thing in the room with us. It wasn't just a curfew. It was a prelude. I felt a cold certainty settle in my gut, a premonition as clear and sharp as a shard of glass. My quiet, borrowed life, the fragile peace I had found in this small shop, was over. The cracks I had seen in the foundation of this city were about to break wide open.