Ink Blossom (Ink Blossom 1)

despite his autumn touch

The devil has been waiting all these years.

He has been waiting, ever since the medallion fell into his cold, cold hands—a delicate bronze thing hanging from a thin, leather cord with frayed edges, holding a living cherry blossom within.

The flower petals are still a velvet whisper underneath his fingertips, so small and pink and sweet. Despite his autumn touch, it won’t die, it won’t even shrivel, no, not even the edges have turned brown. It’s a stubborn sliver of life unwilling to let go, no matter how many years crawl by, how many times he looks at it, how often he caresses it, his hollow chest constantly craving its tender softness in his world of shadows and bones.

He breathes out a rattling sigh like fallen leaves fluttering in the wind.

The devil has been waiting all these years.

For something, for someone, for anything else to find him in this darkness.

Ever since this medallion fell into his cold, cold hands.

It woke him up.

And now, his soul refuses to sleep.

CHAPTER ONE

running

Gwyn is running.

Not from anything. Not toward anything.

She’s simply running, muscles burning, lungs filled with air, hair tousling in the wind, steps lithe and fast—running, as she does every single morning, breathing in the spicy scent of trees with canopies as fiery as fire, the sweet fragrance of decaying leaves.

No, she is not running from or toward anything, for she cannot escape this Land of Autumn, cannot go to the Land of Spring. Yes, she has tried, like many others before her.

And failed, just like all of them.

It is that failure that makes her unable to remain still. That failure, that reminds her every single day of how close she’d once gotten to her dream. That failure, that makes her return—every single morning—to the place where her hope was shattered. It is that failure, that causes her to run faster, ever faster, every motion fueled by desperation.

By anger, quietly sizzling in her blood.

Out of breath, she slows down to a halt. The forest opens up before her, the trees towering into the blue sky, the clouds tinged pink and purple by the rising sun, the red and orange and brown canopies of the trees rustling in a breeze, letting in only shafts of sunlight while crowding the forest floor with shadows.

Her shoulders slightly heaving, the wind cutting through the thin fabric of her loose shirt—the laces at her throat have come undone—, she walks into the forest and keeps on walking, walking, walking, allowing the trees to swallow her whole.

And aware, constantly, of the eyes of decay that are watching her, belonging to the voiceless guards of this forest: those who won’t let anyone go, no matter what season their hearts truly belong to.

Every day, Gwyn is conscious of her very heart, this knot of pain and longing in her chest—even now she can feel it, its weight and steadfast rhythm. Wherever she goes, she carries it with her, this yearning for another home.

Fallen leaves crunching under her boots, she walks on without faltering. To be honest, she… isn’t entirely sure why she forces herself to go through this every single day. Why she allows the lake near the edge of this forest to pull her toward itself every morning.

Why she keeps reminding herself of that day when she learned that she would never go home.

The home she’s never been to.

When others see her, they often say she looks like a girl of Autumn. Her long hair, the bangs falling across her forehead, they’re such a brilliant shade of orange-red. But it makes them ignore her eyes, grass-green, a shade too fresh for this land. No one sees the truth.

But Gwyn does, every day she looks into the mirror.

Her throat aches, but she presses her lips together and narrows her eyes, keeping her spine straight and tall as she stops at the edge of the lake, a body of water that barely takes up any space in this wide, infinite forest, a silent creature that’s like a slumbering predator.

The Ink Lake.

The water is black, utterly black, devouring any dapple of light and unable to mirror a single thing.

A breeze stirs.

Gwyn glances up, her gaze latching on to a bright-red maple leaf that comes drifting down, swaying side to side before landing on the lake’s surface… only to shrivel up in the matter of a heartbeat.

No object can enter this lake. The ink kills all.

Well… at least, that is what they say.

Gwyn reaches for the collar of her shirt, yet all her fingertips graze is the skin of her own throat and collarbones. Her medallion has been long lost, ever since she dropped it in this very lake.

And watched it sink down under its inky surface.

It was her offering to the devil. Which he took, but never gave back, stealing both her hope and her talisman. She knows she could get herself a new one. Even grow herself a new cherry blossom to carry around.

But she had sworn to herself to carry that one with her always until she would finally reach the Land of Spring—and there, she would release the flower on a grassy hill to be swept away by the wind, in celebration of her found home and freedom.

Then and there, she would finally stop feeling like a beast trapped in a cage; like a savage flower filled with a thirst for life that burns brighter than any flame, craving to break free of the death and rot that is Autumn.

Gwyn sets her jaw.

She still remembers how she stood at the edge of this very lake four years ago.

The disappointment. The heartache.

All of it.

CHAPTER TWO

the ink lake

Four years ago

Finally, she was there.

Standing at the edge of the Ink Lake.

Gwyn curled her fingers into fists at her sides, peering into its dark depths.

Her eighteenth birthday had come at last after years and years in which the days had refused to move forward. But, at last, it had come, and with it, the freedom to go wherever she wanted without anyone being able to hold her back. Not even her parents.

She’d left them and her sisters a farewell note, then slipped from her family’s home in the middle of the night. She turned her back on the city of Amber and its grassy, brown meadows, and soon left the roads in favor of traveling through the forests, sleeping under the canopies at night, bathing in lakes and rivers in the mornings, rationing the food packed in her backpack while also finding wild berries and plants and mushrooms to eat.

It had taken her several weeks to travel here by foot; she’d been born on the very other side of the land, near the border of Winter. The infamous Ink Lake, however, she’d been told was situated close to the border of Summer.

She could’ve traveled by Crow Fox carriage—Autumn’s preferred mode of transport, pulled by elegant, muscular creatures that were larger than the foxes often found in forests, with black-feathered wings that, for some reason or other, lost the ability to carry them into the sky a long time ago—, but Gwyn wanted this journey to be a lonesome thing, a silent farewell to this land before she went to Spring.

Where her heart had belonged ever since birth; she’d always known it, even as a child.

Her hand trembling a little, Gwyn reached for a bare branch hanging overhead, gently running her fingertips over its rough texture. It shivered slightly, a creature roused from its slumber—and she watched the buds of pink cherry blossoms emerge, right before their petals began to unfurl.

Wherever she went, she always left a trace of Spring. An echo of her heart, turned tangible.

Gwyn exhaled a sigh and her hand shook a little harder as she shrugged off her tattered, faded backpack and reached for the bronze medallion under her clothes.

"If the devil accepts your offering," she’d been told, he will allow you to leave the Land of Autumn. He will make his guards step aside and clear the path.

Recalling the words, Gwyn glanced up and peered in the distance. There they were; the devil’s guards, willowy figures turned hazy in the golden sunset-fog that was rapidly turning to silvery blue.

She held her breath.

She could sense their eyes on her. Watching her every move.

The guards were in every forest, also near the border of Winter. Gwyn had often seen them from faraway, yet never up-close.

"But beware," she’d also been warned by tired voices and wise, disappointed eyes framed by wrinkles of old age, the devil has never accepted an offering; not one of us has ever left the Land of Autumn. It’s the same everywhere in this whole wide world, girl. Spring, Summer, and Winter all have their own devils… and they do not care for us, those who are born and trapped in the wrong season. Anyone who tries to escape, will be devoured by the guards, who listen only to the devils’ whispers.

She kept watching their silhouettes. At first glance, they seemed motionless—yet, the longer she looked, the more they seemed to sway, like treetops in the wind. She was told their eye sockets were empty holes, and their fingers actual branches sharp enough to tear you to pieces.

It was said that was what had happened to all souls who’d forcefully tried to make their way out of Autumn.

Gwyn turned back to the lake, slowly stretching out her arm and stepping a little closer. Gravel slipped away from under her boots, tiny stones rolling into the inky water.

They all disintegrated on touch. As though the liquid were acid, burning anything that tried to come in.

Her medallion dangled on its leather cord, still tightly wrapped around her hand as she held it out over the lake.

Hand shaking even harder, she waited, hesitated.

The devil has never accepted an offering.

But he had to accept hers. He had to, because she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe in this land.

Not one of us has ever left the Land of Autumn.

Yet she would. She had to, because her heart hurt every single day; all of her hurt.

Just let me go, she whispered.

And dropped the medallion.

The leather cord, worn soft and tattered, slipped through her hand, and instinct almost had her closing her fingers again, trying to catch it, but the thing was too fast, too nimble—and then, the medallion already hit the surface.

It remained afloat, sending ripples through the water.

And Gwyn watched, frozen, all of her emotions—hope, desperation, anger, excitement, fear, longing—which had roared through her for as long as she could remember, all of them had become frozen as well, like the rivers in the books she’d read about the season of Winter.

Yes, the medallion remained afloat for long, endless, eternal seconds—until it sank and sank and sank, swallowed by the lake without leaving a single trace.

Anticipation shivered through her.

The world became a dream, hazy and soundless.

She could barely feel her own hands and feet.

Her offering… it had been accepted. Her medallion hadn’t crumpled, hadn’t fallen to pieces before her eyes, no, it sank down under the surface, as though the devil had pulled it into his hell below the earth, finding it worthy enough.

The devil has never accepted an offering.

Hers was the first.

Not one of us has ever left the Land of Autumn.

She would be… the first.

Gwyn watched the lake, waiting for her medallion to rise back up to the surface.

But the ink remained still.

Heart pounding, she looked up at the guards in the distance, waiting for them to step aside.

But they, if anything, were even stiller.

Give it back. She sank to her knees, leaning toward the ink. Give it back.

Utter blackness and silence. That was all there was.

Give it…— She bit down on her words, shook her head, jerked her chin back up, and let her gaze travel left to right, searching for an opening as one of the guards surely had to have stepped aside.

None of them had. Not a single one.

No. Gwyn shook her head harder, pushed back up to her feet, staggered away from the lake. He took it. She raised her voice: The devil took my offering. I know you saw it. I’m allowed to leave now. You have to let me go—you have to!

Her fists shook at her side.

Tears burned in her eyes. Of anger, she told herself. Not of fear, not of disappointment, not of heartache, as her body already understood more than her mind wanted to.

You have to…

Faces wormed their way into her thoughts—her father’s, her mother’s, those of her two older sisters—, all of them frowning, shaking their heads, clicking their tongues, watching her with pitying looks as though she were a sad little thing they couldn’t understand, for all of them had been born for Autumn and had no trouble accepting their lives.

In her note, Gwyn had said she was leaving for Spring.

I’m never coming back, she’d written. I’ve never belonged here.

Blinking rapidly, she clenched her jaw, hissed out a breath—and a jolt made her take a step forward, a jolt of something hot and raw and painful, then another step, another one, until she was running, trees flitting past her, shadows growing darker, leaves scattering with every impact of her boots.

Let me go! she screamed at the guards and she was nearly upon them, her hands already reaching to wrench them to the side. Their heads were narrow and their features shadowed; twigs poked out of their skulls like the points of a crown; their necks were mere branches; their bodies willowy and slender, hidden under robes made of leaves and cobwebs and mushrooms; their hands were twigs, their fingers so thin—they didn’t look strong at all, not like a creature of flesh and blood, not at all like her, a girl brimming with determination wrapped up in sizzling rage. She could take them, she could.

LET ME GO—

But before her fingertips could even graze the death-still creatures, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist and yanked her back.

CHAPTER THREE

to find a place

Gwyn screamed as her boots slipped, but the arms were powerful and easily held her up, pressing her spine into a wide chest.

Stop it, hissed a voice in her ear. You’ll get yourself killed, damn it!

Killed.

The word slammed into her and she paused, breathless and wide-eyed—and her lips parted when another man leaped in front of her, holding up his hands. Let her go; don’t hurt her, he spoke tensely.

But the guards stepped forward, their steps smooth, their robes swaying and their feet invisible; phantoms drifting on an icy sigh that sliced through Gwyn’s clothes, biting into her skin and making her gasp.

Only, her gasp remained stuck in her throat when she saw it.

Their faces.

Empty eye sockets, impenetrable darkness pooling within. No nose. No expression. Yet they did have a mouth, wide and without lips to hide their teeth, rotted, needle-thin fangs that glistened with… ink. Black ink.

Yes, their eye sockets were empty—yet Gwyn could feel their gazes on her, heavy and unwavering and suffocating, seeing more than they should, digging into her flesh all the way down to her bones, and it was as though she could already feel them growing fragile with old age, turning frail under their rotting Autumn spell.

Breakable. She felt… breakable.

She was wrong to think them weak before. It was her, her who was truly just a feeble creature, despite the lush blossoms of Spring embedded into her heart.

Don’t take her to the devil. The young man standing before her—guarding her, shielding her—was still talking to them, his voice raw with fear, although his tone was controlled and steady. "She won’t try to escape, I promise. I’ll make sure that she won’t. I promise," he repeated.

Gwyn was shaking—and the only reason she felt it was because the other man tightened his arms around her, his breaths uneven as they stirred her hair.

Rustling, the guards glided back.

Took back up their positions, their ghostly faces hidden in shadows once more.

Step back. Slowly, now, murmured the man into her ear, releasing her only to grab her upper arms, carefully guiding her back.

Keep walking. Just keep walking, whispered the other, still facing the guards, but he also took a step backward, "but don’t run."

Run. It was all Gwyn truly wanted to do, her legs trembling with fear and itching with the instinct to flee, but the man didn’t release her arms and forced her to keep moving slowly.

It felt like an hour until the guards became foggy silhouettes in the distance.

It felt like a lifetime until the man released her and she turned, realizing she was back at the Ink Lake. Her pulse still racing, she searched its surface with her eyes.

Her medallion…

Gone. It was still gone—

Hey. You have to leave.

She jerked her head to the side, staring at the man who had held her before. He’d picked up her backpack and held it out to her. It looked small in his strong, broad hand. His shoulders were wide. His dark shirt strained slightly and did little to hide his powerful chest, his narrow waist, a body of muscles and strength. Warm, olive skin. Black hair falling over his forehead, grazing his eyelashes, a goatee and a trimmed moustache. Pale eyes that studied her face in turn, the look in them still a little bewildered.

You have to leave now, he repeated, still holding her bag out to her.

Leave.

Yes, she needed to leave. She needed to leave Autumn. That’s why she came here.

I can’t. She shook her head. I can’t. My— My offering has been taken. It was accepted. I saw it. It sank down into the ink. She pointed to the lake, her motions wild, frenzied. "I saw it—"

You were lucky we happened to be here, okay? It’s not safe— began the young man.

No, you don’t understand! she shouted. "I don’t belong here. I don’t. I can’t stay here, I…" Helpless, she once again shook her head—and as her heart cracked, she allowed it to spill, to bleed all over the earth she was standing on, because words simply couldn’t explain.

Around her feet, the fallen leaves were pushed aside by green grass that climbed out of the earth; above her head, branches rustled and maple leaves fluttered down to make way for white and pink