A Beautiful Specimen, Such As Yourself

It was the day after the Flower Moon that Dahlia stepped out of the sunshine and directly into a man named Bint.

The collision was brief – the brush of shoulder to shoulder– but it was enough. A hush fell over the Mossmere Glade as they touched. The bird song stopped, squirrels halted in their tracks and the monarchs seemed to hover in place. All watching. All noticing.

The man stumbled, clearly shaken and pushed dark locks from his even darker eyes. “I’m so sorry, I–”

Dahlia cocked her head at him, curiosity spilling from her like a cascade of water. His gaze lingered on her skin dusted with morning pollen and her dress spun from cobwebs and dew.

“You’re human,” she said.

He blinked at her and cleared his throat, shaking his head. “I am. And you must be… his daughter.”

She tensed but curiosity continued to win. She nodded.

His mouth curled into a smirk. The bird song returned, but it was high-pitched now. Uneasy.

Dahlia moved further into the forest, away from the Ember Ring. “What is your name?”

He followed, eagerly, bouncing off the brush like a bull as she curled through each pathway with precision. “Bint.”

“And why do you search for me, Bint?”

He hesitated, stopping to pull down a vine in their path. She cringed at this but said nothing – only looked at him expectantly.

“I knew your father. He was a friend of mine. He told me where to find you,” said Bint.

Something flared in her. Anger. It had been a long time since she’d had use for such emotions. Because Dahlia was honest, she would admit to anyone that the fire burning in her gut felt good, like a step toward freedom.

She moved closer to him, leaning in to stare at the golden buttons shining on his gilded shirt.

He smiled at her fascination. “But we don’t need to speak of your father, I am here for the opposite.” She looked up, still leaning into his space as they spoke between two outcroppings of rock.

“Tell me of your mother, Dahlia.”

She cocked her head at him. “The Fae of Justice?”

“So it’s true,” he murmured.

She smirked, confidence radiating from the curl of her lips.

“It’s true,” she confirmed.

Bint swallowed. The reality of his predicament was beginning to settle in. She was no ordinary girl. And yet…

“How about a wager, girl?”

“Oh, I’m ‘girl’ now, am I? No longer Dahlia?” She mocked her name in his brutish voice.

Anger flared in Bint, and the birds squawked loudly, taking off in droves. The forest thundered with their wings for a moment. Dahlia looked up, closed her eyes, and let the sound pulse through her until silence fell again.

“The forest doesn’t appreciate your anger.”

Bint’s mind fumbled at that particular comment. He wiped sweat from his brow.

“A wager, Dahlia.” This time, he said her name like the opposite of a prayer.

Dahlia latched on to a nearby tree—skinny enough for her hand to encircle—and began to twirl slowly around it. “It may be surprising, but I do love a wager.”

It was Bint’s turn to smile, all twisty and sure of himself.

“If you take me to a place of value in this forest, I’ll help you take it. You and I can share it, all for ourselves. Have whatever we want. And you wouldn’t be stuck out here anymore.”

Because Dahlia was honest, she would admit to anyone that she contemplated Bint’s offer. She couldn’t deny her curiosity about the human world. About her human father. He had become a whisper on the wind the moment her mother told him he would birth a Changeling. And then there were other men—human men. Some had to be her age. Men like Bint. Finding another Changeling like herself could take centuries…

But Balance called to her in the form of sunlight, pulling her to the Ember Ring each day. She understood herself like the forest understood itself. It was faith and form and all things Created. And so she knew what she had to do.

She grabbed Bint’s hand and pulled him into a shaded, overgrown tangle of brush. Tiny sparkles of red glinted where the light dappled through the trees.

“Are those strawberries?” he asked, eyes wide.

Dahlia grinned. “Indeed.”

Bint lunged forward, grasping the lush berries and biting into their sweet skin. Juice ran down his chin.

“Best I’ve ever had,” he murmured between mouthfuls.

Dahlia only watched. She had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that Bint might offer her one. That would’ve been a kind thing for him to do. But sadly, she had expected nothing more from someone associated with her incompetent father.

And because Dahlia was honest, she would have told anyone about the thoughts she had while watching the juice run down his chin. She would admit she enjoyed the slope of his jaw, the swell of his shoulders. She did not carry shame around her body’s needs. She knew what she could take from him and that he would give it all too willingly.

But the Rock of Truth was home.

To her, it was a flame, and she the moth. She had always come, and she would always return to the Ember Ring. She basked in the sun and in the moon—an embodiment of balance, of truth.

There was the sound of crashing through the underbrush, and Bint cringed, his head swiveling as he continued to chew.

“It doesn’t seem safe out here,” he said. “I do think it would be best if we got you out of here. A beautiful specimen such as yourself should be cautious in a forest such as this.”

“Cautious?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear. There are many... things here that might take the life of a pretty young thing such as yourself.”

Dahlia looked left, then right, and gave Bint a confused look. He silently cursed and muttered something about the stupidity of females. She cocked her head but continued on, deeper into the brush, collecting wildflowers with duty and grace.

Bint followed. “I must insist we head somewhere safe.”

“The King and Queen of Pentacles protect the forest,” she replied. “There is no need for running.”

Bint’s eyes twinkled. Dahlia went in for the kill.

“Would you like to meet the King and Queen of this forest?” she asked, looking at him through long lashes, offering him a collection of purple and pink petaled roses.

“King and Queen?” he asked, not even looking down to appreciate the flowers.

She nodded. “They hold the value you seek.”

Bint’s lips curled again, speckled with seeds, his smile sickening. His intentions seeped out of him like smog.

“You’ll take me to them, Dahlia. Sweet girl.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded and let a smile curl her own lips.

______

For the first hour, their feet rustled gently against the soft underbrush. Bint didn’t recognize the circles Dahlia led them in—he was too focused on the churning in his stomach and the sweat slicking his brow.

“Must we stop to rest your human bones?” she asked.

He grunted and collapsed onto his rear, nearly crushing a patch of honeydrop mushrooms.

Dahlia silently thanked the Mother for small miracles.

“I do feel a bit off,” he admitted between shallow breaths.

“It’s most likely the Fruit of Truth.”

He tensed. “What are you talking about?”

“The strawberries,” she said. “They don’t usually kick in this quickly, though. You must have eaten a lot.”

His eyes widened. Fear cracked through his expression.

“You drugged me?”

Dahlia rolled her eyes and smiled. “I did.”

Bint started coughing, shoving fingers down his throat in a blind attempt to vomit.

She snapped her fingers.

“Bint. Please. Focus.”

He stopped instantly, caught by something unseen. Some otherworldly force pulled his eyes to hers like iron to magnet.

“Tell me now,” she said calmly. “When you first saw me, what were your intentions?”

He tried to hold it in, to lock the words behind his teeth, but the truth surged forward—like bile refusing to be swallowed.

“I thought of taking you,” he spat, horrified at his own confession. “Forcing you into submission. I wanted to cage your beauty so no one else could have you. To take you whenever I wanted—without your permission.” He slapped his hands over his mouth. Too late. The truth had already spilled like wine on sacred cloth.

“Exploitation was always my game.”

Dahlia giggled. A bright, girlish sound. As if she had just won a game only she knew they were playing. Without warning, she shoved Bint hard. He tumbled through a thicket, arms flailing at odd angles, crashing down through a tunnel of branches. He landed with a grunt in a bed of grass, blinking up at the sky—then at them.

Two ancient sequoias loomed above him, bark gnarled with age, leaves glittering gold in the light. He gasped. Scrambled backwards on his hands. The legends had been true.

Every leaf shimmered with golden sheen—twinkling, brilliant, soft as spun metal. Some hung just within reach. He leapt to his toes, stretching upward— But the leaves shifted away, as if repelled by his touch. Dahlia appeared behind him. Bint cursed and spun to face her. “Help me, girl.”

She shook her head slowly. “Do you wish to be in their good graces?”

He stared at her, incredulous. “If you know the secret, tell me, Dahlia.”

Dahlia leaned against a root larger than her body and closed her eyes. Listening. Bint waited with bated breath.

She clicked her tongue against her teeth. A sharp, chiding sound. “Now, now, Bint. Our leaders have spoken. All one has to do is stand in the Ember Ring.”

“The Ember Ring…” His voice was flat with dread. “Where’s that?”

“Where you found me. Remember?” She smiled faintly. “Shall we return? So you can have your final judgment day?”

He hesitated. Swallowed hard. “If I stand in the Ember Ring, will these trees share their gold with me?”

Because Dahlia was honest, she had to admit—she was surprised. Surprised at his utter lack of self-preservation in the face of profit.

But she smiled and nodded at him, took his hand, and began to lead him back.

Through the winding path.

Through the pockets of time.

Until the Ring lay just ahead—

Quiet. Glowing. Waiting.

She stepped back and took a moment to gaze at Bint, looking him up and down as he had done to her.

“It’s a shame. You were such a pretty one,” Dahlia teased.

Bint froze.

“What? Big man afraid now, is it?”

He bristled. Pride flaring hotter than sense.

Because Dahlia was honest, she would have admitted that although Bint was brave, he was equally stupid.

He stepped forward, out into the sunlight. A shimmer passed through the air like heat rising from stone. The wind stilled. Even the insects quieted—watching. Listening. The light grew brighter, but colder somehow. Final.

Bint’s skin began to lift, slow and silent. Cell by cell. A soft unmaking. His body crumbling like parchment in fire. Bits of him spiraled upward—ash and dust caught in golden beams—until the man called Bint was nothing more than a smoldering heap on the Rock of Truth.

No scream. No echo.

Only silence, like the forest had closed a book.

Dahlia sighed.

Because she was honest, she would admit—she wished she could have played with her little visitor just a bit longer. He was entertaining, if nothing else.

But Balance had no patience for delay.

And the Ring had called.

She stepped forward, brushing the pile of ash from the stone as one might sweep crumbs from a table.

Then Dahlia stepped into the sunshine.

And the forest exhaled.