Of Pixies and Promises Novella (eBook)

“If you don’t pick your dicks soon, they’ll be picked for you.”

Nyra ignored the unsolicited advice from her mother’s sister, Colt. Colt was a good friend and a Mage at the Order of the Well. She wasn’t required to have a harem. She didn’t understand. 

As a trusted Councillor at the Order, Colt had a purpose. She had a life. She was only here to help with the coronation ball. Soon she would return to overseeing magic use in Elphyne, and Nyra would be left struggling to fit into this tribe alone. 

After turning four and thirty this spring, Nyra’s wings still hadn’t created pixie dust. But it wasn’t as though she could control it. The wings dusted who they wanted. The Well had plans, and maybe having a harem—or any mate—wasn’t in Nyra’s future. The sooner everyone accepted it, the better. 

Instead of wallowing, Nyra focused on finger painting bioluminescent art on the tree hollow walls in preparation for her coronation. Pixies bustled about behind them, decorating the vast space and trying not to eavesdrop, but Nyra was done suffering in silence. As far as she was concerned, having a harem had nothing to do with her ability to rule. It might affect how much magic she could draw from the Well or how big their tribe might be, but they wouldn’t know until she was coronated. 

“Nyra,” Colt said. “Are you listening?”

“I’m listening,” she replied in a sing-song voice and scribbled a mustache onto the character painted on the wall… who just happened to have the same rainbow wings, hair, and dusky brown skin as Colt. 

Colt’s wings vibrated in vexation. Wind and dust stirred, ruining the wet paint of Nyra’s work. She scowled and faced her aunt.

“Was that necessary?” Colt’s eyebrow arched as she took in the mustache with a pout. The expression flared the glowing blue teardrop mark on her bottom lip—her Mage mark. It was a reminder that Colt was respected in the broader community, and Nyra was still a recalcitrant youth. “You could have at least painted one on your mother. It’s not my fault you’re in this predicament.”

Bitterness seethed in Nyra’s stomach. Colt had no clue what Nyra went through. No clue. 

Queen Juniper’s figure was painted next to Nyra’s. Her age was determined not by wrinkles on her skin but by the luminosity of her wings. They were dull, unlike Nyra’s prismatic, sparkling set. The queen had the same pastel pink hair and golden skin, but Nyra’s hair floated around her face in wisps that tickled her shoulders. It was tied in a fancy woven design to prepare for the ball, but strands kept falling out. The queen’s tresses flowed in waves that gave vibrance where her wings failed. Her hair never looked messy like Nyra’s. 

But those dull wings were a glaring truth. The queen’s magic was fading. It was time for her heir to accept the tithe from the Well in return for protecting their little pocket of Elphyne. This tithe was too powerful for one little pixie queen to contain and required the full capacity of a harem.