The Lost Wings: The Elemental Saga, #1

The Lost Wings

The Elemental Saga book I

Camilla Vavruch

Copyright © 2024 by Camilla Vavruch, www.camillavavruch.com

2nd edition, 2024

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by Swedish copyright law. For permission requests, contact Camilla Vavruch at camilla@camillavavruch.com.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Published by: Moira förlag AB

Cover design: Camilla Vavruch

Interior design: Camilla Vavruch

To my dad, who taught me the magic of stories.

Chapters

1.The Banquet

2. Mother

3.The Water Woman

4.In the Forest

5.Healing Goo

6.The Necklace

7.One Day at a Time

8.The Dragon

9.Journey to the Mountains

10.On Two Feet

11.Stories

12.Water

13.The Nocny Mountains

14.The Mountain Witch

15.Payment

16.The Storm

17.The Missing Map

18.Traveling

19.Princess

20.Leaving

21.The Overstess

22.Ever

23.Gereon

24.The Library

25.New Plans

26.Rescued

27.Rile

28.Relief

29.The Obscuration Spell

30.The Oath

31.The Dome

32.The Cave

33.The Roots

34.A New Threat

35.The Stone Troll

36.Fire

37.The Last Key

38.Ea

39.Going Home

Afterword

About the Author

Books By Camilla Vavruch

Chapter one

The Banquet

Another day, another banquet, another evening of fake smiles plastered on her face, and bland words falling from her lips. Yet more hours of Crown Princess Moira’s life that she could have used for something better.

I wish she would let us skip this sometimes.

She laced the dress mindlessly, with two bows, one at the neck and another under the white wings extending from her shoulder blades.

Her makeup was perfect and her hair was pulled back in an intricate knot with the crown on top, almost as the queen would have wanted it. Had she gotten exactly her way, the few delicate dark curls now softly curtaining her face would have instead been hemmed into the bun so tight they would have been immune to a storm.

Moira glanced out the window. In fact, a storm was on its way, with dark, menacing clouds rose gathering below the bridges that secured Aurora’s floating cliffs to each other. The sturdy bridges near the castle, wide and made of stone, were unaffected, but she could imagine the rickety bridges at the edges of Aurora swaying in the wind. Far below the floating country, the deadly ocean would be in turmoil amidst the howling wind and crashing waves.

It’s our job, Mo. Mari looked at her with warm brown eyes. She sat in a chair by one of the windows in Moira’s room and was long since ready for the banquet, dressed in a green strapless gown which contrasted beautifully against her dark skin. Unlike Moira, her sister Mari never waited to get dressed until ten minutes before the start of dinner; Mari’s makeup was perfect, her hair in strict braids coming together in a bun at the nape of her neck.

Mari also was not out riding until thirty-five minutes before dinner, stressing everyone out.

Moira longed for her winged horse, the chevolant Caol, and the adrenaline rush as they crossed the skies, her hair blowing in the wind. She deserved her freedom. And the people deserved a crown princess who wanted the title. Someone like Mari.

But don’t you ever tire of it? Moira tugged at her tight knot in a futile attempt to loosen her hair. She wanted to sink onto her massive bed, but knew that if she did, she would rumple her dress and disturb her hairdo, so she better not.

They had been through this a million times before. Moira whined while Mari was sensible. It should be the other way around; Mari, the rebellious little sister, while Moira showed the way as the responsible one.

Mari wrapped her warm fingers around Moira’s, keeping her from fidgeting nervously. Moira’s arms were still cold from the ride.

Of course, I do. But there are worse destinies out there, so complaining about ours seems ungrateful.

Moira gave Mari a doubtful smile.

They jumped at a sudden knock on the door, and the Queen of Aurora swept into Moira’s room. At least the room was more than large enough to accommodate the three of them, and more if need be. Moira’s sanctuary was decorated in various shades of lilac, a soothing palette spanning from the plush duvet on her bed to the inviting armchairs nestled by the window. The room’s most enchanting feature, however, was the mural above: a starry night sky in the ceiling, each celestial body painted with meticulous care.

Mother stood with an air of grace, her stature regal in a long, pale gold dress that whispered along the floor. The fabric caught the light in a soft shimmer, adding to her dignified poise. She carried the delicate scent of jasmine, and her face mirrored Mari’s in its oval shape and large, almond-shaped eyes, unlike Moira’s rounder features.

Mari, you’re ready. Perfect. She turned to Moira, and her expression fell. And you’re barely done.

Moira held back a sigh. I lost track of the time while riding.

The queen shook her head. You and your chevolants! Moira, this dinner with the royal family of Chim is important.

Moira studied the purple carpet beneath her feet. She knew she should have prioritized this over a few more minutes of riding. Yes, Mother.

The queen caressed her cheek briefly, leaving a warm imprint on Moira’s skin.

Oh, if you could only learn your priorities like Mari has.

As always, it stung. No matter how much Moira loved her little sister, she hated the constant comparison between the two. She did it enough herself.

She swallowed hard. Yes, Mother.

Mom, she’s done now. Mari stood up. She was a tall copy of their mother, while Moira was the short misfit. With a few quick beats of her butterfly-like white wings, Mari came closer. Let her be?

Why was it that the younger Mari had to always defend her from their mother?

A little boy thundered into the room, dressed in his finest clothes—shirt, pressed trousers, and a vest chosen by the queen. Moira raised her eyebrows, and so did Mari.

Is he going to be at dinner? asked Moira.

The queen hesitated for a moment before her grim expression returned. It’s time Milton learns, too. He will also represent the country as he gets older.

Mari and Moira exchanged glances. Yes, their little brother would represent the country, but he was only nine years old. The queen had tried to take him to royal events before, and it always ended with a barely manageable disaster. Mael, the youngest of the four siblings, would have been easier—and he had only turned one a few months ago.

If you’re certain, Mom. Mari sounded as unsure as Moira felt.

I’ve placed him opposite of you, Moira. The queen spoke as she grabbed Milton’s wrist and pulled him away from Moira’s bedside table. Moira glanced to ensure nothing was missing, before freezing as she realized what her mother had just said.

Me? Panic rose within Moira.

Yes, so you can monitor him.

But Mother—

The queen flashed her a piercing look. No buts. You’re seated opposite each other, and you have the Queen of Chim next to you, while he has the prince. His eldest sister and a male role model, that’s a good foundation for a well-behaved night.

Moira said nothing. She knew it was a good foundation for complete ruin. Not even four nannies together could make Milton behave.

His dad rapped gently on the door frame and stepped inside. He was big and round, exuding a comforting, protective presence, and had kind, sparkling eyes. On his round chin, he sported a black beard, large but never wild—a source of fascination in Moira’s childhood—and there was a familiar scent of pine and earth to it. Majestic black wings unfurled behind him, their grandeur casting soft, shifting shadows across the room, evoking memories of countless nights spent under their silhouette as he made up tales and adventures.

Giving his wife a chaste kiss, he walked across the room to Moira.

You look gorgeous, my princess. He hugged her and kissed her forehead.

The pride in his eyes made Moira swell up double in confidence. At least he never compared her to Mari. Dad smiled and turned to the others. My beautiful family. Is everyone ready for dinner with the people of Chim?

Moira closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. The Queen of Chim on one side, her mischievous little brother opposite her, all against the backdrop of an event she did not enjoy under the best of circumstances. What could go wrong?

She nodded to her father with a forced smile, and they left the room.

Despite Moira’s incessant longing for the stables, an hour and a half later, they were all seated at the table. It could have been fun in the storm, chasing the winds and watching the world below through cracks in the clouds. The streets of Aurora were probably deserted by now, as the Aerites hid from the gusts.

The banquet hall bustled with the sounds and sights of a grand feast. Hundreds of guests sat at the oblong tables, where the table of honor stood in the middle like a spine, while the other tables protruded out like ribs. Conversations filled the air, a symphony of laughter, clinking cutlery, and the subtle rustle of fine clothing.

The starters, a blur in Moira’s memory, had been cleared away, leaving behind a lingering aroma of herbs and spices that mingled with the overall scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread from the main courses yet to come. Moira used her menu, hand-written on thick, white paper, as a fan, but it made no difference in the stuffy air and none whatsoever to her mood, either.

Bored, she glanced over at the woman sitting next to her: the Queen of Chim. The queen had more copper-red hair than the rest of the room put together and more jewels than anyone could wear—but the queen also consisted of quite a lot of queen. Moira had, as subtly as possible, tried to move to the side to avoid sitting pressed against the queen’s pale, fat arm, but she was yet to succeed. The more space she gave the queen, the more she took, as though she wasn’t solid, but a blubbery mass, spreading in every direction.

Moira searched for a question, landing on a simple one. Did you enjoy the starter?

The Queen of Chim glanced at her and refused to answer, instead demonstratively turning back to Moira’s father.

Moira’s heart dropped. She had tried repeatedly, but the Queen of Chim was entirely uninterested in Moira. The only one she wanted to talk to was the King of Aurora. Moira looked at Mari. She was deeply engrossed in a comfortable conversation with the Duke of Chim beside her. The man appeared delighted, and Mari’s pearly laughter added to the table’s collective chatter.

Moira downed the glass of wine. It smelled like berries and tasted like something elegant, old, and expensive. She was unsure why she was allowed wine because the queen thought her too young to drink, but Moira did not intend to point out the error—after all, she was sixteen years old. Soon, she would be old enough to rule the country if needed, although she was hardly keen on that. She could handle a glass of wine, especially sitting next to a strange queen who despised her.

On her other side, another Duke of Chim sat, delicately drying his lips with the white napkin. Apart from criticizing the food, he had not said a word to her all evening. The entire royal family and their party seemed set on disliking Moira from the get-go. She slashed her knife into the food and wondered how long it would take before the Duke or Queen of Chim crashed on the ground if they fell off the floating rocks.

Suddenly, a small, pale, and sticky ball came flying across the table and landed with a soft smack in the queen’s bushy hair. The queen, in the middle of a discussion with Moira’s dad, didn’t notice. Moira stared at the little ball, smeared within the queen’s hair.

Mashed potatoes.

She glanced across the table to her little brother, who grinned mischievously and sat with his shirt unbuttoned, despite the queen’s constant attempts. He was small and skinny with black, short hair and was still growing into his adult teeth, too big for his face. Milton didn’t like pheasant, and to avoid a tantrum during dinner, the queen agreed to let him have meatballs and mashed potatoes instead. Moira wondered what would happen if she threatened to throw a tantrum—of course, she would get a sound scolding.

The Queen of Chim was still unaware of the mess in her hair.

Could Moira pretend not to see it? Pretend to be unaware of what Milton had done?

She turned to the Prince of Chim, sitting opposite his mother, who was almost her complete opposite. Unobtrusive and so thin that he could hide behind a lamppost, except for the bright red hair that appeared to be a family trait—or rather, a Chim trait, considering the rest of the crowd.

Was the food to your satisfaction? she asked, forcing a smile.

He looked up at her with fear, like a deer about to be preyed upon. His eyes flickered to his mother’s hair, and the mashed potato mess that dripped onto her dress. Moira’s insides froze, but the prince quickly folded his gaze away.

Y-yes. It’s very good.

Perhaps he thought he could avoid getting mashed potatoes in his hair if he was nice enough when addressed, and invisible enough the rest of the time. But considering the naughty twinkle in Milton’s eyes when he looked at the prince, she doubted it.

Mother expected Moira to control Milton, despite knowing that no one could control Milton. Moira’s intense stare only seemed to further encourage him.

Milton picked up a new ball of mashed potatoes and aimed his spoon at the busy queen.

Milton! Moira snapped.

He looked at her and smirked.

She sprang up, but it was too late.

Another glob sailed through the air—but this time, the queen noticed because she turned to take another bite of her food when the spoonful of mashed potatoes came flying across and, instead of landing in the massive hair, splattered against the queen’s forehead.

Ah! The queen backed away, and the mashed potatoes—both the last spoonful and the first—dripped onto the table. What is going on? What is this?

Moira took her napkin and tried to dry the queen’s forehead, but regretted it immediately. It smeared further.

You, leave me alone! The Queen of Chim stood and turned to Moira’s parents as if to demand they discipline their children. Moira’s father looked confused, while Mother was glowing with red spots of anger. Moira feared whether she would direct her fury at Milton—because he had caused the chaos yet again—or if Moira would be on the receiving end for failing to control her little brother.

Your Highness, we apologize, her dad said. Prince Milton has just begun his education—

Oh, really? And your crown princess, who has been unpleasant to me all evening? Has she also just started?

Moira gripped her knife so tight her fingers hurt. Me? I haven’t—

Of course, Crown Princess Moira apologizes. Her mother’s cool, controlled voice interrupted Moira’s protest.

Moira stared at her. Apologize? For what? For the Queen of Chim’s disinterest and unpleasantness? For Mother’s lack of sense that naughty nine-year-olds should be kept away from royal dinners?

The hall was quiet, and Moira shifted uncomfortably under the hundred-something pairs of eyes watching her. She looked helplessly at Mari, who gave her a minimal nod. There was nothing to do except to follow her mother’s orders.

I apologize, Your Highness.

The Queen of Chim snorted, unladylike and ugly. That was the least honest excuse for an apology I’ve ever received.

Dad stood, and the queen quieted. He was a large man, strong and confident. When the Queen of Chim took a step back under his gaze, he said, My daughter is entirely honest in her apology. Shall we continue the dinner now?

It was a showdown, and Moira knew her dad would win. The queen ruled behind the scenes, but he was the image of a confident and capable king in public.

The Queen of Chim looked like she had bitten into a lemon. I need a moment.

With a slight nod of his head, her father had a servant come forward and follow the queen as she left the banquet hall to wash away the mashed potatoes.

Moira sank into her chair ‘like a sack of potatoes,’ as her mother would say. She wanted to disappear and never participate in a banquet again.

Mari gave her with compassionate looks; Moira sensed them, but refused to meet her eyes. Mari would have been able to handle Milton.

And Milton? He was now stuffing mashed potatoes into his mouth, a pleased grin firmly intact.

A dozen servers floated past, clearing the plates, while conversations filled the room. Shortly afterward, they presented the dessert, and the scent of warm apples suffused the banquet hall. Moira picked up the dessert spoon and cracked the apple cake’s caramelized blanket with a satisfying crunch. Without savoring it, she gobbled the cake in a couple of bites. Couldn’t dinner just end? She sipped on her third glass of wine before setting it down a little too hard on the table.

Back straight, she sat rigid, waiting for time to pass.

Their mother would scold Milton, but not in front of two hundred people—and when she was finished, he would shake it off like a goose shaking off water. The Queen of Chim’s statement that Moira had been unpleasant would stand unchallenged. She sensed the glances and heard the murmurs throughout the hall—they believed the queen. And why would they do anything but? It was painfully obvious that Moira had failed to make conversation with both the queen and the duke. She knew what they wrote in the newspapers about her: the shy princess. The unwilling princess.

And it was true.

She took another swig of wine as consolation, despite being aware of the futility of it all. Dad’s cheeks were flushed, and like always, he had emptied his glass enough times to make anyone lose count. Moira hated how his eyes turned red, and how his words emulsified when they passed an unruly tongue.

The plumpness of her dad’s cheeks, the sweet smell of apple pie, the murmurs of the guests, the remaining notes of grilled pheasant—it was suffocating. Swallowing the last bite of her dessert, Moira floated up from her chair and out of the banquet hall.

Chapter two

Mother

Moira rushed through the corridors. Ever since she was a child, the stone walls had always felt safe and familiar, but now they loomed over her, burying her beneath their heavy shadows. The floating cliff below the castle had always seemed like a bird’s nest, where she could fly, rise and rest, but now it was her cage. Would this be her life? Drawn-out dinners with people she cared nothing about? Smiling and playing nice when she only wanted to scream?

Only three weeks to her seventeenth birthday, when she would seal her fate as the country’s next ruler after her father.

Her Day of Age.

They kept asking her if she was looking forward to it. What was there to look forward to?

The evening air hit her like cold water. The warmth of the wine sank away. Her head buzzed lightly. Standing on the long walkway between the castle towers, she stared at the sky spreading out above, flaunting silvery dots against the deep blue background. Below, dark clouds had gathered, and gusts of wind tore at Moira’s dark curls. The clouds lit up in white, causing goosebumps on her skin, followed by a thunderous rumbling.

The faint rustle of fabric drew her attention away from the sky. An arm’s length away, the duchess hovered. She was Moira’s self-proclaimed best friend because they both belonged to Aurora’s elite and were of the same age, so what else could they be? Moira snorted under her breath.

The duchess’ dress was a kaleidoscope of blue and purple. Large gold earrings pulled at her earlobes, and her neck was capped with a gaudy gold necklace. If not for the blue wings, she could’ve been the daughter of the Queen of Chim. With her petite frame, Moira would likely not be able to fly if she wore the same outfit.

The duchess swooned dreamily, raising the back of her hand to her forehead, pretending to faint. He’s a dream. Handsome. Rich.

Moira wished the lull of the wine could return. She couldn’t cope with the duchess on the best of days, and this was nowhere near her best day. Exhausted as she was, all she wanted was to be left alone.

He’s skinny with bright red hair, Moira said.

Oh, it’s just—unique.

Have you talked to him?

They were seated at different tables, and he seemed anything but social.

The duchess waved her hand. It’s overrated.

Overrated?

He’s a prince, the duchess said as if it explained everything. I understand it doesn’t matter much to you, Your Highness—she said ‘Your Highness’ as if it were a funny nickname rather than her rightful title—but for the rest of us…

You should still have criteria other than ‘is a prince’.

Why?

Moira stared at her, wishing she could hear the smallest trace of irony in the duchess’ voice. Do you have anything in common?

The duchess bit her lower lip and shrugged. He’s a little difficult to talk to. I didn’t get much out of him during the mingle. But really, that’s kind of nice. Someone who doesn’t just babble all the time. She seemed unaware of her own perpetual babbling and concluded with, Good-looking and rich, the rest will solve itself.

Irony shone with its absence.

I thought you said he wasn’t handsome, Moira said.

I said his appearance is unique. He’s not ugly.

The duchess walked over and stood a little too close, as if wanting to force Moira’s gaze towards her. Moira refused. The duchess was one of the many fortune seekers who wanted to be near the crown princess. Nothing she said was genuine. The duchess couldn’t care less about Moira, except her title and position—and her riches and future position as queen—that were most important. Moira had tried to find friends; ordinary friends, people not of royal blood, but the queen found it inappropriate and always steered her back to this. Falsehood and intolerance.

The duchess had yet to move on from the topic of the Prince. He probably thought you were so beautiful that he didn’t dare talk to you. You weren’t exactly open and happy. Would it kill you to smile a little?

Smile a little. Smile, be happy, content with your lot in life—it’s so much more than others have.

Moira had lost count of how often she’d heard those words. A fury, grown for so long, was uncoiling within her. Rage spat and hissed, swelling until it exploded out of her.

Leave.

The duchess backed away. But Your Highness, I was just trying—

Go. Away. You don’t know what you’re talking about, you fake, stupid harpy.

Moira felt light and breathed deeply. Speaking her true emotions was a pleasure she rarely experienced.

The duchess’ eyes were large, her mouth open—but then her face distorted into something different, something Moira had never seen before. Without meaning to, she’d evoked the real person behind the façade.

You think you’re so special, just because you’re a princess, snapped the duchess. But you’re nothing behind that title. You’re a coward, you’re haughty, and you don’t deserve to be a princess—

That is enough, a voice from behind broke in.

Moira and the duchess turned around, breaking their eye contact.

The queen stared at them with her icy cold eyes. She kept her hands clasped in front of her long dress that wasn’t extravagant in any sense, except for the queen’s perfect simplicity. The crown on her head made her appear even taller.

Miss, you can go.

The duchess stood still for a few seconds, her gaze on the queen like a frightened squirrel, before she zipped away.

Mother walked forward. Her hair, as black as Moira’s own, was pulled into an elaborate knot of braids, and it did not move an inch in the breeze.

You two are nobility, and you will act as such.

Moira turned away from her mother, away from the hollow words, and stared out across