Chapter 1: Picnic Gone Wrong

They always said: plan your life ahead, or watch it fall into shambles.

Mauve had taken that advice to heart. Her mother gave her a journal on her eighth birthday, and from then on, her days became grids and bullet points. Daily tasks, weekly goals, monthly reflections. At seventeen, she already had a five-year plan—a blueprint of who she was supposed to become.

And three days from now, on her eighteenth birthday, she would finally step into the life she had so carefully written for herself.

At least, that was the plan.

“Darling, will you be okay?” Her mom’s voice tugged her back to the breakfast table. “I’ve prepared food in the fridge, just heat them up. That should last until we’re back.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom. I’m not a kid anymore.” Mauve grinned, though her fingers tapped restlessly against her glass of milk.

“It’s only three days,” her father added as he reached for his coffee. He patted her head like he always did. “Our little alpha archer can handle herself.”

She smirked. “I’ll beat you again at our next match, you’ll see.”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “You always get lucky shots!”

Her mother laughed as she pulled her purse off the counter. “Tell your friends to come over when we get back. We’ll cook something special for you.”

Mauve rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t have friends.”

“You still have three days to find some,” her mother teased, kissing her cheek before they left. “Be good, sweetheart. We love you.”

The door clicked shut. Silence swallowed the house.

Mauve hated that silence.

She hurried through breakfast and grabbed her school things. The words her mom had left behind still pressed against her chest—You need friends. But what was the point? Seventeen years of solitude had been working just fine. Friends weren’t in the plan.

She tugged on her boots and coat, bracing against the bite of winter air. Snow crunched beneath her steps, sunlight warming her face just enough to stir memories of her father’s hand on her cheek.

“Three more days,” she whispered as she trudged toward the bus stop. “Three more days and I can drive Mom’s car.”

She didn’t notice him at first.

The man stood ahead, a tall figure draped in a white coat, black hair stark against the snow. He looked down at something in his hand—a device glowing faintly—before lifting his gaze.

His eyes.

Ocean blue, sharp, impossibly bright.

“Mauve,” he said, his voice laced with a crisp British accent. “You’re Mauve, aren’t you?”

Her heart stumbled. “Why… why are you asking?”

“I need to confirm I’ve found the right person.” His tone was clipped, commanding, yet soft enough to unsettle her.

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, trying to fight off the chill creeping into her bones. “Context, please? Because this is… weird.”

He gave a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been ordered to escort you. You’re being summoned to attend an important event. I can’t disclose more yet, but I ask you to trust me and cooperate.”

Mauve’s gut screamed stranger danger. No matter how flawless his jawline looked in the snowlight, this was wrong.

“Sorry. I have class.” She turned, ready to walk away.

His hand shot out, gently gripping her arm. She yanked it back instinctively—surprised when he actually let go.

The rumble of the school bus broke the standoff. Mauve climbed aboard, stealing one last glance at him through the frosted window. He didn’t chase her. He only lifted a hand in farewell, his gaze unreadable.

Her pulse still raced as the bus carried her away. Whoever he was, whatever he wanted—she was safe now.

Or so she thought.

---

Lunch break.

Mauve slipped away to her secret spot by the river, blanket tucked beneath her arm. Sunlight glittered against the half-frozen water as she unpacked her small feast: cocoa, chips, and her favorite—peanut butter and jelly.

“Perfect,” she sighed, sinking into the quiet.

But when she reached for her sandwich, she noticed something was off. Barely any strawberry jam. She frowned, searching her bag until she spotted the glass jar rolling toward the blanket’s edge.

“Come on,” she muttered. For fun, she extended her hand as if she could magically summon it—

The jar flew into her palm.

Her heart stopped. “What the—”

She dropped it instantly. The world tilted, her head pounding with sudden nausea. Before she could steady herself, her foot slipped.

And she fell into the river.

The cold swallowed her whole, dragging her down. Her coat turned to lead, her limbs numb. She flailed against the current, lungs burning, strength fading. For one terrifying moment, she thought—this is it.

Then hands seized her, pulling her upward.

Air. Sky. The taste of snow on her lips as water gushed from her lungs. She coughed violently, vision flickering, voices cutting through the haze.

“We should’ve stuck to the plan, Eliot!” a woman snapped.

“She was scared, confused—just help me, alright?” A man’s voice. Familiar.

Her vision cleared just enough to see him leaning over her. The man from the bus stop.

“Mauve,” he breathed, relief flooding his features. “You’re awake.”

Her lips trembled. “Y-you… again.”