Ohhh, we’re going to the beginning-beginning. Love this.

Here’s Chapter 1: Mischief — The Boy Who Shrinks as a full, in-world draft.
This is the opening of the novella: we meet Mischief, we see how the town treats the fae, we feel his shame, we glimpse his love for Eolan, and we endwith him shrinking instead of standing up.

All still draft, totally editable.

CHAPTER ONE — Mischief: The Boy Who Shrinks

(Draft)

Mischief always knew when the town had noticed him.

He could feel it before he heard a word—like a change in theweather, a tightening in the air. The way conversations thinned. The waylaughter dropped in pitch. The way footsteps shifted just enough to avoid him,as though his very presence might stain the cobblestones.

He did what he always did.

He made himself smaller.

Shoulders in. Head down. Wings tucked so tight against hisback they almost ached. Move quickly, don’t bump anyone, don’t look anyone inthe eye, don’t give them a reason.

He clutched the empty basket to his chest as he slippedthrough Brackenreach’s market square. It was morning, already busy—elves attheir linen stalls, dwarves arguing over ironwork, trolls stacking crates ofturnips with more force than necessary. The air smelled of bread and smoke, wetearth and old resentment.

“Watch it,” a dwarf barked as Mischief swerved to avoid acart. His elbow still brushed the dwarf’s sleeve.

“Sorry,” Mischief murmured immediately, eyes on the ground.

“Of course you are,” the dwarf said. “You people alwaysare.”

You people.

He knew better than to answer.

He moved on.

Brackenreach was a town of steep roofs and tight streets,built in layers—stone foundations, timber frames, and, on top of that, afragile crust of rules everyone pretended were normal. Rules about who walkedwhere. Who spoke when. Who belonged.

The fae, technically, belonged.

There was no law that said otherwise. No official decree. No exile written on stone.

But there was a way eyes slid over them, as if they weresomething left on the edge of a plate. There were the mutters. The occasionalshove. The space that opened around them in any crowded place, not out ofrespect, but refusal.

The fae were allowed to live in Brackenreach.
They were simply expected not to exist too loudly.

Mischief understood this the way he understood breathing. Noone had to teach him. The rules soaked in early: don’t draw attention, don’tmove too gracefully, don’t laugh too brightly, don’t show what your body can dowhen it’s happy. If you must fly, do it at dusk. If you must cry, do itsomewhere no one can hear.

If you must want…
don’t.

He reached the vegetable stalls and waited at the edge,hands tight on the basket. The vendor—an older elf with a neat braid and apermanent frown—was mid-argument with a troll about the price of onions.

Mischief knew better than to interrupt.

He shifted his weight and tried not to fidget. His wing—theone that never sat comfortably, always itching to flex—twitched beneath hiscloak. He clamped it down.

“Next,” the elf snapped, finally turning.

Mischief stepped up quickly, head bowed. “I—ah—I’m here forthe greens Mrs. Herrold set aside. She said—”

The elf’s expression changed the moment he saw Mischief’sface. Not surprise. Not hatred. Just that familiar, pinched distaste, as ifhe’d smelled something off.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said.

Mischief shrank another inch. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re late.”

“I—sorry. I had to wait until—”

“You always have a reason,” the elf muttered. “You fae nevercome straight to the point.”

Mischief closed his mouth. There was no right way to answer.
He had learned that too.

The elf turned his back and rummaged through crates,muttering. “Kale… cabbage… blasted woman, where did she put—”

Mischief stared at the ground and tried not to flinch at theword “fae” spoken like mold.

He thought of the others: Jun, Mirael, Thistle. The way theymoved through the town’s edges, never its center. The way they found each otheron quiet evenings and tried to pretend they weren’t all holding their breath.

The elf dropped a bundle of greens into the basket with moreforce than necessary. A few leaves tumbled out.

“There,” he said. “Tell Mrs. Herrold she’ll pay extra nexttime if she sends you instead of coming herself. I don’t run a charity forstray magic.”

Mischief’s chest tightened. He bowed his head anyway.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Off with you,” the elf said. “You’re scaring off my propercustomers.”

As if on cue, a cluster of leprechaun women edging closer tothe stall gave Mischief a wide berth, eyes sliding past him like he was a ghostwho’d failed to stay dead.

He moved away as quickly and neatly as he could, tucking thespilled leaves back into the basket with shaking fingers.

This is fine, he told himself. This is normal. This is justhow it is.

Halfway back across the square, it happened.

“Oi!” A familiar voice, low and sharp. “Watch where you’reskulking, wing-rot.”

Mischief froze. His whole body reacted before his mindcaught up, muscles locking, wing pressing tight against his spine until ithurt.

He knew that voice.

Brackenreach was full of casual, safe cruelty. The kind thatlived in muttered comments and turned backs.

Bramdokk, son of the butcher, preferred a more direct style.

Mischief didn’t turn around fast enough. A heavy handslammed into his shoulder, sending him stumbling sideways. The basket tipped;the greens spilled again onto the packed dirt.

Laughter snickered around the square. Quiet, but present.

“Clumsy,” Bramdokk drawled. He stepped into view—a broadtroll youth with arms like carved logs and a face permanently molded intosomething between a sneer and a smirk. “Always were. Maybe if you weren’t sobusy flapping those freaky little wings of yours in the dark, you’d walkstraight.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Mischief said quickly. The words came outbefore he could stop them. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t mean to,” Bramdokk said. “You nevermean to. You just exist wrong, and everything else follows.”

Someone chuckled. Mischief didn’t look to see who.

He crouched to gather the greens, but Bramdokk’s boot camedown squarely on one limp bundle, grinding it into the dirt.

Mischief’s hands hovered uselessly.

“That’s ruined,” Bramdokk said with mock regret. “Shame.Guess whoever sent you will have to pay twice now.” He leaned closer, voicedropping. “Assuming they still send you after this.”

Heat crawled up Mischief’s neck, shame and anger tanglinguntil he couldn’t tell them apart.

He could feel eyes on him from every direction.
None of them stepping in.
None of them surprised.

This is what happens, he thought, when you are what I am.

His fists tightened.

For a heartbeat—just one—he imagined standing. Planting his feet. Meeting Bramdokk’s eyes. Saying something that didn’t begin with I’m sorry.

The thought frightened him more than the troll’s hand.

It flickered away.

“I’ll clean it,” Mischief whispered. “I’ll make it right.Please just let me—”

Bramdokk stepped back theatrically. “Hear that? ‘Please.’See, that’s how their kind should be. Polite. Quiet. Grateful when we don’ttoss them over the wall.”

Someone snorted. Someone else looked away.

Mischief scooped up the crushed greens with shaking fingers,ignoring the grit and torn leaves. His hair fell forward, hiding his face.

If I stay low, he thought, it will end faster. If I don’targue. If I don’t look at him. If I don’t—

Across the square, a familiar shape moved through the crowd.

Tall. Straight-backed. Steady as a stone in the middle of ariver.

Eolan.

Mischief felt it like a jolt. His heart lurched against hisribs, a startled, painful flutter. It always did when he saw him. He hated it.He needed it.

Eolan didn’t look like the other fae. Not to the town,anyway. His wings were kept folded, his movements economical, his faceunreadable. There were rumors he’d been given his second name already by theelders, that he’d somehow managed to be… acceptable.

People did not step out of his way because they weredisgusted.
They stepped aside because they were wary.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t start fights.
He simply walked as if he had the right to be there.

And the town, for reasons Mischief had never fullyunderstood, let him.

Now, Eolan’s eyes swept the square.

They passed over the butcher’s stall, the bread cart, thegossiping leprechauns—
and landed on Bramdokk looming over Mischief.

For one long, terrible moment, Mischief thought he mightkeep walking.

Why shouldn’t he? Mischief wasn’t his responsibility. Thetown tolerated Eolan precisely because he didn’t interfere where he wasn’twanted.

Then Eolan changed course.

He didn’t hurry.
He didn’t charge.
He simply walked toward them, every step measured.

The mood in the square shifted.
Quietly.
Subtly.
Like animals noticing a new predator.

Bramdokk straightened, jaw tensing. His boot lifted from theruined greens.

“Problem?” Eolan asked, stopping a few steps away.

His voice was calm. Not cold—but completely without fear.

Mischief kept his eyes on the ground, cheeks burning.

“Just cleaning up trash,” Bramdokk said. “Nothing you needto worry about.”

Eolan’s gaze flicked from Bramdokk to the crushed vegetablesin Mischief’s hands and back again. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t frown. He onlystared until even Bramdokk seemed uneasy.

“This square has enough refuse without you adding to it,”Eolan said mildly.

A ripple moved through the onlookers. No one laughed now.

Bramdokk’s nostrils flared. “Careful, wing-boy. You’re notas special as you think. They’ll toss you out with the rest of your kind ifyou—”

“If?” Eolan prompted.

Bramdokk’s mouth opened. Closed.

He took a step back.

“It was just a bit of fun,” he muttered. “No harm done.”

No harm done.

Mischief’s fingers dug into the crushed leaves.

Eolan’s expression didn’t change. “Walk away, Bramdokk.”

A long pause.
Then, with one last glare, Bramdokk turned and stalked off, muttering under hisbreath.

The crowd exhaled, tension leaking out of the square likeair from a pierced skin. Conversations started up again—not about what hadhappened, of course. Brackenreach was good at pretending things hadn’thappened.

Eolan waited until Bramdokk was gone, then turned hisattention to Mischief.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Mischief shook his head, still staring at the ruined greens.“No. It’s fine. I’m fine. I should’ve watched where I was going.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Mischief swallowed. “I’m not hurt,” he whispered.

He didn’t add: not on the outside.

Eolan crouched beside him without ceremony, long fingersdeftly helping gather the scattered leaves into the basket. He didn’t remark onthe dirt or the damage. He didn’t speak at all until the last bruised scrap wasin place.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Eolan said quietly.

Mischief blinked. “I didn’t.”

“You were about to,” Eolan replied. “You always do.”

Mischief’s face flushed. He stared at the basket. “You…didn’t have to help.”

“That’s true,” Eolan said. “But I did.”

He stood again, offering Mischief a hand.

Mischief hesitated.

Taking it meant being seen.
Taking it meant accepting help in front of the whole square.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Eolan didn’t push. He waited, hand steady in the air betweenthem.

Mischief reached up and took it.

Eolan’s grip was strong and sure, pulling him to his feet asif he weighed nothing at all. For one moment, Mischief was close enough to seethe faint lines at the corners of Eolan’s eyes, the way his mouth almostsoftened when he looked at him.

“Thank you,” Mischief said, because he couldn’t stophimself.

“There it is,” Eolan murmured, almost smiling. “Try savingthat for when someone deserves it.”

Mischief didn’t know what to do with that.

He clutched the basket harder. “I… I should go. Mrs. Herroldwill be waiting.”

“Then go,” Eolan said. He stepped aside, giving Mischief aclear path. “And remember: his hands were dirty long before they touched yourwork. The ruined part isn’t yours to carry.”

Mischief stared at him.

The words sank like stones into deep water.

He couldn’t quite believe them.
But he wanted to.

“See you later,” Eolan added, nodding once.

Mischief turned away before his heart could climb out of histhroat.

He walked out of the square not taller, not yet—but notquite as small. Not while the memory of Eolan’s steady gaze burned in his mindlike a small, stubborn lantern.

Behind him, Brackenreach went on as usual.

Vendors haggled. Children darted through legs. Someone swepta doorstep a little too clean.

The town liked to pretend nothing ever changed.

Mischief knew better than to argue.

He pulled his shoulders in, tucked his wings close again,and did what he had always done.

He made himself small.

And somewhere deep inside, in a place even he didn’t know how to name yet, something quietly refused.