STEFAN OBSERVED HIS SURROUNDINGS AS HE SAT PERCHED ON HIS NEW THRONE. The ornate room was the picture of royalty with its detailed moldings, its draping tapestries, its lofty ceilings. Though he was there to be crowned the new king, he couldn’t help feeling uneasy, as if the small group of advisors, the raven perched outside the window, and even the throne room itself were judging him and knew he didn’t rightfully belong there.

He felt a small hand on his and looked at his new wife, Leila, sitting next to him. She was lovely. Her kind doe-like eyes met his, and he was instantly reminded of that afternoon in the Moors long before, when Maleficent had tamed the small deer with kindness, so at ease with the natural beauty around her. Leila looked nothing like Maleficent, her locks golden and curled, not ebony and straight, her eyes warm and blue instead of a piercing green. Yet he sensed the same kindness and willingness to trust within her that he’d first seen in Maleficent.

A fresh wave of guilt rose in his throat, and he pushed it down, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He’d only done what had been necessary, for his future and hers. Another man seeking the crown would have killed her. Besides, it was finished now. There was no use replaying the events in his mind. This was the moment he’d been waiting for his entire life. He was not going to let anything ruin it.

The heavy crown was finally placed on his head. He smiled. Then he cleared his throat.

“King Henry shall be missed,” Stefan announced to the group of advisors before him. “And I am humbled that his final proclamation gave me this crown, this throne.”

Two advisors grumbled and shared a meaningful look. Stefan felt heat suddenly rise to his face.

“What do you have to say?” he bellowed.

The advisors grew quiet, looking at Stefan nervously.

“Do you doubt me?” Stefan continued, holding up the proclamation that named him Henry’s successor. He’d brought it with him just in case there was trouble. King Henry’s seal gleamed in the sunlit room.

“By his own hand. Because I avenged him.” He said it so righteously he almost believed that Henry had actually named him as his successor and sealed the proclamation. Really, Stefan had done it himself in Henry’s chamber, shortly after the king had stopped struggling against his pillow. Stefan had lifted Henry’s lifeless hand and pressed the ring onto the molten wax, ensuring his future, believing fullheartedly he had earned it because no one else had the courage to do what he did.

“So I ask you again, and I advise you to answer carefully,” Stefan continued, his voice echoing with power now. “Do you doubt me?”

One of the formerly grumbling advisors answered quickly. “No, sire.”

Satisfied, Stefan leaned back against his throne. He drew in a breath and then glanced at Queen Leila, seeing the encouragement in those warm eyes of hers. “I will carry forth King Henry’s legacy and he will live on through his daughter, now my wife, and the children we will have.”

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity in the back of the room. Three small chattering pixies flew in, interrupting his speech.

“Beautiful vaulted ceilings!” Thistlewit observed.

“Never mind vaulted —they have ceilings!” Knotgrass replied.

“And real gowns!” Flittle said, looking at Queen Leila’s flowing dress. “This is paradise!”

The pixies flew straight toward Stefan, hovering in front of him when they’d reached their goal. He shifted nervously. Creatures from the Moors here in his castle. He wondered if Maleficent had sent these winged fools. And what could they possibly want?

“Who are you?” he asked.

Knotgrass performed a small flourish in the air. “Greetings, Your Majesty,” she said. “I am Knotgrass of the Moorland Fair Folk.”

Not wanting to be outdone, Flittle flew closer. “I’m Flittle, Your Kingship.” Then she nudged Thistlewit.

“And I’m Thistlewit, Your Royalnesses.” The smallest of the three bowed as low as she could while she hovered.

“Why have you come?” Stefan demanded.

Knotgrass turned to Flittle. “Tell him, Flittle.”

“Why don’t you tell him?” Flittle asked.

Stefan grunted impatiently.

“Ugh! You’re impossible.” Knotgrass threw her hands up. Then, to Stefan, she said, “If Your Grace obliges, we would like to live here. We seek asylum.”

Stefan blinked in surprise. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting them to ask, but this wasn’t it. “Asylum? Why?”

“We don’t really love wars,” Thistlewit explained.

“And you have ceilings!” Flittle gestured up toward the fixtures under discussion.

“And apparently you play dress-up,” Thistlewit added, nodding at Queen Leila, who smiled back. Knotgrass tried to rein in the conversation. “We have a strong feeling that darkness descends on the Moors.”

Stefan took in this information, knowing full well what had caused this change in the place he had once loved to visit. The choking guilt began to flare up again. Once more, he pushed it down, convincing himself that he’d been in the right to take the actions he had. This was the life he was meant to lead, one that he had worked hard to make for himself. Anyone who stood in his way was nothing more than an obstacle to be overcome.

“And it’s very wet and moldy there,” Thistlewit added.

“Dank, actually,” Flittle said, correcting her. “And smelly. Not here. Here it’s fresh as a baby’s bottom.” She breathed in deeply to make her point.

“The baby’s bottom that we wish for you and the queen. We wish that a baby will soon grace your family,” Knotgrass said.

In rapid succession the other two pixies added to this new thread of the conversation.

“But not just any old wish. We have magic!”

“And are very good with children!”

Leila smiled broadly and looked at Stefan. His gaze softened. He knew that their presence would make her happy.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them. “Fine. You may stay.”

The pixies curtsied and flew off, cheering loudly.

“No more bog!” Thistlewit cried.

“I get first choice of lodging!” Knotgrass said.

“What’s that smell?” Flittle added, sniffing the air, which, to her, no longer had the appealing scent of a baby’s bottom.

Outside, the patient raven cawed and took flight, ready to return to his mistress.