Her mechanical wings vibrated into life, a delicate hum against the mountain air, and Honeya Vicinage once again found herself suspended above the earth, defying gravity. Her elder sister, Nikola, had painstakingly crafted them, much to the simmering jealousy of their other siblings. Nikola, ever the pragmatist, had explained that the wings were only feasible due to Honeya’s diminutive size; once she grew, her days of flight would be over.

  Honeya accelerated toward the clouds, a tiny, determined silhouette against the vast sky. She had launched from one of Flora’s greenhouses, now soaring toward the high caves nestled near the mountain’s peak. The view, as always, stole her breath: below, the endless expanse of forest hugged the mountain slopes; to the north, the sprawling city; to the south, the patchwork farmlands; to the east, the shimmering desert. She never looked northeast. That was the direction of the wasteland, and Honeya dared not venture close. What if her precious wings malfunctioned, sending her plummeting into a monster-infested abyss? No, Honeya shook her head, forcing brighter thoughts to the forefront of her mind.

  She was happy. She was too young to remember life before the Great Calamity, and so the quarantined state of their land was all she had ever known. She harbored no longing for boys or for voyages beyond the sea; she was content in her sphere. Besides, here, she held a responsibility of paramount importance. Only Honeya, with her nimble wings and small frame, could safely and quickly navigate to these treacherous high caves. Cerra Skylar, though a skilled climber, was slow. Others with air balloons boasted speed, but they courted disaster; a single gust of wind could dash them against the unforgiving rock faces. No, Honeya shook her head again, chiding herself for the dark thoughts that plagued her today.

  Soon, she reached her destination, but her true task was only just beginning. There was her official duty, and then, her sneaky side quest. Her official task was to tend to the bees, to their humming hives, and to harvest their golden honey. Honeya wished she could distribute this sweetness to the weary people of the city. Her heart ached for her sister Belle, bravely guarding the city walls, yet receiving little thanks. And for the poor beggar girl with her dirty white hair, who, despite her perpetual smile, Honeya knew was suffering. But to aid either would be social suicide, an unforgivable transgression. Honeya couldn’t risk being seen offering assistance to society’s outcasts. Society might reject her too, then, and who would gather the honey? More importantly, who would complete her side quest, a mission she’d been told was of the utmost secrecy and importance?

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Once the golden ooze was carefully collected from the hives, Honeya ventured deeper into the cave. A pang of guilt tightened her chest. The mistress of this clandestine task was none other than Floris Veilstorm, the arch-rival of her boss, Flora Mossbrook. Flora championed the sun-drenched, fruit-bearing plants of the green world. Floris, conversely, delved into the roots and mysterious powers of plants that absorbed the moonlight. Some grow better in the day, others in the night, Honeya mused, a simple truth in a complicated world.

  The wings weren't Nikola's only gift. A small, powerful electrical torch also hung from Honeya’s belt, illuminating her path. Honeya hadn't given much thought to how Nikola had miniaturized such power, but she was grateful for it. The illuminated cave walls came into view, spiders scattering like liquid shadows as she advanced, the darkness ahead urging her deeper. Soon, the cave roof dipped too low for flight. Honeya folded her wings, walking, then crawling, her small size once again proving an invaluable asset. She was the only one who could go this far.

  She squeezed herself between jagged rocks, careful not to scratch her precious, folded wings. Her light, a fragile beacon, guided her forward, though her heart skipped a beat when it flickered. She needed it. She desperately needed it. She soon entered a small cavern and shone her light onto the walls. Strange engravings, stretching from floor to ceiling, seemed to writhe across the rock face. They hadn’t been there last time.

  Honeya was supposed to come to this cave once a month to gather a glowing mushroom for Floris. They contained poly-somethings, poly-sacs, no, that wasn’t it. Whatever their exact chemical composition, Floris said they were incredibly important, and she paid well – far more than Flora ever did for honey. But where were the mushrooms? Normally, this cavern glowed with their soft blue luminescence. Perhaps she needed to go deeper.

  Her light flickered again. Maybe she should just turn back. It flickered some more. And then, it died.

  Honeya stood absolutely still in the sudden, suffocating blackness. She heard it then: breathing. It was getting closer. And then, something cold and strong wrapped itself around her ankle.

  And so, Honeya did what any rational person would do in that situation.

  She screamed.