She stepped lightly toward the spot where that lone cowlick stood, a crane’s tread over embers. As she neared the roaring blaze, the fire split like soldiers parting for their emperor. Ling walked through unscathed, a shadow sliding over water. Even ash born from the flames drifted past her like reluctant snow.

She crouched, eyes weighing that single strand stuck in rubble, a tiny pennant in scorched earth. As the heat ebbed like tide, the cowlick settled, its frantic twitch turning into a calm pendulum.

If she didn’t know that silly strand grew from a person and not a stalk, Ling would’ve plucked it without a thought, like harvesting bamboo after rain. She’d have taken it home and admired it for a day or two, a flower in a narrow vase.

Too bad it wasn’t, she breathed, a willow-leaf sigh under smoke.

She exhaled without a ripple, lake-flat. Then, from a child’s petty urge to get even with fate, she ignored the normal way of rescue, like sidestepping a gate. She gripped the bobbing cowlick and pulled, knuckles pale as bone. Like tugging up a turnip from damp soil.

Do I need to spell out the result? The turnip—cough, the girl—came free, a fish flicked from a net. She bit her lip not to cry, tears glassing her eyes like dew. Yet in those wet eyes, a hard glint gleamed, a knife under silk, not a rescued face at all.

The petite menace went full airhead then, or pretended, a fox blinking at the moon. She ignored the girl’s tears, still holding her up by that cowlick like a kite on a string. The elf kicked with all her might, but her toes stayed one centimeter from the ground, a cruel horizon. That last centimeter was a tyrant king; no matter how she fought, she couldn’t depose it, and her mood darkened like a storming sky.

A chill crawled up Ling’s spine like a winter knife. In a sea of fire, why was there cold, like midnight water?

Let’s go, I’ll get you out, she said, voice low as wind in pines. This place feels wrong, like incense gone sour.

She didn’t set the girl down. She simply ran, the cowlick her handle, feet cutting through heat like swallows. The strand held firm, iron under silk; Ling’s raised arms swayed, and the elf swung wildly, a bell under a temple eave, yet the cowlick didn’t even threaten to snap.

Sis! Sis! I found the UFO that clipped our plane! Ling shouted, a child calling across a courtyard. It’s an elf!

She skidded to Alicia’s side, holding the elf aloft like a prize gourd after harvest. Alicia had no time to hand out treats; just seeing that grip made her own scalp throb, a phantom pain like a needle.

Put her down first. Don’t pull someone else’s cowlick, Alicia said, a breeze over iron.

Ling obeyed at once, palms opening like petals. The elf girl clutched her cowlick with both hands, guarding it like a bird guarding a single egg, then looked at Alicia with gratitude bright as a lantern.

Alicia dipped her head, lips lifting toward gentleness like dawn over eaves. In the girl’s eyes, it turned into a gentleman’s smile, a prince’s bow under a maple.

Miss, what’s your name? Alicia asked, voice warm as tea.

M‑me, I’m Elfe Roland, she stammered, hands pressed to her chest like praying leaves. Just call me Elfe!

Elfe? That’s a lovely name, Alicia said, light as wind through chimes.

Praise from Alicia bloomed inside Elfe like spring plum. Her eyes shone with a maiden’s pure longing for a prince, stars caught in a well.

To Ling, that look was a provocation, flint on steel, sparks ready. Strong instincts don’t lie. She stepped in, seized one of Alicia’s arms, and pressed it tight against her own flat chest, a stubborn shield. She stuck out her tongue at Elfe, a cat claiming its sunny windowsill.

Alicia didn’t mind the sudden cling, river meeting rock. She even patted Ling’s head, fingers feather-light, and Ling melted with a kitten’s content purr.

Elfe wasn’t blind; she saw the closeness, a thread tied tight. Still, she had a trump card, a final arrow in the quiver. She straightened with pride, and her chest trembled twice, a pair of ripples across a pond.

Alicia wasn’t one of those men who worshipped curves, chasing hills like clouds. She had her own and was content, a mountain under mist. Her gaze slid past Elfe’s faint display and rested on her eyes, clear as a lake.

Miss Elfe, why were you that high in the sky? Alicia asked, tone returning to business like rain returning to earth. Elves usually hover lower, more like swallows than eagles, right?

With the topic back on track, the sparks between Elfe and Ling faded like embers. Elfe scratched the back of her head, fingers combing through leaves. She looked away from Alicia’s steady gaze, embarrassment rising like flushed dawn. So, the truth is…

You’ve got to be kidding! Ling roared, a temple drum struck too hard. No wonder; Elfe’s story sounded stitched from fairy silk.

Elfe was the Queen’s first daughter among the elves, a moonborn twig in the Ancient Elven Tree. From the first moment she dropped from that sacred bough, she bathed in indulgence, warmth like spring rain. When hungry, food arrived at an open mouth, steam curling like clouds. When thirsty, water touched her lips, clean as snowmelt. When bored, toys fell into her hands, bright as lantern fruits. When sleepy, a pillow appeared under her cheek, soft as moss. She wasn’t doomed to be a pampered waste, not entirely; every day demanded ten hours of study, heavy as stone. Politics, strategy, rule—tomes adults dread, thunder without rain. She started before five, a small body bent over mountains of words.

That still wasn’t the worst of it, shadow following sun. On her tenth birthday, the Queen invited many, a court in full bloom. Only one wasn’t invited, a vicious warlock who studied foul magic, a snake in weeds. He came uninvited, a crow on white silk, and laid a curse at the party like a knife on the table. Dear Princess, you’ll sleep for seven years, he crooned like cold wind. On your seventeenth birthday, your sleeping body will die in a mana rampage. That’s my gift for your tenth. Mwahahaha!

He fled in a string of ugly laughter, a fox vanishing into reeds. The furious Queen broke the Sleep with her magic, a sun burning off frost. She sent riders to hunt the black mage, iron hooves on stone. No one saw him again; likely he died, a candle snuffed in a storm. But the curse of Death‑at‑Seventeen clung like pitch, stubborn as ivy. They say only a kiss of true love can break it, a dawn on a long night.

And the elf girl before Ling was that very princess, her seventeenth nearing like a drumbeat.