Chapter One: The Green Road

I sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the cottage, the satchel splayed open before me like a secret waiting to be unveiled. To an untrained eye, it looked like any well-worn travel bag. The leather was weathered, the brass clasp sturdy, and a few scuffs marked the edges, hints of long journeys. But to me, it pulsed with something deeper. Magic hummed beneath the seams, quiet and steady like a heartbeat.

Papa had once described it as a mid-tier spatial weave, his voice low with pride. It wasn’t flashy, but it never failed. The satchel could carry up to five hundred pounds inside its enchanted space without adding any noticeable weight to my back. My parents had saved every spare coin to buy it for me, and I felt the weight of their love in every stitch.

I was already dressed for the road. My tunic, the color of dry moss, felt coarse against my skin but offered a familiar comfort. My wool trousers held warmth well and were tough enough to withstand whatever trails I wandered. The boots were my oldest pair, molded to the shape of my feet by years of travel, the leather worn smooth but still strong.

My skin, a warm ember hue like sun-baked clay, caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly where it touched. My horns curved back over my head, smooth and ridged like ancient bark, a deep charcoal in color. I had polished them the night before until they gleamed softly. Mama had braided my hair that morning, weaving the thick strands with care and pinning them in place. A few curls had already escaped and danced in the breeze, just as they always did.

Beside me lay my pack belt, coiled like a resting serpent. The leather still carried the scent of oil and gave a gentle creak when buckled. I had mended it carefully, restoring its strength. Two small pouches, made from the same dark hide, waited to be clipped on, one for tools I needed close at hand and one for herbs. Each compartment offered its own quiet promise of readiness.

I took a steadying breath, my chest rising and falling with slow rhythm. It was time to begin.

The cauldron came first. Silver, modest in size, but heavy enough in the hand to feel solid and sure. I kept it wrapped in a protective cloth embroidered by my grandmother, the edges stitched with curling herbs and vines. Each thread felt like part of a legacy. I set it beside the satchel and placed two fingers on the leather.

“Cauldron,” I whispered.

The satchel shimmered slightly, its opening widening in response like it was taking a breath. The cauldron slipped inside without a sound and vanished into the magical fold. A small smile found my lips. The spellwork still filled me with wonder.

Next, I unrolled my alchemy kit. The canvas flap opened to reveal vials that caught the light like tiny stars, bundles of dried herbs with rich, earthy scents, packets of powdered roots and crushed minerals folded in waxed paper, and a wooden box with carefully labeled tinctures. I laid each item out gently, naming them under my breath as I packed them away. The practice steadied me. I tested the spell again, this time for retrieval.

“Silverthorn tincture,” I said, pressing my hand lightly to the bag.

A moment later, the green-stoppered vial landed in my palm, cool and familiar. I held it for a heartbeat, then returned it to the satchel.

I decided to try something more advanced. Closing my eyes, I reached out with my thoughts and invited the magic to meet me halfway. I pictured the inside of the satchel, not just as a void, but as a space shaped by intention. Items began to form in my mind, each one distinct and visible in its own space. I didn’t need their names to find them; they seemed to hum quietly in recognition, like they wanted to be useful.

The rest of the packing came next. I folded the bedroll tightly, bundled the tent poles, and polished the cookpot one last time. My tin plate and spoon shone in the light. The flint and steel nestled beside them, full of spark and promise. I added thick wool socks, folded neatly, and my wrap, dyed in bold, warm colors. My sewing kit snapped shut and waited its turn. Mama’s scarf, soft and cherished, rested gently on top.

Each item slipped into the satchel with ease. The bedroll curled inward and disappeared. Tent poles folded themselves into compact lengths before vanishing. The pot and plate settled in side by side. The flint and steel found a small pocket. Socks, wrap, sewing kit, scarf, each one folded into the space as if the bag had been shaped just for them.

And in a way, it had.

The canvas of the bedroll was worn and frayed, its surface marked by stains from past adventures. The tent was a deep green, its poles designed to fold down with a simple twist. The cookpot and tin plate were both scuffed and dented, showing their years of use, but still dependable. The flint and steel gleamed under the morning light, a quiet promise of warmth. My spare socks were mismatched in color and pattern, each pair chosen for comfort. The wool wrap, thick and soft, held the warm brown hue of tree bark and would be enough to keep the cold at bay. My sewing kit was small and neat, filled with the basics for mending. And Mama’s scarf, a vibrant red, brought comfort as much as it shielded me from the wind.

I added a linen pouch of emergency supplies on top. Inside were stitched bandages, clove salve, and a tiny sprig of dried feverfew. I fastened the clasp gently, then placed both hands on the satchel and spoke the soulbinding phrase the village scribe had taught me. The magic stirred beneath my palms before settling with a quiet pulse, as if the leather itself had a heartbeat. From now on, only I could open it.

When I looked up, Papa was easing himself down beside me. His presence grounded me like a favorite old blanket. His knees cracked as he crouched, and a quiet grunt escaped him, but he stayed close. His arms rested heavily on his thighs while his tail moved behind him in a slow, steady rhythm. His horns curled tightly around his head, thick and ridged like ancient bark, and polished until they shone. His skin, a deeper bronze than mine, looked like earth touched by the last light of sunset.

“Did you pack sealing wax?” he asked, giving the satchel a suspicious glance.

“Two blocks,” I said. “And my copper strainer.”

“Hmm.”

He didn’t reach for anything. He wasn’t checking anymore.

“I’ll be careful,” I said quietly.

He nodded, his jaw tight. “We know.”

In the kitchen behind us, Mama moved with quiet purpose. She folded cloth bandages with practiced ease, her fingers precise and steady. She tucked sprigs of sage and yarrow into small pouches she’d sewn herself, their soft scents rising into the air and blending with the smells of morning bread and herbs. Light from the window caught the golden spiral of her horns, casting soft patterns across the floor. Her movements were fluid, confident, and gentle, shaped by years of care and labor. Her skin held a deep crimson glow, and her amber eyes, always watchful, reflected the warm sunlight. She didn’t speak right away. Her silence said enough.

Eventually, she stepped over and placed a pouch in my hand. “Your infuser’s on the shelf. Don’t forget it. You think more clearly with a warm cup nearby.”

I tucked it into the pouch where I’d already packed chamomile and lemongrass.

My little brother appeared next, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. “There’s still time to change your mind,” he muttered.

“I’m not going to,” I said, keeping my voice kind.

He shifted awkwardly, trying not to look upset. His horns were still small and uneven, and he was growing faster than he could manage.

“I know.”

He stepped forward and handed me something. It was a wooden charm shaped like a leaf, a spiral burned into the center. The design was off-balance, but full of intention.

“For luck,” he said. “Even if you don’t believe in that stuff.”

“I do.” I looped it onto a leather cord and tied it around my neck. The charm rested against my collarbone, warm from his hands. “Thank you. I’ll wear it every day.”

He nodded and disappeared into the other room.

Papa stood with a groan and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sit with us a minute. One more talk before you go.”

We gathered around the kitchen table, just the four of us. Morning sunlight filled the room. The scent of herbs and rising bread hung in the air. No one rushed.

“You’ve wanted this for a long time,” Mama said, her voice low. “Since you first told me that chamomile and calendula weren’t the same and insisted I use the right one.”

I smiled. “I want to learn everything I can. There’s healing work happening in places no one writes about. I want to talk to the people who’ve used roots and poultices for half a century without calling it medicine.”

Papa leaned back in his chair. “You could’ve gone to Highspire. Joined a proper herbalist circle. Trained in libraries.”

“I considered it,” I said. “But I don’t want to sit in a tower reading about plants through a window I can’t open. I want to smell the soil and find the herbs where they grow. I want to learn from the land, and from the people who live close to it.”

“Highspire has trained healers,” he said.

“It also has too many stairs and no moss,” I replied. “I’d go mad.”

Mama laughed softly. “You cried once because the city roads were too straight.”

“I was six,” I said. “And they were.”

They both laughed at that.

Papa shook his head. “Just don’t fall into a bog because you’re staring at mushrooms.”

“I promise.”

Mama reached for my hand. “It’s still hard, knowing you’ll be walking unfamiliar paths by yourself.”

“I’ll write,” I said. “From every village I reach. Even if the letters take a full season to arrive.”

“You’ll come back?” Papa asked.

“In a few years,” I said after a pause. “Maybe sooner. But yes, I’ll come home.”

They didn’t ask again. They simply nodded.

We gathered for one final breakfast, savoring tender oat cakes drizzled with golden honey. Each bite was sweetened further by bursts of fresh raspberries nestled in a chipped ceramic bowl. The scent of mint tea rose from the pot, its warmth familiar and comforting, the kind of comfort that rarely lasted long in the cup. Mama packed extra provisions with swift, practiced hands. Papa inspected every seam on my cloak, double-checking the stitching with quiet intensity. My brother, still half-asleep, mumbled something about remembering to feed my cat, his voice barely louder than the hush of morning.

Then they walked me to the fencepost at the edge of the fields, where the lane curved into the trees and the wild roads began.

I hugged Mama first. Her hands lingered on my shoulders.

Papa held on a little longer. When he stepped back, he said, “A few years.”

I smiled. “A few years.”

I adjusted the strap of my satchel and felt the charm bump gently against my chest with each movement. Its familiar weight was a quiet reassurance. I reached for my staff, which leaned against the weathered wooden gate. The surface was worn smooth from long use, and it rested in my palm like it belonged there. At the top, a globe of pale crystal shimmered in the morning light, scattering rays in soft colors. More than a decoration, the crystal helped me channel warmth and focus. It was also practical, perfect for testing the depth of mud or the stability of a path. As I leaned into it, the staff offered steady support. I turned toward the waiting forest, ready to begin.

I didn’t look back at first. Only once, when I reached the edge of the trees.

Behind me, the fields glistened under the rising sun, a golden sea stirred by wind. The cottage had already become a distant blur tucked among the greenery. I could just make out the garden gate and the swaying herbs near the porch, but they were already slipping into the realm of memory. I tightened my grip on the staff. The polished wood felt warm beneath my fingers, the crystal catching flecks of sunlight and casting them in delicate arcs. I pressed the tip into the ground and turned away.

The forest swallowed the path almost immediately, branches arching overhead to form a living tunnel. The trail beneath my feet narrowed into a winding ribbon of dirt, softened by fallen leaves and marked by shallow ruts where water had recently passed. I paused long enough to consult my compass and map. The next village was to the southeast, nestled beyond a low ridge and near a quiet river. It was a two-day journey if I followed the main trail.

But I didn’t plan to.

With a murmur and a flick of my fingers, I cast a minor cantrip. The spell warmed the chill from my legs, loosening muscles still reluctant to move. Another spell tapped into the ember of magic resting just beneath my skin, stirring it to life. It gave me the strength to travel faster and farther. I wasn’t running, and I wasn’t walking either. I moved like a stream slipping between stones, letting muscle memory guide my steps.

Above me, sunlight filtered through layers of green, scattering shifting patterns of light across the ground. Birds called from the canopy, their voices folding into the hum of the forest. My cloak fluttered behind me with each stride, catching the breeze like a banner. The air, sharp and clean, filled my lungs with the scent of damp leaves and new growth, as if the forest itself breathed with me.

By midday, I passed a line of ancient stone markers, their surfaces half-covered in thick moss. Whatever they once marked had long faded. Only the crows seemed to remember. The air turned warmer, brushing my skin like a gentle hand. The ground sloped downward, cushioned with pine needles and soft loam. Each step sank just slightly, the earth yielding in welcome. The satchel at my side swung lightly, weightless from the soulbinding magic, but even without the spell, it felt like a companion rather than cargo.

I kept moving until the light turned golden, spilling like honey through the branches. My legs ached, and the magic within me began to ebb, its rhythm a quiet thrum in my chest. It was time to stop.

The willow found me before I found it.

It stood alone in a clearing, its long branches trailing to the ground in silver-green curtains. The grass beneath it lay dry and flattened, sheltered from damp and wind. It was a good place to rest. I leaned my staff gently against the trunk, then pressed my hand to the satchel and began retrieving what I needed.

Tent. Bedroll. Tin cup. Flint and steel.

In less than ten minutes, I had everything arranged. I built a small fire in a ring of stones, heated water in my pot, and steeped a handful of herbs. As steam curled from the cup, I curled up at the base of the tree, letting the quiet settle around me.

I didn’t think about tomorrow. Not yet. Just today. Just leaving.

I knew I had made the right choice. There had never been much doubt. But that didn’t stop the ache from settling in once the silence took hold. I missed them already. Mama’s voice humming while she worked, Papa’s steady presence, my brother pretending not to care while memorizing everything I did.

I watched the fire and let the ache move through me. It was not sharp. It felt like growth, like the pull of roots loosening, not to flee, but to reach toward somewhere new.

Above me, stars appeared one by one, and the willow’s branches whispered softly in the breeze.

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“I’m still coming back,” I said into the dark. “Just not yet.”

The fire crackled low, warm enough to comfort but not large enough to draw attention. I sipped my tea, chamomile steeped with a bit of mint from Mama’s pouch, and felt the last of the tension melt from my shoulders.

Before sleep, there was one more task. I stood, stretched, and reached for my staff. The ground was soft beneath my feet, rich with loam and moss. I pressed the staff’s tip down until it met the firmer layer below. The globe at the top pulsed once, faint and steady. That was enough. I walked a slow circle around the base of the willow, murmuring the cantrip under my breath. The words were simple, old, and slightly singsong. They had been passed down by herbwives who had learned to sleep alone in wild places. My magic responded gently, warming in my chest and drifting down into the earth as I moved.

It was a ward for quiet. A ward for safety. Not a wall, but a gentle suggestion. A whisper to curious creatures: you don’t want to come here, go back to your burrow, return to your den. When I completed the circle, the air gave a soft hum. It felt like the woods had agreed to watch over me. I tapped the base of my staff on the ground twice to seal it, then returned to my bedroll. The blanket, warmed by the fire, welcomed me. I pulled off my boots, tucked the charm my brother gave me beneath the fold of my cloak, and lay back with a long exhale.

Above me, the willow’s branches swayed. They brushed softly against one another, whispering like an old lullaby. Through the canopy, a few stars flickered into view, dim and distant like candles on the far side of a field. I touched the crystal at the top of my staff, now resting by my side, and let it glow just enough to push back the dark. Just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone. My eyelids felt heavy. The fire popped once, a quiet sound like a door closing. Tomorrow I would walk again. But tonight, I was safe. Tired, but safe. I had made it through the first day.

I woke with the light. A pale beam filtered through the willow branches and touched my face with the quiet persistence only dawn could manage. The birds were already busy, their chirping and trilling carrying through the branches. Somewhere nearby, a squirrel scolded something unseen. I sat up slowly, the blanket sliding from my shoulders in a warm heap. The fire had burned down to ash, just as I had planned. A faint curl of smoke still drifted upward. The ward had held. Nothing had crossed the circle but dew and beetles. I stretched, rolled my neck, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. My muscles ached in a way that felt earned.

Breakfast was simple. I ate a strip of dried fruit leather, a round oat cake, and a cold wedge of smoked root cheese. It wasn’t much, but it took the edge off my hunger and left my hands free. I watched the sky shift from gray to gold and listened to the wind move through the trees.

There was no rush. The next village, Larkspur Bend, was only a few hours away on foot. I’d been there before. Twice. It was a quiet place, the kind of village where everything stayed where it belonged and nothing strange ever lingered.

But I didn’t plan to stop. I didn’t need supplies. What I needed was quiet. Untouched places. Roots that hadn’t been trampled. I’d learned early that the best foraging happened in the in-between places, close enough to villages, but never inside them. Plants grew stronger where they were left alone.

So I packed.

One by one, I called my belongings back into the satchel using a soft word and a clear image. The tent folded and bound. The bedroll rolled tight. My tea tin and my cup followed. My boots knocked softly against the bag before slipping inside. When only the scent of willow bark and damp grass remained, I closed the clasp. The satchel settled light against my hip, just as it always did.

I stood, took up my staff, and stepped beyond the willow’s shelter. The air smelled of pine and wet leaves, sharp and clean in a way only morning can offer. A few mushroom caps poked up near a rotting log, and I made a mental note to check them again if I passed this way on the return.

I reached the edge of Larkspur Bend just after midmorning, keeping to the trees that bordered the village on the east. White-barked trees grew close together, and the underbrush was thick, but I knew this forest well. I moved with confidence, pausing only to check my compass and sketch a few unfamiliar ferns into my journal.

By midday, I had found a patch of wild licorice root, three clusters of creeping thistle, and a perfect golden cap mushroom growing in the crook of a mossy stump. I harvested with care, slicing the stems cleanly with my bone-handled knife. At some point, I realized I’d been humming.

This was my favorite kind of morning. No questions. No requests. Just me, the forest, the satchel on my hip, and the quiet satisfaction of full pockets and clean cuts.

At a shallow stream, I refilled my water skin. Then I sat on a flat rock and watched a beetle scurry across the moss. The water tasted faintly of quartz, cool, clear, and slightly sweet. My boots were muddy. My hair had curled again around my ears. I didn’t mind.

Somewhere nearby, a woodpecker knocked steadily at a tree. I took it as a sign to keep moving. The woods greeted me like an old friend. After skirting the edge of Larkspur Bend, I followed a deer path that dipped into a stretch of forest I remembered from a visit two summers ago. The trail was narrow and partly overtaken by undergrowth. The air was thick with the scent of moss and sun-warmed bark. My staff tapped lightly against the ground as I walked. The crystal at its crown caught the light and scattered tiny motes through the trees. This was my favorite kind of morning. There were no roads, no walls, only birdsong, branches arching overhead, and the low, familiar hum of magic in places left undisturbed.

The first plant I found was glimmerleaf. A small patch nestled in dappled sunlight near a leaning pine. Its broad green leaves were veined with silver that shimmered faintly in the shade. I crouched beside them and ran my fingers gently over the surfaces. The leaves were cool and slightly waxy, just right for soothing overheated skin or layering into a burn poultice. I picked four of the largest and healthiest, leaving at least twice that many still growing.

“Thank you,” I whispered, brushing the soil smooth before standing again.

A little farther in, I came across a thick mat of bluestem moss clinging to the north side of a fallen log. The moss was soft, teal in color, and released a sharp, herbaceous scent as I carefully peeled back a section. I tucked a handful into a waxed cloth pouch and watched as the silvery roots curled slightly when exposed to air. The rest I left untouched. I patted the bark and murmured a quiet word of thanks. The forest felt generous today.

Each step brought something new, a shift in texture, a change in sound. The ground was soft and damp beneath my boots. Ferns brushed my sleeves when the breeze stirred them. Farther off, the woodpecker tapped steadily again. My boots grew muddier with each step, but I didn’t mind. Mud meant life. The best herbs liked to hide in places that left your ankles wet.

In the crook of a birch root, I found a cluster of sunlace caps. Their pale tops and golden gills seemed to glow faintly beneath the canopy. I knelt to inspect them more closely. Two were mature enough to harvest. The others I left untouched, giving them time to grow. I sliced the larger ones at the base and wrapped them carefully in parchment.

Nearby, a vine crept across the forest floor. Witchmint. Its jagged leaves gave off a sharp, clean scent, and its small lavender flowers were shaped like five-pointed stars. When I brushed a leaf, it sparked faintly beneath my fingertips. The magic inside crackled like dry pine needles catching fire. I clipped two sprigs, wrapped them in soft cloth, and tucked them into the pouch at my belt.

The work was slow, and that was part of its purpose.

I didn’t rush. I didn’t speak louder than a whisper. The forest was more than a place to gather ingredients. It was a teacher. And like any wise elder, it preferred quiet company and patient hands.

By the time the sun had climbed higher, I had reached a familiar bend in the creek. There, in the shade near the water’s edge, I spotted a patch of heartfern. Its fronds were a bright green, with a faint pink tint near the stems. When I brushed them with my fingers, they gave off a fresh, grassy scent. Heartfern was a gentle herb, but a reliable one. When brewed into tea, it helped steady a racing heartbeat, especially for people who carried too much worry behind their ribs.

I snipped a few fronds near the base, careful not to disturb the roots. “Thank you,” I murmured again, rinsing the stems in the stream before wrapping them for storage.

Not far beyond, I spotted starbark resin on the trunk of an old maple. Flaky strips of reddish-brown clung to the bark, peeling away like curled petals. I opened a small jar from my satchel and brushed the pieces inside with my fingertips. The resin caught the light, glinting like tiny specks of gold. Starbark was one of the first medicines I ever learned to use. When boiled into salves, it helped heal wounds and stop bleeding. Its scent reminded me of winter, sharp like pepper, warm like honey.

A rustle startled me. I turned to see a fox slipping through the underbrush, its body low and silent.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said softly. I didn’t expect an answer, but I offered the words anyway.

A breeze drifted through the trees. I caught the scent of wild mint and the rich, green smell of crushed leaves. The forest was starting to open up ahead of me. The trees thinned around a small clearing I hadn’t seen before, a gentle rise where sunlight streamed through in golden columns.

In the center, tall stalks of thistlebloom swayed gently. Their round purple heads shimmered with a silvery sheen, and the soft down at their tips caught the wind, lifting slightly like delicate feathers.

I stepped carefully between the flowers, letting their soft petals brush against my fingertips. The oil they carried, when properly infused, worked wonders on swollen joints and aching knees. I clipped two full flower heads, waiting for the breeze to settle so I could make a clean cut. The rest I left untouched, nodding gently in the sunlight.

At the edge of the clearing, I sat down with my legs stretched out in front of me, my staff resting across my lap. I allowed the moment to settle. The warmth, the quiet, and the way the light filtered through the trees like shards of stained glass, all of it filled me with calm. My satchel was no heavier, but it held the weight of possibility.

I took out my journal and flipped to a blank page. I began sketching from memory, first the thistlebloom, then the sunlace cap, and finally the heartfern. I shaped each leaf and curve with care, noting the texture and size. Next to each sketch, I wrote a few short notes, where I found it, what it could be used for, and how best to prepare it.

When I finished, I sat in silence a while longer and listened to the wind moving through the clearing.

Eventually, I rose and made my way back toward the denser part of the forest. The trees here grew tall and close together, their limbs arching overhead like the vaulted ceiling of a chapel. The shadows were deep and steady, and the hush beneath them made me lower my voice without even thinking.

I hadn’t planned to find anything else that day. But just before reaching the ridge, I saw it.

It grew at the base of a smooth, pale stone. Its petals were only just beginning to open.

Lunebane.

I stopped walking and slowly knelt beside it. The flower’s pale blue petals looked fragile enough to vanish if disturbed, shimmering faintly in the dim light. They only opened in certain kinds of light, twilight, starlight, or the soft shadow cast by early morning. There was something almost unreal about it, as though the plant had stepped from a dream. I had only seen it once before, and never in bloom.

Lunebane was known for its calming effects in elixirs. A single petal, properly prepared, could ease a restless mind or soften the edge of a nightmare. But there was more to it than that. It was a plant that preferred to grow in quiet places, far from noise and handling. It felt like a secret the forest had chosen to share.

I harvested one bloom, careful to leave the others undisturbed, and hoped the seeds inside would be viable. Then I placed a slice of dried apple on the stone beside it. Not because I believed the plant would take it, but as a small gesture for the spirits that might be nearby. A thank-you for the gift.

The rest of the afternoon passed gently. I walked in time with the rhythm of my breath and the sound of the wind. By the time I found shelter, my boots were soaked and crusted with mud. I came to a wide old oak, its trunk thick and welcoming, and I leaned against it for a while with my eyes closed, just listening to the forest around me.

I wasn’t tired in the usual way. It was the kind of fullness that made you sit still for a while, simply to enjoy it.

When I opened my satchel, it responded with a pulse of warmth. The soulbinding magic recognized my touch and stirred to life like a cat curling into a lap. I packed away the day’s harvest carefully, each item wrapped and labeled, layered in cloth to keep them safe.

My hands smelled of mint and resin. My boots smelled of bog water. And I felt completely content.

By the time the sun dipped low and golden through the trees, I knew I wouldn’t reach the next town before nightfall. That suited me fine. I preferred forest clearings over tavern beds and shared rooms.

The path curved near a shallow ridge, and just beyond it, I spotted the perfect place to rest. A massive tree had fallen long ago and was now covered in moss. Its trunk had hollowed out at the roots and leaned into the slope as if it had given up standing and chosen to sleep instead. The arch of wood created a natural windbreak, and inside, the ground was dry and gently sloped. It would be more than enough.

I set my staff across the edge of the fallen tree and placed my palm against the bark. “Thank you,” I said softly, then began preparing for the night.

Before doing anything else, I foraged for dinner. A short climb down the ridge brought me to a pond I remembered from my last pass through this part of the forest. Its still surface mirrored the sky, rimmed by clusters of reedgrass and patches of low-growing rootweed. I crouched by the bank and pulled up several knotted tubers, fernroot, edible when peeled and boiled, with a nutty flavor that turned bitter if left too long in the pot. Near the water’s edge, I found a trio of stout mushrooms growing from the shadowed side of a fallen branch. Their brown caps were firm and dusted with moss spores. Edible. Familiar. I’d eaten them before, fried in butter with wild onion. I tucked the harvest into my satchel and made my way back to camp.

I built the fire with care, starting with thin twigs, curled bark, and a base of dried moss. A flick of warmth from my fingertips sparked the flame to life, as though it had been waiting for me all day. While it caught, I peeled and sliced the fernroot, then wiped the mushrooms clean with a damp cloth, humming absently to myself. I filled my cookpot with water from the pond, cradled it in both hands, and whispered a soft cantrip. Magic pulsed gently through my palms, filtering the water until the sediment disappeared and the sour edge of algae gave way to clarity. The result was faintly warm, fresh, and clean.

I poured most of it into the pot, added the roots and mushrooms, and nestled everything into the coals.

The aroma rose quickly, a rich blend of earthy and sweet notes that drifted upward into the evening air. I added a pinch of dried heartfern, its fronds crumbling softly between my fingers, and a thin shaving of saltbark from my stores. The bark was rough to the touch but fragrant, releasing its familiar, briny sharpness as it warmed. It wasn’t a feast, but it was nourishing, a simple, honest meal that brought comfort with every simmering bubble.

While it cooked, I retrieved my journal and turned to a fresh page. I added new notes beside the sketches of sunlace caps, their rounded petals carefully outlined, and glimmerleaf, its silver-veined structure captured in pencil. I traced today’s path in the corner of the page, marking a note for my future self to return in late summer. By then, the plants would be in full bloom, their hues richer, their properties altered by the changing season.

When I paused, silence crept in around me. It wasn’t the hush of the forest but something quieter, my own stillness. I stared into the fire and thought of home. I pictured windows glowing at twilight, Mama’s voice humming a tune while she worked, Papa’s boots waiting by the door. I remembered my brother leaning against the kitchen counter, the way he often looked like he had something to say but never quite found the words.

I missed them. It wasn’t the homesickness I had feared, only a soft ache. A quiet knowing. You can be certain you’ve made the right choice and still feel the weight of what you’ve left behind.

I slipped the charm, a small wooden leaf he had carved, from around my neck and turned it over in my hand. The spiral at its center had been burned unevenly, the lines rough and slightly crooked. I traced it with my thumb. Still here, I thought. Still with me.

The savory scent of the stew mingled with the cool night air, promising it was ready just as the moon began to show through the branches above. I ate slowly, savoring each bite. I sat cross-legged, the firelight warming my knees, while the sturdy trunk of the tree supported my back. When I finished, I poured the rest of the filtered water into my canteen, whispering another soft cantrip to help preserve its clarity through the night.

With practiced care, I scrubbed the cookpot clean and set it aside. Then I walked a quiet circuit around my small camp, setting wards with soft words and steady steps. Finally, I spread my bedroll on the driest patch of moss beneath the hollowed tree and settled in, safe beneath its protective arch.

Before sleep took me, I opened my journal once more and added a final line.

"The world gives more than it takes, if you learn how to ask."

Then I tucked the journal away with care, ensuring its pages were secure, and curled up beneath my warm blanket. The fire crackled quietly as it faded, leaving behind a soft glow of embers that pulsed like the heartbeat of the night. Around me, the forest exhaled slowly. Its ancient presence whispered through the rustling leaves and distant animal calls, steady and calm. Wrapped in this peaceful rhythm, I let my eyes close and drifted into sleep, carried by the quiet lullaby of the woods.

I woke just after dawn. The fire had burned down to ash, and the sky had taken on that soft, misty blue that only comes with early morning. I stretched, easing the sleep from my limbs, and rose stiffly to pack. My fingers moved in familiar rhythm, folding the bedroll, checking the satchel, calling each item back with a quiet word and a clear image. The satchel shimmered and received everything with ease, its magic stirring gently beneath my palm.

Before I left, I checked the wards I’d set the night before. My footsteps had left faint traces in the soil, still arranged in the protective circle I had walked. Everything was intact. Still holding. I nodded to myself and moved on.

Breakfast was simple. I finished the last oat cake and a slice of dried plum, washed down with the water I’d purified the night before. Then I shouldered the satchel, gripped my staff, and returned to the trail.

As I walked, the forest began to change. The trees grew smaller and spaced farther apart. The mossy ground gave way to packed earth, firm underfoot and scattered with dry leaves. After an hour or two, I came across the first sign of the village, a weatherworn mile marker, carved with a curling vine and the name Wrenvale, its edges softened by time.

By midmorning, I reached the outskirts. Wrenvale was quiet and unhurried, just a scattering of stone cottages and timber homes clustered along a winding stream. Fences bordered tidy gardens. Laundry swayed gently on clotheslines. A few chickens wandered across the lane, and a dog barked once before settling back down again. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the smell of baking bread drifted through an open window near the green.

It didn’t bustle. It didn’t try to. The village simply existed, content in its own rhythm.

I made my way to the small inn at the center of town. It was a squat, two-story building with a hand-painted sign that read The Clovercup. The roof sagged a little on one side, but flower boxes lined the windows and the wood looked well cared for. The door creaked as I stepped inside.

Behind the counter stood a woman stirring a pot of tea. Her gray hair was cropped short, and she wore a long apron. Her face held the kind of expression that had seen every kind of traveler and decided most of them were probably fine.

“Room or meal?” she asked, glancing up.

“Room,” I said. “Just for the night. I can pay in herbs, fresh-picked, a few roots, some fruit, and also bluestem moss, fernroot, and witchmint.” I reached into my satchel and summoned a small bundle of sunlit glimmerleaf, setting it gently on the counter.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “You a healer?”

“Still learning,” I said. “Mostly gathering. But I’m clean, quiet, and I won’t take up much space.”

She leaned forward, pinched one of the glimmerleaf leaves between her fingers, then gave a satisfied grunt and handed me a key.

“That’ll do. First room upstairs on the right. Tub’s down the hall. Fire’s hot. Soap’s at the basin.”

I exhaled, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease. “Thank you.”

She waved a hand. “Folk who travel light and bring good things are always welcome.”

I found the tub exactly where she had said it would be, a venerable iron basin nestled into a tiled corner, its surface worn silky-smooth by countless years of use. When I turned the brass taps, hot water rushed out with a comforting gurgle. Steam curled upward, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of cedar soap, a trace left behind by the last guest.

Stripping off my travel-worn clothes, I let them fall in a heap on the floor. With a whispered incantation and a flick of my fingers, I cast a simple cleaning cantrip. Dust, sweat, and the earthy smell of the forest shimmered and vanished, drawn out of the fabric and into the air in faint wisps of ash and vapor.

The spell didn’t work on people, unfortunately.

I sank into the hot water with a quiet groan, letting it soak the soreness from my legs and spine. My arms floated, weightless. My tail uncoiled. My hair spread in dark waves along the surface. For a long while, I didn’t move at all.

Later, clean and warm, my clothes dry and my skin scrubbed to a deep ochre glow, I sat by the window in my rented room with a cup of weak tea and a scrap of journal paper. The note I wrote was short, just enough to leave with the post rider if one came through.

Mama, Papa, Kian,

I made it to Wrenvale. Just passing through, but I’m safe and well.

Heading east. Thinking of you. I hope the herbs are blooming.

Love, Elara.

I folded the note, sealed it with wax, and set it aside to drop at the general store. Then I leaned back in the chair, sipping the last of my tea, and watched the wind dance in the trees outside. My legs still ached, but it was a satisfying kind of tired. My satchel was full. My hands were clean. And though my heart still felt a little sore around the edges, it had lightened.

Tomorrow, I would keep walking. But tonight, I was safe. I was warm. And I was gently missed.

Later, dressed in the casual clothes I kept tucked at the bottom of my satchel, I made my way downstairs to the tavern beneath the inn. The smell of roasted root vegetables and fresh bread met me at the stairs. I paid for a simple meal, barley stew, a thick slice of buttered rye, and a clay cup of something mulled and spiced.

I tucked myself into a corner near the hearth, letting the warmth soak into my bones. Each bite was slow, deliberate, satisfying.

Not long after, a woman approached. Her long green coat was worn at the elbows, and a weathered satchel hung over one shoulder. She had the kind of tired eyes that belonged to someone who spent more time helping others than resting herself.

“You must be the traveler who traded herbs earlier,” she said with a small smile. Her voice was low and kind. “Innkeeper told me you filled half the shelves. I’m Tamsyn. Town healer.”

I smiled back and gestured to the seat across from me. “Elara. Happy to help. There’s a good patch of wild ginger near the pond a few miles out. Some late-season valerian too, if you know where to look.”

She sat with a grateful hum, and we fell into easy conversation. She spoke about local wildlife, a strange blight creeping through the western bramble, and a fox with a habit of stealing bandages from her drying line. I shared a few field notes from my sketches and foraging, and in return she offered a small tin of beeswax balm, well-used, lovingly made.

The exchange was small, but meaningful. By the end of it, the ache in my legs didn’t seem quite so important compared to the warmth in my chest.

Eventually, Tamsyn stood with a soft sigh. “You’ve got a good eye, Elara. Don’t let too many towns keep you.” She nodded gently, then disappeared through the tavern door, leaving behind the scent of pine salve and old parchment.

I lingered a while longer, watching the firelight flicker against the stone hearth. The clink of cutlery and the soft hum of conversation faded into the hush of settling wood and low laughter. When my eyelids grew heavy, I gathered my things and made my way upstairs, trailing my fingers along the smooth, worn banister.

My room still held the gentle warmth that rose from the hearth below. I washed my face at the basin, brushed out the tangles in my hair with slow, patient strokes, and looked once more at my travel clothes hanging neatly from the footboard. They still carried the faint scent of herbs from the cantrip. I left them there for the morning.

The window stood slightly open, letting in the cool night breeze. I slipped under the blankets and curled onto my side. The mattress shifted softly beneath me, and the quilt smelled faintly of lavender and smoke. I listened to the inn creak as it settled, to the distant hoot of an owl calling through the trees. Sleep came quickly, gentle and certain.

There would be more miles to walk tomorrow. But for now, I rested.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL:

Pale Blue WildmintLocation: Streamside, eastern trail bend near homeDescription: Delicate, fuzzy-edged leaves with a slightly sweet scent. Blue tinge deepens toward stem.Use: Refreshing tea additive. Mild digestive aid.Notes: Seems to thrive near moving water. Collected both sprigs and seeds.

Thornleaf BriarLocation: Along the ridge trailDescription: Small, pale red berries. Thorny stems with dark green, serrated leaves.Use: Berries edible in small amounts, slightly tart. Leaves used for fever tea.Notes: Carefully harvested to avoid tearing gloves. Found a small cluster; left most untouched.

Golden CressLocation: Crumbling stone wall near ridge pathDescription: Yellow-green foliage with curled tips. Peppery scent when crushed.Use: Antiseptic properties; mild stimulant when steeped.Notes: Grows in shallow, rocky soil. Easy to overharvest—only took a pinch.

Bluegill MushroomLocation: Mossy birch groveDescription: Flat, fish-scale sheen. Light blue cap, darker gills.Use: Pain relief and mild sleep aid when dried and powdered.Notes: Very moisture-sensitive. Must be dried carefully. Delicate transport required.

Honeycomb Stump MossLocation: Rotting stump near bee clearingDescription: Pale green, clustered hex patterns resembling honeycomb.Use: Unknown. Possibly antiseptic.Notes: Collected small patch. Left note to cross-reference with Gessim’s old entries

Firebell Flower (suspected)Location: Roadside slope on day threeDescription: Red-orange hanging blossom. Emits faint warmth.Use: Unknown. May have energy-enhancing properties.Notes: Did not collect—no gloves and unsure of reaction. Need confirmation of species.