Chapter 3: Arrival in Ashgrove Glen

By midafternoon, the trees began to thin, and the narrow forest trail widened into a more walkable path. My boots struck packed earth and gravel as I descended the last gentle slope into the village proper. Ashgrove Glen wasn’t large, not even as big as Sunburst Valley, but it was alive in a way I hadn’t expected.

The road opened into a broad commons where market stalls stood beneath bright canvas awnings. The scent of bread, roasted root vegetables, and something sharply spiced hung in the air. Children ran between carts and crates, laughing and dragging wooden toys behind them. A dwarf wearing a wide leather apron manned a stall full of copper cookware, chatting with a young gnome who examined a soup pot with the focus of a scholar.

I slowed my steps and let the moment settle. The village had a rhythm—a balance of work and trade, of voices and motion. Humans bustled alongside orcs. A pair of halflings managed a honey stall. A tall Fellborn woman in a vibrant cloak passed by with her arms full of books and herbs. No one stared. No one questioned my presence. The place felt open in a quiet, welcoming way.

I adjusted Marda’s letter of introduction in my satchel and let out a slow, steady breath.

Days of travel had left a film of dust on my skin and a knot between my shoulders. My hair clung in damp curls at the base of my neck. Before I sought out Rennel, I wanted to feel clean again.

I asked a nearby stallkeeper for directions. She was a cheerful elf with short-cropped hair who sold stone-ground soap in neatly wrapped bars. When I explained what I was looking for, she pointed down a narrow path tucked between the cobbler’s and a row of flower boxes.

“Ashgrove’s bathhouse is small, but the water’s hot and the space is quiet,” she said. “You might get a private room if it’s not too busy. Tell Nora you’ve come through the woods. She’ll look after you.”

I thanked her and followed the path. The bathhouse sat nestled between two older buildings, a rounded timber structure with carved latticework along the eaves. Bundles of dried herbs hung above the doorway. It looked as if it had settled there naturally, nestled beneath the shelter of an ancient ash tree.

Inside, the air was thick with steam and lightly perfumed with rosemary and lavender. A dark-skinned woman stood behind a polished wood counter, her silver-streaked braids pinned back from her face. She was bent over a ledger but looked up as the door creaked open.

“Traveler?”

“Just arrived,” I replied. “Name’s Elara. I was hoping for a soak before finding your local healer.”

“You’ve got good timing,” she said, flipping the ledger shut. “Only three in at the moment. I’ll give you a single stall. Towels and scrub brushes are in the alcove. Water’s fresh.”

I paid a few coins, a fair exchange, and thanked her again.

The private room was simple but perfect. A wooden tub large enough to stretch out in stood ready, warm water already drawn and steam curling gently across its surface. Slatted windows let in the soft call of birds and dappled light from the tree outside.

I slipped out of my travel-worn clothes and eased into the bath with a sigh that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in my chest. The heat soaked into every tired joint, loosening the tension gathered in my lower back and shoulders. I leaned my head against the edge, closed my eyes, and let myself drift for a while.

After washing and scrubbing away the dust of the road, I changed into clean clothes from my pack. I chose my lighter tunic, the one with embroidered cuffs, still faintly scented with pressed clover. I dried my hair with one of the linen towels and braided it loosely over one shoulder.

Before I stepped out, I paused to thank the bathhouse keeper properly.

“You’ve brought forest dust and spring pollen with you,” she said, her eyes crinkling with a kind sort of mischief. “Good signs. We’ve had too many winter-born folk lately. Always cold in their bones.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I’m off to find Rennel next.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Good luck with that one. He doesn’t bite, but he might look like he’s thinking about it. Just be polite, and if he’s humming, let him finish. That means he’s focused.”

I nodded, filing the advice away.

Outside, the village had settled into a slower rhythm. The market had grown quiet, with vendors packing up their crates and neighbors leaning in close for the kind of slow conversation that only comes at the end of the day.

At a nearby stall, I bought a small paper cone of candied almonds. My satchel shifted gently at my side as I made my way toward the far end of town, where the buildings became fewer and the trees leaned closer to the path.

According to the map Marda had marked for me, Rennel’s cottage would be just beyond the last of the outer gardens. But first, I let myself pause.

There was a low stone wall surrounding one of the village’s flower beds, a riot of color and buzzing bees. I sat on the edge, nibbling an almond, and let the quiet hum of Ashgrove Glen settle over me.

The path to Rennel’s cottage wound away from the village, following the gentle curve of a hill lined with silver-barked trees. I passed garden plots tucked beside crooked fences, where cabbages and sweetroot curled under the weight of the late-season sun. Birds flitted overhead, calling to one another from branch to branch, and a pair of spotted goats watched me pass with calm, unblinking eyes.

Marda’s map led me to a gate made of woven branches. Moss had crept up from the ground and covered the bottom edge. A flat stone path led through a yard that felt half wild, half tended. The scent of crushed green leaves filled the air—lemon balm, nettle, damp soil. I paused at the threshold and saw him.

Rennel.

He was kneeling in the garden, elbows buried in a patch of blue-veined stalks I didn’t recognize. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing lean, weathered arms streaked with dirt and old scars. His skin was deeply tanned from wind and sun. A pair of spectacles rested on top of his head. He hummed softly, a low, repeating tune that matched the rhythm of his hands. Each movement was exact and deliberate.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t shift my weight or clear my throat. I simply waited.

The air was warm and still. Birds chirped nearby, but otherwise, the world felt hushed. There was something sacred about watching someone work without an audience—not performing, not explaining, just doing.

So I waited.

Ten minutes passed before he stopped humming. He patted the dirt around the base of the plant, sat back on his heels, and tilted his head slightly without turning toward me.

“Well,” he said, his voice rough and dry like old paper, “you’re either very polite or very lost. Which is it?”

I stepped forward, keeping my pace slow and steady. “Polite, I hope. My name is Elara. I have a letter from Marda.”

That earned me a look. Sharp. Assessing. He stood with a quiet grunt, brushed his hands off on his trousers, and held out one palm.

I handed him the letter.

He cracked the seal with his thumbnail and read it where he stood. His eyes scanned the page quickly, with the kind of efficiency that came from practice. When he finished, he folded the letter and tucked it into his back pocket.

“So. You want to learn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.” He turned toward the cottage and started walking. “If you pick things up quickly and don’t complain, you can stay. The guest room has a cot. You’re done here as soon as I’m done teaching. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

“Good. Get your things and follow me.”

Inside, the cottage was functional to the point of bare. Shelves lined the walls, each packed with jars labeled in neat script—chalk, salt, dried lichen, bone-white roots. A long wooden workbench stretched across one side of the room. It was cluttered with knives, bundles of cloth, folded parchment, and two open grimoires held flat by smooth stones. The air smelled of dried sage and ink.

He led me through a narrow hallway to a small back room. It held a cot, a trunk, and a single window without a curtain.

“You’ll sleep here. Don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you. I eat when I remember to. You’ll eat when you can cook it.”

“Understood.”

He turned and studied me again. There was no cruelty in his gaze, only calculation. He looked like someone fitting me into a list of odds and outcomes, and holding off on his conclusion.

“We start tomorrow. At sunrise. If you oversleep, I won’t repeat the lesson. You’ll watch the rest of the day until you stop being an idiot.”

I almost smiled. Almost. “Understood again.”

He raised an eyebrow, then walked away without another word.

I sat down on the cot. The blanket felt coarse beneath my fingers but was clean. A pitcher and basin rested on a small table by the wall. Outside the window, the breeze stirred the leaves of the ash trees, filling the room with a sense of quiet motion.

I unpacked slowly, placing my journal and ink beside the bed. I set Marda’s letter next to them, still creased from his hand. Then I picked up my satchel again and slipped out through the back door. I wandered to the edge of the garden, drawn by the scent of crushed herbs and morning sun.

Rennel was still working. He knelt beside the same creeping herbs, now trimming with careful, methodical precision. I didn’t speak or step too close. I simply observed.

Tomorrow, I would begin my training.

And I would learn.

Morning arrived with birdsong and the distant creak of the garden gate. I had been awake since well before dawn, my sleep shallow and restless. I rose, dressed quickly, braided my hair into a neat knot, and stepped into the kitchen. Rennel was already there, tending to a pot of water boiling over the hearth.

He gave a small nod. “Tea is in the jar. Bread is on the board. If you want to begin the right way, eat first. If not, you can faint in the garden and start over later.”

I helped myself without delay and ate standing up. The tea was bitter but steadying.

Once the dishes were rinsed and stacked, he handed me a pair of gloves and led the way outside.

“This plant,” he said, gesturing to the patch I had seen yesterday, “is feverroot. It’s temperamental and needs to be pruned in alignment with the moon’s cycle. Today isn’t right for it, but that makes it a good opportunity to learn. Show me which stems you would cut if the moon were waxing rather than waning.”

I crouched and studied the plant closely. Its oval leaves formed a chevron pattern, and the undersides were pale compared to the faint green-silver shimmer on top. I identified the older growth by its color and the way the stems bent, then pointed to the ones I would have chosen.

Rennel grunted in response. “Passable. Let’s see if you can apply that same attention to infusion measurements.”

And so, the day began.

We measured bark resin, steeped root blends, and compared drying times for mosses and spiderflower. He made me recite what I knew and corrected what I didn’t. His teaching was blunt and efficient. There were no metaphors, no stories. But I learned.

And he watched me constantly. Not cruelly, but with the same mechanical clarity I had seen the day before. He didn’t waste words unless they were necessary. He didn’t offer praise. He didn’t coddle.

By late afternoon, though, he let me strain a poultice mixture on my own. He didn’t say I’d done it right, but he didn’t take it away from me either. That was enough.

The next several days settled into a rhythm. We rose with the sun, ate in silence, and then worked.

Rennel’s garden, wild as it looked, functioned like a living encyclopedia. There were plants I had never seen before—smallleaf sorrow, which released a faint numbing gas when bruised, and heartglass vine, which pulsed with ambient magic and had to be harvested before it built up too much arcane residue. We harvested only when necessary, and always with gloves or the correct tools. One mistake could mean an afternoon of nausea or something far worse.

He showed me how to distill oil from nightshade blossoms without breaking the glands that released toxins. We worked in silence, every step slow and measured. Later that day, he had me repeat the process on my own. He stood behind me, watching with eyes I couldn’t read.

“You breathe too fast when you work,” he said. “Slow your breath. Your pulse controls your hands. Medicine made in haste leads to bad work. Or death.”

I nodded. I wasn’t insulted. Just reminded.

His workshop was a shrine to purpose. Every station had a function—grinding, drying, distilling, straining. He made me clean each tool after use. Not out of habit, but because, in his words, “Contamination is how fools turn healing into poison.”

His salve-making was fast and precise. He used only what he needed, no more. A balm for pain, made from yarrow, spiderleaf gel, and rendered goat fat, had to be stirred exactly seven times in a counterclockwise motion at a steady temperature. He had no patience for guessing. Only for observation and accuracy.

I filled my journal with notes—pages and pages of them. I recorded temperature, timing, humidity, and even his offhand remarks.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“Ink runs out faster than breath,” he told me once. “Don’t write everything. Write what you’ll forget.”

Some nights I collapsed into bed with aching hands and stained sleeves, too tired to think. But every morning, I woke eager. I was learning things I hadn’t even known to look for.

On the fifth day, he handed me a folded bundle. Inside were dried petals from a pale orange flower I didn’t recognize.

"Your turn," he said. "Tell me what this is. Tell me how to use it. Don’t guess. Don’t bluff."

I examined the petals. They were soft, slightly oily, and carried a sharp citrus-honey scent. I crushed one gently between my fingers and inhaled. Then I reached for my journal.

"Dusk trumpet," I said after a moment. "Might be a regional variant. Grows along the edges of elm trees. Petals close in shadow. Possible calming effect through scent. I haven’t tested it in infusion yet."

He studied me for a long moment.

Finally, he nodded.

"Good. You’ve been paying attention."

And that, from Rennel, felt like the highest compliment I could hope for.

It wasn’t until the end of my first full week that he finally changed pace.

He had been quiet that morning, making me repeat measurements I had already done twice, checking each one with the precision of a jeweler. But after we finished a salve batch and washed the mortar, he set the tools down and turned to me.

"Time for something harder."

He moved to a cabinet I hadn’t seen him open before. The door was carved with warding symbols that shimmered faintly when the light struck at the right angle. He touched three fingers to the wood, muttered a phrase under his breath, and the cabinet creaked open.

Inside were vials and scrolls, bundles of herbs I didn’t recognize, and a narrow stone box. He took it out, set it on the table, and gestured for me to come closer.

"This is hexwork," he said. "Nasty business. Most of it self-inflicted. You want to learn medicine for body and spirit? Then you need to know how to undo the messes people make when they think a grudge is the same thing as a cure."

I nodded, my heart quickening. This was what I had hoped for—something more than poultices and feverroot. Something tangled. Something difficult.

He unwrapped a sealed parchment and held it up to the light. A faint oily smear glistened across the surface.

"Hex-ink," he explained. "Made from ashthorn oil, widow’s vine, and a few other things you don’t get to know yet. Most minor hexes leave residue—physical, magical, or both. You learn to spot it, identify it, neutralize it."

He passed the scroll to me.

"Tell me what you see."

I studied it carefully. The smear shimmered slightly when tilted, like an afterimage. I moved it under the lanternlight and inhaled.

"Charred nettle base," I said slowly. "There’s bitterness. Binding intent, not a full curse. No signs of decay. It’s lingering. Like a mild restriction. Fatigue?"

"Not bad," he said. "Hex of exhaustion. Keeps the muscles from fully recovering. Good for people trying to win races. Or lose them."

He reached into the box and removed a bundle of dried herbs bound in black thread.

"This is thornweed bloom. Steep it in silver water, let the steam bind to the paper, then burn it with rosemary. The smoke unties the hex."

He handed it to me. "You do it."

I prepared the bowl and measured the silver water, careful not to overheat it. I steeped the thornweed until the scent filled the room. Rennel lit the rosemary, and I passed the scroll slowly through the rising stream of smoke. The oily sheen vanished.

"Again," he said.

We practiced all afternoon. He showed me signs of forgetful curses, brittle-tempers, and overconfidence hexes—small enchantments layered into objects or slipped into tinctures. We handled them with gloves, masks, and controlled fire.

By sunset, I was sweating, and my fingers smelled like charcoal and sage.

Rennel looked me over, eyes narrowed.

"You didn’t flinch," he said.

"I was too busy concentrating."

“Hmph.” He started putting things away. “You’re not terrible at this.”

In Rennel’s language, that might as well have been praise.

And I would take it.

The next few days were entirely devoted to hexwork.

Each morning, Rennel handed me a new object—a brush, a worn leather glove, even an empty teacup—and asked the same question: “What’s wrong with it?” Sometimes the answer was clear. A flicker of residue along a seam, a glaze that looked too perfect, a faint tremor in the air if I held it too long. Other times, I had to sit with the object in silence, breathing slowly, letting my senses stretch toward what wasn’t obvious.

One morning, he handed me a coin pouch.

“What’s this one?” he asked.

I turned it over in my hands and felt a static tingle creep across my palms. “Greed-sink?” I guessed. “Someone enchanted it to make the holder more possessive?”

“Close,” he said. “It subtly compels the owner to hoard and avoid charity. Originally used by certain traveling merchants. Ugly stuff.”

He showed me how to ground a compulsion like that. We packed the pouch in copper shavings and burnt sage ash, wrapped it in a thread of pure salt crystal, and buried it beneath a sigil carved in the dirt. We left it under the moonlight. By morning, the pull was gone.

We studied counteragents made from powdered quartz and red thistle. I learned to brew banewort tonic—foul, bitter as betrayal, but essential for flushing out enchantments that clung to the gut.

Rennel emphasized balance in every remedy. “Hex cures aren’t clean,” he said as we stirred a smoking paste that hissed even while cold. “They’re not like fever remedies. They bite back. That’s how you know they’re working.”

He taught me to draw grounding runes on skin using warding chalk. Then he wiped them off and made me do it again. Over and over. Until I could draw them blindfolded and still match the lines.

We practiced with enchanted ink, sometimes wearing gloves, sometimes not. One mistake cost me an hour curled on the floor, stomach churning with nausea. Rennel didn’t scold me. He handed me a mug of boiled willow bark tea and said, “Next time, read the angle of the smear before you start muttering.”

That night, I recorded everything I could remember about the mistake—what I touched, how the ink responded, the color of the residue. I sketched the sigil and marked where I had gone wrong.

By the fourth day, he trusted me with a cleansing task he didn’t preface.

He handed me a small bone ring, worn smooth from years of touch. I turned it in my fingers, and a chill crawled up my wrist.

“It’s grief,” I murmured. “Bound sorrow.”

Rennel raised an eyebrow. “And the fix?”

I hesitated, then reached for a vial of honeymint oil. Soaking a strip of gauze, I wrapped the ring and whispered a light-breaking spell—one Gessim had taught me long ago to lift sorrow from rooms that had held it too long.

When I finished, Rennel stepped forward, unwrapped the ring, and held it in his palm. Nothing. The chill was gone.

"Better," he said. "Still not perfect. But better."

I sat down heavily, heart racing. "How do you ever get perfect at this?"

"You don’t," he replied. "You get practiced."

That evening, I stayed in the garden long after he went inside, drawing the runes I had learned into the dirt and watching them fade as the breeze swept over them.

The next morning, we moved on to counter-curses.

"These are harder," he warned. "Because they’re meant to fight back."

He showed me a hexed brooch that resisted touch, growing colder and heavier the longer I held it. He watched with interest as I approached it slowly, grounding my fingers with obsidian dust and humming a steady tone—a method I had read about, though never had the chance to try. It worked. Just barely.

After that, he started layering in more variables.

One day, he arranged three cursed objects in a row and set a timer.

"You’ve got fifteen minutes to clear all three. One is reactive. One is hidden. One is fake."

My pulse pounded, but I nodded.

The first object was a cracked pendant that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic energy. I sensed a mimic-hex—an enchantment meant to imitate a real illness and trick the healer into treating the wrong condition. I isolated it inside a chalk ring drawn with memory-sink powder and burned a blackleaf sprig to break the mirroring effect. It stilled.

The second, a cloth doll with stitched eyes, showed no outward signs of magic. But I recognized the stitch pattern: a bind-rune, old and cleverly disguised. I dismantled the threads one by one and bathed them in rosemary smoke. The tension that clung to the doll lifted.

The third item was a small glass charm. No hum, no heat, no resistance. I checked twice. It was inert.

When the timer rang, Rennel inspected my work, nodded once, and muttered, "Faster next time."

It was the closest thing to praise I had heard all week.

By the time the week ended, I had filled ten more pages in my journal, stained half my sleeves with ashthorn and chalk, and started dreaming in sigil patterns.

And yet, I wasn’t tired.

I was alive with it.

The work was strange, complicated, sometimes frustrating—but also beautiful.

And I was learning it.

Every single day, I was learning it.

On the morning of my twelfth day, I walked into the kitchen expecting another round of tests. Rennel was already up, as always, staring into his mug of tea like it had betrayed him somehow.

Without looking at me, he said, “You’ve learned enough to be dangerous.”

I blinked. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

He snorted. “It’s a compliment. Sort of.”

I waited while he took a slow sip, then set the mug down with a quiet finality.

“Time for a different kind of test. You’ve got all that fancy knowledge now, but I need to see what happens when there’s no ink, no diagrams. Just you, your bag, and whatever happens to be growing around your feet.”

My heart lifted. “Foraging trial?”

He nodded. “Head northeast. It’s about a half-day’s walk. You’ll find a glade near the foothills—old growth, uneven terrain, decent variety. I want samples of five plants: one to soothe, one to stimulate, one to seal, one to ward, and one I’ve never seen before. Bring back enough of each to make something useful.”

“Can I bring my journal?”

“Bring it. Just don’t lean on it.”

He handed me a small cloth bundle. Inside were empty tins, parchment sheets, a coil of twine, and a knife no larger than my palm.

“Don’t get clever. Don’t get careless. And don’t come back with excuses.”

I packed quickly. My satchel already held the essentials, with just enough space for the tools he’d given me. I brought a full water flask, two strips of dried bread, and my light cloak. Nothing more.

The morning air was cool and edged with the scent of pine as I followed the trail he had marked. It wound through low hills and narrow deer paths, sometimes open, sometimes thick with brush. I let the rhythm of walking settle into my bones.

I found the first plant in the shadow of a broad outcrop: threadstem valerian. Its slender white blooms bent in the breeze, releasing a faint, steadying scent. I tested both root and leaf—soft, familiar, and unmistakably effective. I took just enough.

The second was harder to find. I veered off the trail when I spotted a hummingbird hovering near a red bloom tucked between two rocks. Bright-thistle. A stimulant when used properly, dangerous in excess. I clipped one flower and three leaves, wrapped them in waxed parchment, and tucked them into a tin to keep them separate.

Just after midday, I found a sun-warmed rock and ate half a strip of bread. The world had quieted—no wind, no birdsong. Only breath and heartbeat.

Around the next bend, I found a grove that made me stop in place.

Luminous silkleaf trees rose overhead, their long, pale fronds shifting in the breeze with a faint hum like distant wind chimes. Beneath them, nestled between their roots, spread waxcap ground moss. It formed soft mounds and glistened faintly in the filtered light.

I knelt beside it, tested the edge of one tuft with gloved fingers, and smiled. When dried and pulped, this moss made an excellent sealant base—clean, stable, long-lasting. I gathered a careful amount and pressed it into one of the tins.

That made three.

For the warding plant, I climbed a ridge half-swallowed by ivy and found a weathered patch of copper fern. Its leaves were mottled with bronze, and when I brushed beneath the lowest fronds, a metallic, clean scent rose—sharp and unmistakable. A traditional barrier herb. I clipped what I could and bundled it tightly with twine.

Then I went looking for the unknown.

The sun arced higher, casting long shadows between the trees. My legs ached, and the inside of my boots had started to rub. I combed the glade methodically, lifting leaf mats, checking under bark, and peering through the underbrush. Every corner offered something familiar: wild violet, wormroot, clusters of sunpetal. All useful. All known.

I sighed and sat on a fallen branch, frustration settling into my shoulders like a second satchel. There had to be something new here. There was always something new, if I looked hard enough.

I tried again. Circled farther out. Climbed a moss-covered stone ridge and examined the lichens. Still nothing. I was nearly ready to turn back when I spotted a log, half-hidden beneath a curl of ferns and nearly rotted through.

Kneeling, I brushed away the leaf litter and tipped the log gently.

There it was.

A soft carpet of moss clung to the underside, glowing faintly in the filtered green light. It wasn’t like the waxcap I’d found before. This moss shimmered blue at the edges, its thread-thin filaments shifting slightly, even in the still air. It pulsed, slow and rhythmic—like breath.

I stared.

This wasn’t something I’d seen. I wasn’t even sure anyone had.

Carefully, I touched the edge with two fingers. The filaments twitched, then stilled. The surface was moist rather than slimy, and the scent was delicate—cold earth and early snow.

I used my knife to cut a square and laid it on parchment before sealing it in a tin and sliding it into my satchel.

My journal entry read: Unknown moss. Glows in low light. Reactive. Found under fallen log in damp glade. Cold scent. Filaments move independently. Possible arcane properties. Handle with gloves until tested.

Later, while following a shallow stream, I spotted a vine weaving through the water. Its leaves floated on the surface, while its stems glowed faintly beneath. When I touched one, the light flared, then faded. I plucked a leaf, crushed it lightly, and inhaled.

It smelled of wet stone and ozone.

The journal note: Unidentified watervine. Reactive to touch. Possibly magical. Test infusion in low doses only.

I returned just as dusk softened the trees and the first stars appeared.

Rennel was still seated at the table when I stepped inside. He didn’t ask how the day had gone. He simply examined what I laid out.

One by one, he looked over each sample. The thistle got a nod. The waxcap earned a grunt. But when he picked up the watervine, his eyebrows rose.

“I’ve never seen this before,” he said.

I tried not to beam. “Good. That’s what you asked for.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then set the bundle down. “You’ve learned what I can teach you here.”

It felt like a bell ringing somewhere deep in my chest.

“Where to next?” I asked.

He pulled a map from beneath a stack of herb records and spread it across the table.

“Head west. Briar’s Hollow. The healer there is an old acquaintance of mine—likes runes, hates people. You’ll get along fine.”

I smiled. “Will you write a letter?”

He shook his head. “You’ll show her what you know. That will be your letter.”

I nodded.

He rose from his chair, stretched, and turned away like it was nothing.

But just before he disappeared into the hallway, he paused.

“Don’t waste what you’ve got, Elara. It’s rare.”

Then he vanished into the darkened space beyond.

I sat alone with my little bundles of plants, my journal, and the quiet certainty that tomorrow I would walk forward once again.

Not as a student.

Not anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke to the soft gray of morning pressing against the windows and the quiet ache of tomorrow already blooming behind my ribs. Today, I would leave.

Rennel wasn’t at the table when I came downstairs. The hearth had gone low, the embers banked to a warm glow. I brewed tea the way he liked it—strong and unsweetened—and left the mug near his usual seat. Then I packed.

I checked my satchel to make sure I had the essentials: knife, vials, tinctures, bandages, and spare socks. I added a pouch of dried meat from his pantry, a folded waxed cloth for wrapping foraged finds, and a few empty glass jars. I included a full flask of water. Everything else I could collect on the road.

He appeared just as I finished lacing my boots. His hair was still damp from washing, his face unreadable.

“You leaving early?”

I nodded. “I’ll be traveling slower this time. Foraging as I go. I’ve got enough supplies to keep me fed, but I’d rather rely on what the land gives.”

He studied me with that steady, measured gaze. “Keep track of what you find.”

“I always do.”

He gave a small huff, which I had learned was the closest thing he gave to approval.

I reached for my cloak—the one with the patched elbow and the hidden pocket sewn into the hem. Before I could pull it around my shoulders, he stepped forward and held something out to me. A small tin.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Greencap salve. The good one.”

I blinked. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re going to need it.”

We stood in silence for a moment, then I dipped my head in a respectful bow, quiet and sincere. “I learned a lot here.”

“You’d better have.”

With that, I stepped outside. The air was damp and fresh, carrying the sharp scent of pinesap and stone. The path ahead wound through tangled green, scattered with the signs of spring’s late bloom. I glanced back once—Rennel stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

I raised a hand. He didn’t wave, but he didn’t look away either.

I turned toward the road. The rhythm of walking pulled me forward, steady as a heartbeat.

There was no need to rush. The next village lay far enough away to stretch into a week’s journey, even with bursts of my speed cantrip. I wanted time in the woods. Time to breathe. Time to gather what called to me along the way.

The first day passed in quiet ease. I spotted marshroot just past a stream bend, dug out a few thick white knots, and rinsed them clean in the cold water. Later, under a fallen birch, I found a patch of wild turnip and harvested carefully, leaving enough behind to regrow.

By late afternoon, I had collected dried shelf fungus, some early golden trumpet mushrooms, and a few handfuls of wood nettle—perfect for soup. I paused to stretch beneath the arch of a flowering hawthorn and watched the sun throw silver light across the moss.

The forest felt like an old friend. Familiar. Steady.

That night, I would sleep curled inside the hollow of an oak I remembered from the journey here. I’d cook with foraged greens and root slices, then write up the day’s notes by the firelight.

Tomorrow would bring more walking. More listening. More learning.

And I was ready.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL NOTES: ASHGROVE GLEN & EARLY LESSONS WITH RENNEL

* FeverrootLocation: Rennel’s garden, partial shadeDescription: Blue-veined leafy stalks with pale undersides and a faint green-silver shimmer when tilted in the lightUse: Treats fever and internal inflammation when prepared as an infusion or poulticeNotes: Must be pruned only during the waxing moon phase. Sensitive to cutting timing—pruning on a waning moon can weaken potency.

* Smallleaf SorrowLocation: Wild beds near the back edge of Rennel’s propertyDescription: Small, bitter-scented leaves that release a mild numbing gas when bruisedUse: Applied topically for localized numbing during stitching or painful cleaningNotes: Gloves required. Inhalation of gas can cause dizziness or temporary confusion.

* Heartglass VineLocation: Climbing support trellis beside the cottageDescription: Semi-transparent pale blue vine that pulses faintly with residual magicUse: Calming properties in tea; used in emotional grounding salves or for stabilizing wardsNotes: Must be harvested with care; plant can store trace arcane energy. Avoid during high sun.

* Spiderleaf GelLocation: Along the garden perimeterDescription: Wide, soft leaves with a translucent, gelatinous inner layerUse: Used in pain relief salves, especially when combined with yarrow or nettleNotes: Grows in shaded damp soil. Harvest early morning for maximum gel yield.

* YarrowLocation: Mixed herb beds near front stepsDescription: Feathery green leaves and small white flowersUse: Supports pain relief and clotting; blended in salves or infusionsNotes: Stir counterclockwise seven times when included in balm to preserve effectiveness.

* Dusk TrumpetLocation: Gifted by Rennel; grows along elm groves, partial sunDescription: Pale orange petals that close in low light; carries a sweet citrus-honey scentUse: Calming and sleep-inducing properties through scent or light infusionsNotes: Regional variant. Petals should be dried flat and stored in sealed tin. Testing infusion dosage later.

* Thornweed BloomLocation: From Rennel’s secured herb cabinetDescription: Dried violet-black bloom, brittle and sharp-edged, bundled with black threadUse: Used in hex cleansing; steeped in silver water and combined with rosemary smokeNotes: Never handle bare-handed. Use with filtered tongs or gloves. Smoke has neutralizing magical effect.

* Honeymint OilLocation: Prepared during hexwork trainingDescription: Pale golden oil with a sharp-sweet mint scentUse: Used to gently sever emotional bindings or grief-based hexesNotes: Most effective when warmed and paired with gauze wrap. Applied while whispering release invocation.