"If you drop that barrel again, I'll personally use your spine as a wagon axle." Marta Koval's voice cut through the early morning fog with the cheerful warmth of a guillotine blade.

  The unfortunate recipient—a gangly young man with more enthusiasm than coordination—fumbled the pickle barrel onto the waiting cart with a thud that made even Cinder wince.

  "Sorry, Mistress Koval!" he stammered, wiping brine-soaked hands on already questionable trousers. "Won't happen—" The barrel wobbled. He lunged. "—again!"

  Three wagons ahead, perched atop her own vehicle like a copper-haired empress surveying peasants, Marta pinched the bridge of her nose. "Arlen, I've seen dying fish flop with more grace. Just—step away from the barrels. Find something you can't destroy."

  "Harsh," Kindle whispered from where she and her sisters had been assigned to load crates of dried herbs. "She makes Cinder look positively cuddly."

  Cinder snorted, hoisting a crate with irritating ease. "I am cuddly. Like a porcupine wrapped in knives."

  Pyra hefted her own load, glancing toward the unsteady Arlen. "Should we offer to help him? I mean, it's not like this stuff's heavy for us."

  "We're passengers, not porters," Ember reminded her. "We keep a low profile, earn our keep, and learn what we can."

  "Day three and I'm already bored," Kindle sighed. "There's only so many times you can admire the scenery or smell the oxen. So majestic. So fragrant. So much manure."

  Ash, walking beside her, gazed at the horizon like a woman watching the finale of her favorite drama. "Every moment of existence holds treasures known only to those attuned to cosmic significance."

  "Uh huh." Cinder squinted at Ash, then back at the loaded cart. "Think Martha will actually follow through on turning him into an axle, or is it just colorful language for motivation?"

  "Both," answered a new voice.

  They turned to find a stocky woman with skin the color of polished cedar and a smile that radiated easy confidence. Dark curls escaped from beneath a red bandana, and a thin scar traced her jawline.

  "Dez," she introduced herself, extending a callused hand. "Master fletcher, secondary scout, and official translator of Marta's threats." She jerked her thumb toward the caravan leader. "She only removes body parts on the third offense. First two are warnings."

  "Comforting," Ember replied, accepting the handshake. "Though if she can't tell we're capable of handling a few barrels by now, I'm not sure what would convince her."

  Indeed, the five flame-haired women had spent the past three days proving their worth to the caravan with increasingly impressive feats of strength and endurance—hauling crates that took two ordinary workers to lift, volunteering for every unpleasant task, and still somehow maintaining enough energy to chatter, bicker, and philosophize long after everyone else had collapsed into exhausted silence around evening fires.

  Dez's dark eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, she knows. Why do you think she's working you so hard? Free labor is free labor."

  "I knew it!" Pyra declared, tossing her juggled pouches high and catching them behind her back. "We're being exploited! We should strike! Demand better conditions! Shorter hours! Comfier hay bales to sleep on! Fewer pickled vegetables to inhale!"

  Ash, who had been silently arranging dried herbs in what appeared to be mystic patterns (but was actually just efficient packing), looked up. "What is exploitation but the natural state of existence? We labor under cosmic taskmasters who demand our life's energy in exchange for temporary continuance."

  Dez's eyebrows climbed toward her bandana. "Well, that's... cheerful."

  "Don't mind Ash," Ember said, smoothly redirecting the conversation. "Existential philosophy is her way of saying good morning."

  "And afternoon," added Kindle.

  "And during dinner," Cinder finished.

  "And particularly at three in the morning," Pyra said with a theatrical shudder. "Nothing like waking up to 'we are but animated dust awaiting dispersal' when you need to pee."

  Dez laughed, a rich sound that drew momentary glances from nearby workers. "You five are the strangest sisters I've ever encountered, and I've traveled from the Spineridge to the Eastern Shores."

  "We get that a lot," Kindle said with a bright smile.

  "Occupational hazard of being quintuplets," Cinder added dryly.

  Ember shot her a warning glance.

  They'd agreed on this cover story after debate that had lasted half the first night—quintuplets sounded marginally more plausible than "one person magically fractured into five distinct bodies sharing a consciousness."

  Marginally.

  Thankfully, Dez seemed more amused than suspicious. "Well, whatever you are, you've made an impression. Three days, and you're already the main topic at evening fires." She lowered her voice, though there was no malice in her tone. "Arlen thinks you're disguised fire spirits. Pellia believes you're escaped experiments from the Magisterium's hidden laboratories."

  "And what do you think?" Ember asked carefully.

  Dez's smile widened. "I think anyone who can lift a pickle barrel with one hand while reciting 'philosophical treatises on the fundamental emptiness of existence' deserves my respectful non-inquiry." She winked at Ash, who looked momentarily startled before her smoky tendrils curled in what might have been embarrassment.

  "Smart woman," Cinder approved.

  "Marta doesn't hire fools," Dez replied. Her gaze shifted toward the lead wagon, where the caravan master was gesturing impatiently. "Speaking of whom—she wants everyone mounted in ten minutes. We're approaching the forest trails, and she likes to clear them before nightfall."

  "Forest?" Kindle perked up. "Like, with magical creatures and mysterious clearings and enchanted streams?"

  Dez's expression sobered. "The edge of Shimmerwood. And yes, it has all those things, which is precisely why we don't linger. The deeper sections are perilous, but the outer trails are safe enough if you don't disturb anything." She tapped one of the protective symbols embroidered onto her vest. "Just keep your hands to yourself and don't wander off."

  With that warning delivered, she strode away, calling orders to other workers as she went.

  Pyra slid down from her barrel, landing with a flourish. "Mysterious forest! Finally, this fantasy adventure is delivering the classics!"

  "Mysterious forest we're specifically being warned not to explore," Ember corrected, already anticipating the direction of Pyra's enthusiasm.

  "Which practically guarantees we'll end up exploring it," Cinder muttered. "Probably while running from something with too many teeth."

  The caravan resumed its methodical progress as the sun climbed higher, wagons creaking along roads that gradually narrowed from well-maintained thoroughfares to packed-earth paths.

  By midday, the landscape had shifted from open farmland to rolling hills dotted with stands of trees whose leaves shimmered with metallic glints when caught by sunlight.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Riding atop their assigned wagon—the infamous pickle transport, which they'd collectively renamed "The Briny Chariot"—the five had a perfect view of the changing terrain.

  Marta had reluctantly acknowledged their supernatural strength after the first day and reassigned them from passive passengers to active guards for the rear wagon, a promotion that came with marginally better sleeping arrangements and slightly less vegetable-adjacent cargo.

  "Look at those trees," Kindle whispered, pointing toward a cluster on a nearby rise. "The leaves look like bronze and copper. Can you imagine how beautiful they must be up close?"

  "Almost as beautiful as you," came a voice from behind them.

  They turned to see the brash traveler from their first evening strolling alongside the wagon on his horse, his gaze locked on Kindle's face. He doffed his feathered cap in an elaborate bow. "Truly, your radiance outshines even these famed Autumnshimmer birches."

  Kindle giggled, then feigned a stern look. "Flirtatious and well-researched? You're dangerous, sir..."

  He caught her hint with an easy smile. "Malik. Malik Renard, humble chronicler of curious occurrences and occasional musician."

  "You're a bard?" Pyra blurted, leaning over the side of the wagon. "A literal fantasy bard! With an instrument and everything! Can you cast magic with music? Do you know epic ballads about heroes? Can you compose songs about our adventures?"

  Malik blinked, momentarily overwhelmed by the barrage of questions, then recovered with a dazzling smile. "Yes to all counts, though I prefer the term 'sonic archivist' to 'bard.' More dramatic flair."

  "Because 'bard' is just drowning in mundanity," Cinder observed with a raised eyebrow.

  "Precisely!" Malik agreed, either missing or deliberately ignoring her sarcasm. "Though I must admit, I joined this particular caravan hoping for tedium. My last expedition ended rather... poorly." He gestured vaguely toward a thin scar above his eyebrow. "Apparently, ancient tomb guardians don't appreciate melodic accompaniment during artifact retrieval."

  "You're a tomb robber?" Ember asked, her protective instincts flaring.

  "Treasure hunter," Malik corrected smoothly. "I locate historical curiosities and rehome them with... collectors."

  "You mean you steal things and sell them," Cinder clarified.

  "I prefer to think of it as redistributing underappreciated cultural artifacts to those who value them. A minor difference in semantics." He leaned forward in his saddle, clearly enjoying the verbal sparring.

  Before Cinder could retort, the wagon lurched to a halt as the caravan slowed to negotiate a steep descent toward a riverside crossing.

  Malik steadied himself, then tipped his hat once more. "Alas, duty calls. Perhaps we can resume this scintillating discussion later? I'd love to hear the tale of how such lovely maidens came to be riding atop a wagon full of pickled..." He sniffed delicately. "...vegetables."

  "We'd be delighted," Pyra said quickly, eliciting a glare from Cinder and a sigh from Ember.

  With a final flourishing bow, Malik rode off to join the scouts checking the crossing.

  "Wonder what 'cultural artifacts' he's hoping to liberate from our pickles," Cinder muttered.

  "He's a treasure," Pyra cooed. "Handsome, charming, and with a roguish scar! You think he'd let me try on the hat?"

  "He's a thief," Ember said firmly. "And a distraction. We have bigger issues to worry about than a pretty face."

  Kindle stuck her tongue out. "Says the person with zero romantic inclinations." She smiled innocently. "I don't remember vetoing romance as a 'frivolous distraction' when we made that list, did you, Ash?"

  Ash blinked, her expression shifting from existential pondering to mild alarm. "Romantic entanglement requires emotional attachment, which would complicate our narrative. Better to remain unencumbered by such messy pursuits."

  "That's the spirit, Ash!" Cinder praised with a smirk.

  Pyra blew a raspberry. "I'll show you emotional attachment. Come here, you!"

  "No! No tackle hugs on a moving—" Cinder yelped as Pyra descended with the grace of an affectionate tiger. The wagon rocked alarmingly as the two grappled, giggled, and attempted to breathe amidst the assault of sisterly—self?—affection.

  Ember and Kindle exchanged looks of loving exasperation. Only Ash, still staring after Malik's retreating horse, seemed lost in thought, a hint of wistful curiosity flickering in her otherwise detached gaze.

  The landscape had transformed while they'd been distracted. Ancient trees now loomed ahead, their trunks wide as small cottages and reaching skyward with branches that seemed to grasp at passing clouds.

  Unlike ordinary forests, no gradual transition marked the boundary—one moment they traveled through open countryside; the next, a solid wall of timber rose before them, casting long, purplish shadows across the path.

  Most striking of all was the silence. The constant background noise of insects, birds, and rustling vegetation simply stopped at the forest's edge, as though someone had drawn a line that sound couldn't cross.

  "Shimmerwood," Dez announced, riding up beside their wagon. She gestured toward the towering trunks. "Martha said we keep to the marked trail. No wandering, no picking anything, no answering if something calls your name."

  This last instruction was delivered with such matter-of-fact gravity that even Pyra didn't question it.

  The caravan slowed as it approached the tree line, wagons drawing closer together in protective formation. Workers who had been walking alongside climbed aboard, and guards who had been casually carrying weapons now held them with newfound vigilance.

  "Is it really that dangerous?" Kindle asked Dez, peering into the forest's depths.

  "The outer paths? Not particularly," Dez replied. "But Shimmerwood changes. What was safe yesterday might be deadly today. The forest..." She paused, searching for the right words. "It rearranges itself. Paths vanish. Landmarks move. It's as if the entire forest is slowly breathing, expanding and contracting around travelers."

  Cinder scoffed. "Trees don't relocate themselves."

  "These do," Dez insisted. "I once spent three days following a path that should have taken eight hours, only to emerge back where I started." Her expression darkened. "Shimmerwood operates by its own rules. The magic here is older than the Magisterium, older than written history."

  As if to punctuate her statement, they passed beneath the first massive trees, and the quality of light instantly changed. Sunlight filtering through the dense canopy took on an amber hue, as though they'd suddenly been submerged in honey. The air grew noticeably warmer, and carried strange, complex scents—floral and spicy and earthy all at once.

  Most disconcerting of all, the five felt an immediate change in their flames. The ever-present fire that made up their beings dimmed and softened, like candles flickering beneath a glass dome. Even more alarmingly, they could feel their fire reaching outward, pulled toward the towering trunks and whispering branches.

  It was as if Shimmerwood was actively draining their energy.

  "What the hell?" Pyra said, lifting a hand to watch her usually vivid orange blaze mellow to a softer glow.

  "This feels wrong," Ash murmured, eyes widening as her silver flame likewise softened to a pale grey. "We are like mist scattered by the morning sun."

  "Something's draining us," Cinder said, her eyes narrowing. "The forest, some kind of magic—it's trying to pull our fire away."

  "Not just trying—succeeding," Ember added, feeling her own inner flames grow sluggish. "Let's turn off our fire, all of us. We need to conserve energy."

  In unison, the five drew a deep breath and concentrated on dousing their visible flames. With effort, they extinguished the outer manifestation of their energy, reducing themselves to an ordinary—albeit still striking—quintet of young women.

  It helped, somewhat. The constant outward drain slowed, but the strange pulling sensation remained, like an invisible undertow tugging at their very cores.

  "I swear," Cinder muttered, "if I have to deal with another magical misfire, I'm going to single-handedly invent flamethrowers and reduce this overgrown salad to mulch."

  "Maybe violence isn't the answer," Kindle offered, leaning on the wagon's edge to gaze into the trees. "Look how beautiful it is!"

  Beautiful hardly captured it. Every leaf and flower shimmered in sunlight and shadow, as though infused with gemstones. Tiny glowing motes danced among the branches, twinkling like miniature stars. Even the bark itself seemed to shimmer faintly with a luminescence of its own.

  "It's certainly... unique," Ember agreed, forcing her attention away from the strangeness of the forest and back onto the wagons slowly proceeding along the trail. "I'd still like to know how it's siphoning our power."

  "Magic, most likely," Pyra said, idly braiding and unbraiding her flame-orange hair. "Malik did say this place was full of it."

  "Malker-who-now?" Kindle asked, distracted.

  "Malik," Ash clarified. "The musician. Thief. Charmer. Adjective of choice."

  "Oh, him," Kindle nodded, a faint smile crossing her lips. "Wonder if he'd be willing to perform for us tonight. I'd love to see a real bardic recital. You know, for research purposes."

  "Of course," Ember said dryly, earning a stuck-out tongue from her cheerful counterpart.

  "More importantly," Cinder interjected, "does anyone else find it strange that these 'wild magic woods' just happen to be a perfect fire-dampening zone? Bit convenient, that."

  "What are you implying, oh cynical one?" Pyra asked.

  "I'm implying that wild magic has a bad habit of being not-so-coincidental." Cinder tapped the side of her nose. "I smell a plot point."

  "Danger, drama, and daring?" Pyra practically cooed. "My favorite."

  "Well, if it's a plot point, I'll embrace it. My story, my rules," Kindle said, smiling. "Now hush, we're doing a dramatic entrance into the heart of the mysterious forest."

  "I am Groot," Cinder said, shaking her head. She settled back into the cart, arms crossed over her chest, while the others gazed with wide-eyed wonder or narrow-eyed suspicion at the ancient trees looming overhead.