We broke camp with quiet efficiency, the final embers of the fire cracking into silence behind us. Smoke drifted upward in thin, lazy tendrils, lost to the canopy above. Packs were slung, cloaks tightened, and without a word, we slipped into the forest’s embrace.

  The trees welcomed no light here. They rose around us like ancient sentinels, thick-barked and massive, their limbs twisting high above to weave a living ceiling of green. Shafts of sun filtered down in thin, trembling strands, barely strong enough to reach the forest floor, where moss blanketed every stone and root like time had curled up there and gone to sleep.

  The air was dense with scent of earth, old rain, and bark soaked in memory. Ferns brushed against our boots, their fingers cool and damp, and strange fungi bloomed in the dark crevices of fallen logs, their caps pale and wide like watching eyes. We ducked beneath limbs that drooped low with age, stepped carefully around gnarled roots that arched from the soil like ribs.

  The deeper we went, the more the world narrowed. Paths became suggestions. Light thinned. Sound changed. The forest no longer echoed noise was swallowed here, hushed by a hush that felt older than language. Only the rustle of leaves and the soft crackle of footsteps reminded us we hadn't slipped entirely into dream.

  Corran led without falter, as if following something we couldn’t see. Hours passed. The hush grew heavier. My thoughts began to churn. The anticipation that had once tugged me toward Umbradorn had soured into a quiet, gnawing impatience. The forest—once cathedral-like and wondrous—began to feel endless. Circular. Like it might never let us go.

  I opened my mouth, a question forming, when something changed.

  A scent, faint and sweet, drifted in—woodsmoke. Through the tangle of branches ahead, a soft gray spiral lifted skyward, bending and curling like a finger beckoning us forward.

  The trees parted suddenly, and we emerged into a clearing carved from shadow and light.

  There, nestled into the earth as if it had grown rather than been built, stood the hedge witch’s cottage.

  Its roof sagged with age, heavy under layers of thatch, moss, and a spray of wildflowers that bloomed in chaotic brilliance across the ridge. The walls—river stone and timber—looked like they'd been placed by wind, not hands, shaped gently by time instead of tools. Vines wrapped around it lovingly, curling through window frames and up across the chimney, their leaves kissed gold by lanternlight.

  Amber glow spilled from the windows—thick, honey-colored light that softened everything it touched. Smoke puffed gently from the crooked chimney, curling lazily into the trees above like a promise kept.

  The garden was a riot of life. Lavender and foxglove tangled with herbs I couldn't name—some with stalks that glowed faintly, others with petals like curled parchment. The scent was heady, a rich perfume of earth and spice and something older still. Bees drifted sleepily from bloom to bloom. A small brook edged the garden, its silver surface broken only by stones it whispered against.

  Lanterns swung from crooked poles and low-hanging branches, their flames steady despite the breeze. Each one cast a golden halo, turning the clearing into something sacred, something stolen from the world of stories.

  I felt the tightness in my chest ease. The restless tension, the doubt, the winding paths—it all slipped away like morning mist. We had not been wandering. We had been led. The forest had tested our intent and found it true.

  And now, we stood at the threshold of a place where time had paused… a place of quiet power and wild, waiting magic.

  As we stepped into the clearing, the cottage seemed to notice us before we noticed it. Its wooden door groaned open slowly—not pushed, not pulled, but as if it had decided we were worth acknowledging. Warm, amber light spilled out like breath from a hearth, pooling on the threshold.

  Framed in the doorway stood Aradia.

  She didn’t emerge so much as unfold into view—a vision of elegance wrapped in bramble and moonlight. Her long silver-blonde hair spilled down her back in waves that caught the lantern glow, framing a face too poised to be entirely mortal. Amethyst eyes, deep as twilight, skimmed across our group before locking onto Corran with the precision of a blade slipping into its sheath.

  “Corran,” she said, voice smooth as velvet stretched over thorns. Her lips curled into a knowing, almost lazy smile. “You’ve returned.”

  Before he could reply, Yalela let out a pleased trill and bounded ahead, circling Aradia’s legs like a comet drawn home. Aradia extended one hand—fluid, instinctive—and found that perfect spot behind the lynx’s tufted ears without even looking. Yalela melted into her eyes heavy-lidded, tail twitching in contentment.

  “There now,” Aradia cooed, softening. “Inside with you. There’s fresh milk… and your favorite fillet waiting, crisped just so.”

  The lynx gave a final rumble and slipped inside, tail flicking with lazy satisfaction.

  But the tenderness didn’t last.

  Aradia turned back to Corran, arms crossed, one brow lifted high enough to scrape the sky. Her expression? Less greeting, more sentencing. The smirk on her lips said: I remember everything, and the glint in her eye said and so will you. Corran, tall as ever but somehow dwarfed in her gaze, gave a sheepish smile. “Aradia,” he offered, voice laced with too much hope. “It would seem I have.”

  “You must be truly desperate,” she purred, “to darken my doorstep again—after the last time.”

  “I must hear about this,” I said, grinning, leaning toward the inevitable storm.

  Corran shot me a glare, but Aradia was faster.

  “Oh, I’d be happy to share—”

  “Aradia,” Corran interrupted, voice slightly strained, “allow me to introduce—”

  “I know exactly who they are,” she cut in, with the silky finality of a judge delivering a sentence. She swept her hand with practiced grace toward the woods beyond. “My friends tell me everything—who trespasses in my forest… and which old flames come crawling back.”

  At that, a few woodland creatures poked their heads from the underbrush—one squirrel, a chubby mole, and a bright-eyed hare—only to dart back the moment her gaze fell upon them.

  Corran visibly shifted under her stare. It wasn’t her magic that unsettled him, it was everything else. The stories she might tell. The truths he didn’t want aired.

  Beside me, Lyra stepped forward to spare him. “Forgive the intrusion,” she said, her voice warm but urgent. “We wouldn’t have come if it weren’t vital. Corran said… you might help us open a portal to Umbradorn.”

  Still watching Corran, Aradia’s smile widened. “Did he now?”

  “Aradia, please,” Corran said, the practiced weight of an old lover trying not to sound like a pleading one. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t dire.”

  The air shifted.

  The glow from the cottage dimmed ever so slightly. The trees quieted. Shadows lengthened. And Aradia’s face, until now playful, hardened like frost.

  Her voice, when it came, struck like lightning.

  “I am not some talisman you clutch when convenient,” she hissed, the words ringing sharp. “Not a secret tool to be used, then tossed aside like dust on the wind.”

  She turned, her cloak swirling behind her like storm-torn leaves, and slammed the door. The sound cracked through the clearing like thunder.

  I turned to Corran, biting back laughter. “Smooth. Real smooth. That was your plan? Seduce your ex into saving us?”

  Corran sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “In fairness, it’s worked before.”

  Alexander dropped his pack with a grunt and began to fish out a well-worn romance novel. “Love’s labor never ends quickly,” he murmured, settling beside a stream and flicking his fingers to turn the pages.

  Emre found a boulder and began sharpening a dagger—slow, deliberate strokes.

  Mylena and Rhys carved a crude checkerboard in the dirt, their grins already sharpening with competitive malice.

  I claimed a patch of moss near a weathered stump, stretching out like I’d planned this nap since dawn. Lyra approached with a sly smile, her eyes asking the question before her lips could.

  I nodded, and she settled beside me, resting her head in my lap. A breeze stirred the air, teasing her hair. I leaned back, ready to drift off to the rhythmic background of Corran pleading through a locked door.

  “I’m sorry, my little dewdrop,” he crooned, voice muffled. “Please open the door?”

  Shadows stretched longer across the grass, and the golden light deepened, clinging to our skin with a slow, creeping warmth as the sun began its lazy descent through the trees. Our peaceful afternoon was suddenly interrupted, the clearing around us trembled. Growls. Loud, bestial, almost feral sounds echoed from within the cottage—grunts, thuds, unmistakable groaning wood. The kind of noise that cleared birds from trees and made every rabbit reconsider its life choices. Several of those earlier woodland spectators fled in a flurry of fur and squeaks.

  Startled, I dropped my arms straight onto Lyra’s face. She jolted awake, eyes wide.

  “What the—?”

  The growling intensified.

  Rhys was doubled over laughing, wheezing between fits. “Don’t worry, mates,” she managed. “Corran finally got her to open her... door.”

  The implications hit like a boulder. I snorted. Lyra covered her mouth. Even Mylena smirked.

  “I’m just glad I don’t sound like that,” Lyra murmured.

  “Don’t you?” I teased. She elbowed me. I deserved it.

  Eventually, the sounds dwindled. Birds cautiously returned. The squirrels peeked back out. Peace began to settle once more.

  The door creaked open.

  Corran emerged first, adjusting his tunic, his collar askew. Behind him came Aradia, hair tousled, face flushed, wearing the smirk of a cat who had very much eaten the canary.

  “Aradia has agreed to assist us,” Corran announced, trying—and failing—to sound formal.

  “And the price,” Aradia added, her voice honey-sweet and sharp as a thorn, “has already been paid.”

  She turned toward the cottage. “Come inside. I need a few things to begin the ritual.”

  I shot Corran a sidelong glance. “Dewdrop?” I said, eyebrows raised.

  Corran merely grinned.

  Aradia’s cottage revealed itself like a secret glade—unexpected and quietly enchanting. The moment we crossed the threshold, the air shifted: warm, fragrant with herbs, and laced with something older, stranger. Ivy curled lazily along the wooden beams above, while fat leaves brushed against our shoulders, trailing from hanging pots and creeping shelves. Earthy scents mingled—lavender, moss, something resinous and unfamiliar—as if the forest had taken root inside these walls.

  Cushions ringed a thick rug in the center of the room, its colors deep and worn rust-reds, stormy blues, a tapestry of use and memory. The seats, all mismatched and hand-carved, bore nicks and knots where the wood had refused to be tamed. Each seemed shaped by hand and time, inviting in their imperfection.

  To the left, a squat hearth pulsed with gentle firelight. Shadows played over the stonework and flickered across a bed tucked beside it, where Yalela lay curled like a lazy house cat, her breathing slow and steady. The shelves above the flames sagged under the weight of glass jars—some fogged, others glowing faintly from within—each one whispering of secrets steeped in root and ash.

  In the center of the room, a heavy table stood like an altar to her craft. Open tomes spilled their inked incantations beside chipped bowls and stained brushes. A tangle of dried herbs hung overhead, gently swaying with the draft, their silhouettes painting runes on the walls.

  To the right, a reading nook unfurled beneath a window veiled in trailing vines. Stacks of leather-bound books leaned into one another like old friends, their spines cracked, and gold lettered. Above, a narrow ladder climbed to the loft where a nest of blankets spilled across a low bed, half-buried in cushions and lit by a cascade of fairy lights. The lights winked like stars caught in the leaves, their glow soft enough to blur the edges of things, as if the room itself was exhaling.

  The space didn’t just reflect Aradia—it breathed with her, pulsing with the quiet, spellbound rhythm of a life woven deep into the wild.

  Aradia swept a hand toward the floor cushions with a graceful flick. The soft rustle of fabric followed as we sank into place. With a sharp snap of her fingers, the air seemed to pause. On the hearth, something stirred. A gentle hum rose, barely audible, as the teapot began to quiver—subtle at first, like a leaf catching the breeze. Its surface shimmered faintly, the warm brasswood catching the firelight in golden ripples. The pot was round and stout, elegant in its simplicity at a glance—but the closer you looked, the more the artistry revealed itself.

  The spout and handle weren’t separate pieces but grown, it seemed, from a single living design. Branches twisted outward in graceful curves, their bark textured and dark, giving way to tiny leaves edged in green-gold and petals of soft pink and cream. Little flowers bloomed mid-arc, and here and there, clusters of glassy berries hung like drops of ink, deep purple and red. Every curve held intention. Every detail pulsed with quiet magic.

  Perched atop the lid was a bird—no bigger than a sparrow, carved from the same brasswood but painted with minute strokes of color so real it almost breathed. Its glassy eyes glinted as it turned its head toward me, tilting just enough to meet my gaze. It let out a small chirp. The sound was melodic, crystalline. With a rustle like paper leaves, the bird spread its wings—real wings, no longer wood—and lifted into the air with the teapot held beneath it.

  It hovered over the center of the room, as if waiting.

  From a low shelf, a rustling followed. Mice, field mice, no taller than a thumb, emerged in a coordinated flurry, their fur sleek and their movements sure. Each gripped a teacup by the handle, tails looped tight for balance and trotted across the rug. One by one, they stopped before us and offered the cups with tiny, practiced bows.

  Lyra accepted hers with a soft smile, cradling the porcelain in both hands. The bird responded instantly, dipping into a graceful arc and tilting the teapot just so. Tea streamed out hot and fragrant, steam curling like tendrils into the air. Not a drop spilled.

  Alexander reached next, his eyes lighting with childish delight as he sipped. “Ahh,” he breathed, the sound trailing into a satisfied sigh, his smile lingering.

  Others followed, hands lifting, cups tilting in anticipation. The bird moved with uncanny precision, weaving between us as though it had done this a hundred times before.

  My mouse stood in place, offering the cup with a small, earnest squeak. I gave a slow shake of my head. The mouse blinked, then shrugged in the smallest, most human way imaginable before scampering back to its shelf. Aradia, watching from the corner, arched a brow in my direction—half amusement, half question, but said nothing.

  “No offense to your gracious hospitality,” I said, bowing my head in apology, “but tea... it’s never quite been my kind of comfort.”

  Before the words had fully left my lips, Aradia's fingers snapped once sharp and certain. Something rustled in the shadows. A lazy groan followed. From a gap in the bookcase, a possum emerged, its fur tousled like it had just woken from a hundred-year nap. It stretched long, yawned like a bard about to take the stage, then plodded off, tail trailing behind.

  Moments later, it returned, dragging something dark and heavy in the curl of its tail. I straightened instinctively. The bottle gleamed like obsidian, its surface so polished it reflected the flickering firelight in sharp gold licks. Wax the color of dried blood sealed the cork, pressed with a sigil I recognized at once: Athelen.

  Athelen’s Tears.

  My chest tightened. The name alone carried weight—like a spoken charm or a forbidden promise. I had only ever heard of it in half-whispered tales, passed around hearths and wine cellars by those who had never truly seen it. A Blood Wine, yes—but not merely rare. Mythic. Pressed from shadowgrapes found only in the Crimson Terrace during blood moons, it was said to hold sorrow in its flavor and memory in its finish.

  I reached for it like one might reach for a relic.

  Above me, leaves rustled, and a vine dipped low from the rafters. Its blossoms—translucent and tinged with violet—glittered like frozen starlight. One bloom unfurled as if sensing the moment, its petals curling outward into a flawless chalice. I plucked it gently, my fingers brushing the slick, chilled surface. It felt impossibly delicate, the rim catching light like crystal spun from twilight.

  The cork gave with a soft sigh. I poured.

  The wine didn’t fall, it flowed. Slow and deliberate, like it knew it was being watched. A dark ruby stream, thick as ink, with just the faintest violet at the edges. It coated the inner surface of the blossom like silk being draped by unseen hands.

  I lifted it to my nose.

  The scent unfurled instantly, lush and full-bodied. Black cherry and crushed rose petals. Clove warmed over a low flame. A twist of blood orange. Beneath the sweetness, something ancient lingered—cedarwood, loam, a metallic tang like iron after rain. It smelled like forgotten places. Like the echo of a goodbye.

  I didn’t speak. Words felt too coarse, too clumsy for something like this. Instead, I nodded once to Aradia—slow, deliberate.

  The first taste was like stepping into a dream I hadn’t known I missed. It burst across my tongue with spice and smoke—blackcurrant, smoked plum, something richer threaded with heat and sorrow. There was a flicker of something darker—blood and ash—and the lingering bitterness of cocoa tangled with the earth. The finish came in waves, velvet-soft and aching.

  I sipped the wine again.

  Each mouthful pulled me deeper. Into memory, into myth. Into the taste of grief aged into something beautiful.

  This wasn’t wine.

  It was reverence in liquid form. A song poured into a bottle and sealed under a crimson moon.

  And gods help me—it was perfect.

  With a final twitch of her fingers, Aradia sent the teapot gliding back to its hearth. The bird, precise as clockwork, settled it onto the warm stone with the care of a curator placing a relic. It returned to stillness, wings folding with mechanical grace. Nearby, the possum gave a theatrical yawn, then shuffled back to its hollow behind the bookshelf, curling into a contented ball of fluff and sleep.

  Aradia moved next—not walking, but flowing across the room, her robes whispering over the floor as she glided to her workbench. Her hand swept over the cluttered surface, not in search, but in selection. She knew exactly what she needed. Without glancing our way, she spoke, her tone crisp: “Make yourselves comfortable. I still have dimension chalk, but the Emberdark ink needs fresh mixing. And by comfortable,” she added, sharp as a blade, “I mean quiet.”

  I obliged. The wine warmed my hands as I sipped, but my eyes were drawn to her every motion.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She opened a velvet-lined case and plucked out a flame opal—raw and burning with inner fire. The gem crackled faintly in the cool air, casting a flickering orange glow across the dark grain of the table. Her fingers hovered over a rune-etched hammer resting nearby, its haft wrapped in worn leather, etched with sigils that pulsed blue under her touch. As her grip tightened, the runes flared white, as though recognizing her intent.

  With a measured breath, she raised the hammer and brought it down—once. A single, sharp strike. The opal split with a hiss, the shards catching the light like molten glass. She swept them into a mortar with delicate precision, never spilling a flake.

  Her lips moved, a swift incantation tumbling out like a secret being spoken to the air. The pestle she gripped responded with a surge of green light, and she began to grind. The motion was rhythmic, relentless, coaxing the gem into powder—not crushed, but transformed.

  Next came the ingredients, laid out like sacred offerings. A dollop of thick, golden Eldertree Resin, tapped from trees older than memory. A few glowing drops of Extract of Starlight, which shimmered like liquid moonlight. And finally, a spoonful of Griffin Marrow Gel, thick and pearlescent, reluctant to move even under her touch.

  Each ingredient was added with a craftsman’s reverence—measured, folded, stirred with slow, practiced turns. The mortar released a warm, spicy scent, undercut by a sharp metallic tang that clung to the air.

  Lastly, the powdered flame opal, folded in with care. The mixture caught fire in the light, swirling with tiny embers. She poured it into a squat glass jar, not a drop lost, not a motion wasted.

  Aradia pressed her palm over the jar. Her eyes flared—vivid purple, unnatural in their glow—as she began to chant. Her voice, low and resonant, filled the space like thunder rumbling through earth and bone: “Transformatio sub-tenebris atramentum.”

  The jar quivered beneath her hand. The ink within roiled, twisting like a storm in a bottle. Then, from its center, a red glow bloomed—burning through the darkness, licking at the glass. Flames curled along the edges of the mixture, transforming it in real time. Shadows danced along the walls.

  The light dimmed, and what remained was ink blacker than pitch, shot through with veins of purple that shimmered like starlight caught in obsidian. It pulsed once, then stilled.

  Only then did Aradia turn. Her face, lit by the dying embers of the spell.

  “The ingredients are ready,” she said, voice low. “But a portal to Umbradorn will only open beneath the weight of night.”

  The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, golden beams across the floorboards as I glanced out the window. Late afternoon light filtered through the trees, dappling everything in lazy gold. We still had time before dusk.

  I lifted my empty glass, holding it aloft with a slight tilt. “Shall we have more wine?”

  Alexander’s eyes sparked. “Or” he said, already halfway to standing, “I could cook us something unforgettable.” He paused, turning back with a grin. “Vegetarian, of course—out of respect for our gracious host.”

  Aradia’s expression warmed, her eyes crinkling in approval. With a subtle sweep of her hand, she motioned toward the garden. “After you.”

  The back door creaked open, and the outside air rolled in—earthy, cool, fragrant with herbs and loam. The garden stretched out in quiet wonder. Twilight crept through the leaves, and the trees bent gently overhead, their branches framing the sky like stained glass in motion.

  At the edge of the garden, nestled beneath an arch of ivy-draped boughs, the outdoor kitchen waited like something grown, not built. The clay stove sat sculpted into the earth itself, curved and hand-shaped, its chimney crowned with curling moss. Stone counters, mottled with age and ivy, lined the space, their surfaces peppered with lichen and forgotten petals. Shelves carved from gnarled wood held rows of glass jars—some clouded with age, others catching the light with a faint, magical shimmer. Suspended overhead, clusters of dried herbs turned slowly in the breeze, releasing hints of thyme, wild sage, and something sweetly floral I couldn’t name.

  As Alexander moved among the ingredients, Aradia was already two steps ahead, her hands deftly conjuring flame beneath a pot before he could reach for flint. Their rhythm was seamless, passing, chopping, stirring. She whispered softly to a bundle of root vegetables, which obediently peeled themselves midair. He caught them in a pan with a sizzle and a flourish. Enchanted blades sliced mushrooms at the nod of her chin. A mortar stirred without touch. Flame leapt with joy at her breath.

  Around them, the dusk deepened. Firefly lanterns blinked to life, suspended by unseen magic, their light flickering in amber and sapphire as it danced across their faces and hands. Glowing butterflies drifted lazily through the air, pausing now and then to land on herbs or flutter inquisitively near the cooking fire, as though drawn to the scent and spectacle.

  Beyond the kitchen, the dining area emerged from the forest like a half-remembered dream. The table had once been the heart of a great oak; its surface, polished to a gleam, still bore its concentric rings—centuries of growth turned to warmth beneath our hands. Around it, stumps served as stools, softened by moss and ringed with tiny blossoms, as if the forest itself had conspired in the seating arrangement.

  At the center of the table sat a bowl of deep sapphire glass, wide and low like a moonlit pool. Within it bloomed a riot of enchanted flora: lilies that glowed like candle flames, golden orchids catching the breeze, hyacinths in rich blue, and spirals of pink that curled inwards like sleeping stars. Wisps of moss and trailing vines cascaded from the bowl, threading through the table like roots returning home.

  A cloth the color of deep oceans shimmered beneath our plates, edged with fallen petals and curling leaves—some recent, others crisp with age. Porcelain dishes, each etched with silver filigree, rested atop chargers lined with moss. Goblets of cut crystal caught the flickering light from votives nestled between them, their surfaces alive with golden reflections. Above us, floating candles drifted like tiny planets, casting their glow in soft, shifting constellations.

  The air pulsed faintly with magic—not loud, not showy, but constant, like the hum of crickets in the grass or the memory of a lullaby. Everything felt suspended, halfway between reality and something older.

  At the head of the table, Aradia stood watching Alexander, her hands still dusted with flour, a smudge of ash on her cheek. But her smile… her smile held the quiet triumph of someone who knew this was more than a meal. It was ritual. Celebration. Art.

  I settled beside Lyra, my goblet filled once more with Athelen’s Tears. The wine caught the light, casting a deep ruby glow through the cut glass, flecked with subtle hints of violet. It tasted like longing, like stories you hear once and never forget. I leaned back in my moss-covered stump, letting the night take hold.

  The meal had yet to be served, but already, the garden buzzed with the low, simmering joy of something sacred unfolding.

  Lyra lifted her goblet with the grace of a queen and the mischief of a thief. She swirled the wine, watching firefly light dance across its surface, casting flickers of gold and crimson in her swirling eyes. “If the kitchen catches fire tonight,” she said airily, “just know it wasn’t me. Unless the food’s awful. Then I absolutely lit the match.”

  Across the table, Rhys let out a laugh so abrupt and booming that a glowing butterfly shot straight off a bloom like it had been launched. “If anything’s catching fire, it better be my doing! We’ll call it the Feast of Flames!” She raised her glass in a dramatic toast, sloshing a bit of wine in her enthusiasm. “And there better be enough food to feed a siege. I want firsts, seconds, fourths, and pocket pies for the road!”

  Mylena didn’t miss a beat. With the poise of someone who had never once raised her voice in public, she lifted her crystal goblet and murmured, “I trust Alexander will prepare nothing less than culinary triumph.” A tiny, sly smile tugged at her lips, the kind that said she was enjoying every moment and didn’t need to prove it.

  Emre squinted into her glass like it owed her money. “This tastes like iron and sadness,” she muttered. “I love it. Reminds me of the duel where I lost a tooth but gained a castle.” She took another defiant gulp and smacked her lips approvingly.

  Corran, ever the philosopher draped in bark and poetry, was delicately stroking a strand of moss spilling from the table centerpiece. “You mock it,” he said dreamily, “but can’t you taste the roots? The memory in the grapes? This wine carries sorrow, yes—but also rebirth. It’s the soul of the forest, pressed into a bottle and offered like a sacrament.”

  I took a long sip, let it roll over my tongue, and gave him a flat look. “And here I was thinking it just tasted expensive.”

  Lyra snorted mid-drink, nearly choking, then coughed herself back into composure while trying—and failing—to stop laughing.

  The conversation unraveled in all directions at once. Jokes flew like sparks. Goblets clinked, some with elegance, others with theatrical bravado. Rhys launched into a half-remembered song. Lyra tried to harmonize and failed gloriously. Laughter echoed through the garden, ringing between the trees like music. The kind that only happens when no one’s watching the time.

  I leaned back into my mossy seat, the wine warm in my hand, and let it all wash over me. My expression didn’t shift much—but the corners of my mouth curled, just a little.

  Let the world burn tomorrow. Tonight, we had light, and laughter, and more than enough wine.

  As the stars deepened above and lanternlight glowed richer across the bioluminescent blooms, Alexander and Aradia reappeared—each carrying a platter like high priests bearing offerings. The scent alone stole the breath. This was no mere dinner. This was memory carved in spice, magic folded into butter, joy plated with reverence.

  And the feast had only just begun.

  Alexander stepped forward, the first platter cradled in his hands like a sacred offering. The Blue Mushroom Caps gleamed beneath the lanternlight, their velvety domes catching every flicker in soft, iridescent shimmer—deep ocean blue edged in silver. Each cap cradled a delicate mound of whipped herbed goat cheese, airy as cloud-cream, laced with crushed northern glade walnuts and the faintest breath of shadow-truffle oil. The scent rose gently, earthy, rich, and tinged with something older, stranger. An aroma that stirred not just appetite, but memory, the kind buried beneath layers of time and want.

  Aradia followed, her hands adorned with a dish that practically glowed—Pixie Poppers, no larger than a thumb, in brilliant hues that no natural pepper had any right to wear. Sunset gold. Midnight blue. Flame-petal pink. Each was brimming with spiced ricotta, the firepetal essence inside lending a slow, blooming heat that teased the tongue rather than scorched it. Their tops had been kissed with golden breadcrumbs and shimmerbark dust, each bite crunching softly before spilling into warmth, spice, and a touch of wild sweetness that lingered like a half-remembered kiss.

  Alexander returned with bowls in both hands, steam trailing behind him like smoke from a sacred flame. The Butternut Vine Soup glowed with a gentle amber light, as though it held the last warmth of day within. It poured like velvet into each bowl, and where it settled, it held the memory of starlit blossoms and honeyed roots. On its surface, a swirl of cream traced elegant runes that pulsed faintly with magic—thyme, mint, and honeysuckle mixing in the air like an herbal lullaby.

  Aradia brought the next course herself, setting down a wide, shallow dish that immediately filled the garden with the perfume of roasted forest. The Woodland Harvest Risotto was a patchwork of autumn—arborio rice folded into a creamy gold canvas, streaked with wild garlic, sautéed morels, sungills, and golden horns that still shimmered faintly from the heat. Bright sweet peas burst with freshness in each spoonful, and a glistening ribbon of ghost pepper oil wound its way through the dish, like fire trailing silk. Atop it all, delicate shavings of aged parmesan curled like leaves in the wind.

  Alongside it, she laid a bowl of Wild Spinach Salad—a riot of texture and color. Baby spinach and arugula gleamed, kissed with dew and moonlight, scattered with pomegranate seeds like drops of ruby. Silverleaf almonds lent a faint shimmer, and everything was bound together with a fig balsamic vinaigrette sweetened with whispervine sap. The flavor unfolded slowly floral, deep, with a hum of honey at its core.

  Then, like a magician unveiling his final illusion, Alexander returned. This time, his smile was just a touch smug, and deservedly so. Upon the final platter were Crystallized Ginger Pear Tarts, each one a small marvel. The pastry was golden, impossibly delicate—already crumbling at the edges under its own weight. Inside, spiraled slices of brandy-poached pear nestled into sweetened ginger root, both tender and fragrant with heat. Atop each tart, sugar shards glistened like frost in the morning sun, fragile and sharp, crunching gently beneath the bite. The sweetness, the spice, the softness, they didn’t clash. They danced.

  The air itself seemed to lean in. Aromas wove together—spice, fire, wild herbs, enchanted sweetness—blending with bursts of laughter, the clink of goblets, and the distant rustle of leaves stirred by curious wings. The meal didn’t simply arrive. It manifested, as if coaxed into being by magic, memory, and the hands of those who believed in the joy of feeding others.

  Lyra scanned the table with a grin that curved like moonrise. “Alexander,” she said, raising her glass, “you treat every meal like it’s our last.”

  He shrugged with theatrical grace, though his voice carried a quiet weight. “Considering the venom still in our veins and the path ahead, it might be. Better to face the unknown with a full belly and good wine in hand.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I murmured, refilling my glass.

  As my companions laughed and reached for second helpings, the candlelight caught in their eyes and set them glowing—flickering, fleeting joys held in human shape. I turned inward, my gaze slipping past the glimmering dishes, past the low hum of enchantment in the air.

  Umbradorn loomed ahead like a storm on the horizon.

  I could feel Killian’s mark still burning between my shoulders, no longer an oath but a wound—a scar carved by deceit, not duty. For centuries I had worn it with misguided pride, too blinded by yearning to see the truth. I had begged to belong.

  But the book still waited. And with it, perhaps, a way to unravel what he’d done, what I had done to myself.

  Tonight, though—tonight there was warmth, and light, and laughter. And a feast so carefully wrought it felt like a dream.

  Let the shadows wait. I lifted my goblet high and drank.

  The feast softened into stillness.

  Plates once brimming now lay scattered with crumbs and smudges of sauce, silverware resting askew like soldiers finally at ease. The warm haze of satisfied bellies and rich wine settled over the table. Laughter quieted into murmurs. Someone leaned back with a sigh; someone else swirled the last of their drink, watching the lanterns flicker against the descending dark. Even the butterflies had vanished into the trees, their glow trailing like shooting stars.

  My hand clenched around the stem of my goblet.

  I hadn’t meant to. But there it was—fingers whitening, the delicate crystal creaking faintly under the strain. Beneath my skin, a pulse began to throb—slow, steady, rising like the beat of war drums muffled by distance. Two centuries of betrayal surged behind my ribs, twisting, clawing, flooding my throat with heat. I could feel it rising rage, not hot, but cold, glacial, the kind that carves through mountains and leaves nothing untouched.

  Killian.

  His name alone burned like acid in my veins. I could feel it, that cursed mark etched between my shoulders—no longer an emblem of loyalty, but a scar of humiliation. I had carried it like a badge. A fool’s prize. His voice echoed in my head, smooth and false, every lie wrapped in silk, every word laced with poison.

  I could almost taste the scream, coiled in the back of my throat, aching to be released.

  Then—

  A warmth.

  Small. Steady.

  I blinked, torn from the undertow. Looked down.

  Lyra’s hand, resting gently on my knee. Her thumb brushed against me once—barely there, a whisper of contact. I hadn’t noticed her move. When I met her gaze, her smile was quiet, real, unshaken by the storm inside me. Her eyes didn’t search for answers or demand explanations. They simply saw me. And remained.

  She leaned in, close enough that her breath warmed the shell of my ear. Her voice barely more than a breath.

  “I’ve got you.”

  But her words cracked something open.

  The heat in my throat didn’t vanish—it morphed. Shifted. And suddenly I was no longer seated beneath firefly lanterns and bioluminescent trees.

  I was back in the ash-slick ruins of Tharros Hold, knees caked in blood and soot, the sky still weeping fire. Killian had stood before me, unburnt, untouched, his silver cloak untouched by the carnage around him. The same cloak I had once knelt before.

  He’d extended a hand, smiling like a savior.

  “This is what strength costs,” he’d said, as if I should thank him for it. His voice had been gentle, coaxing—like a parent to a misguided child. “They died for your ascension. Don’t waste the gift.”

  The gift.

  The "gift" was a village razed for the sake of a demonstration. The "gift" was the burn that never healed, the mark he pressed into my skin with spellfire and ink, sealing the oath I thought meant belonging.

  I’d said yes.

  Gods forgive me—I had said yes. I’d bowed my head and let him carve loyalty into my back like it was an honor.

  And for years, I had defended him. Followed him. Lied for him.

  It wasn’t until he discarded me like a pawn spent on a war board that I saw the hollow inside his praise, the rot beneath his grace.

  My jaw clenched. The memory scalded, raw and vivid. I could still smell the sulfur, hear the crackle of flame as the villagers screamed.

  I’d kill him for it.

  Someday soon, I’d burn him for it.

  My hand eased. The glass, somehow still intact, wobbled slightly in my grip. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding—slow, shaky. The rage didn’t vanish, but it receded, curling back beneath the surface like a beast called off the hunt. In its place came something messier. Something I couldn’t name. A knot of confusion, fear, vulnerability—emotions I had buried so long they tasted foreign now.

  And still, she said nothing more. Her hand withdrew, her attention drifting back to the others, as though she hadn’t just anchored me to the earth with a single touch.

  The voices around the table lifted again, half-sentences and soft chuckles weaving through the night air. Someone refilled a goblet. Someone yawned and stretched toward the fire. The world carried on.

  I drained the rest of my wine in one pull, its burn sharp and grounding, and reached for the bottle again with steadier fingers. The moment had passed. But its echo lingered.

  Somewhere ahead, Umbradorn waited. The book. The truth. The reckoning.

  And Killian—still breathing, still walking, still untouched—would feel everything I had been forced to bury.

  Just not tonight.

  Tonight, there was firelight. And her hand. And the thin, fragile thread of calm I clung to with all the strength I had left.

  "It is time," Aradia said softly, rising with the quiet certainty of someone who had waited patiently for the stars to shift just so. Her robes whispered as she moved. “Come.”

  We downed the last of our wine, Rhys managing a final bite on the way, and followed her beyond the edge of the garden. Past the kitchen and through a veil of silver-leaved branches, a narrow brook murmured softly over mossy stone, guiding us to a place that felt more dreamed than found.

  The clearing beyond it was bathed in moonlight, luminous and still. Trees rose in a perfect circle, their trunks bowed slightly inward, as if reverent. Leaves rustled with a hush, like the hush before a spell. The ground underfoot was soft with thick grass, plush as velvet, broken only by the curious swell of mushrooms in every hue—violet, cobalt, ember gold, pearl white. They shimmered faintly beneath the moon’s gaze, forming a quiet mosaic across the earth.

  Aradia stepped into the center of it all and knelt with care.

  “Wake up, my darlings,” she cooed, a tender lilt in her voice. Her hand hovered above the mushrooms. “The moon is waiting.”

  At first, nothing stirred.

  Slowly, one by one, the shapes began to move.

  The mushrooms flexed, shifted. Their caps cracked open like blooming flowers. Beneath each emerged a form—slow, deliberate, rising from the earth as though grown rather than summoned. Baskerites.

  They were not creatures in the usual sense. They were sculptures of living crystal and stone, draped in spore-fringed fungus that pulsed with faint inner glow. Myco-crystals bloomed along their shoulders and spines, some branching like coral, others glittering with prismatic sheen. Their faces held no mouths, no eyes as we know them—just smooth faceted planes that shifted with the shimmer of thought.

  Two long, gleaming arms extended from their core bodies, ending in multi-jointed fingers—some with three, others five or six, their configurations as unique as snowflakes. Their legs were thin and oddly graceful, barely touching the ground as they moved, silent as falling petals. Some trailed faint wisps of bioluminescent spores in their wake. Others carried small fungal growths nestled into their crystal shells, humming faintly like tuning forks.

  They moved toward Aradia not with sound, but with resonance, a low, harmonic vibration that passed through the air like a musical exhale. Their presence stirred something old in the earth, as though the forest itself shifted to accommodate them.

  “Quickly now, little ones,” Aradia said, her voice light as spun honey. “Form the ring.”

  A tremor of joy passed through the clearing, not laughter, not speech, but something between. A harmonic chirp rippled outward from the Baskerites, echoing between the trees, gentle and thrilling. They arranged themselves in a wide circle, crystal knees folding as they sank back into the mossy ground, becoming again part of the living tapestry from which they’d risen.

  Aradia reached into the folds of her robes, drawing out a line of soft white chalk. It caught the moonlight as she moved with purpose, tracing the ring around them in smooth, practiced arcs. The chalk left no dust, only light—lines that shimmered faintly like moonlit threads on obsidian.

  Above us, the stars seemed to draw a breath.

  As the final line of the glowing circle closed under Aradia’s hand, she paused, then slowly lifted her arm to the sky. A soft whistle escaped her lips—not sharp or loud, but haunting, a sound that threaded through the trees like a needle through silk.

  The answer came swiftly.

  A sharp screech cut the silence, followed by the rush of wind against feathers. From the void above, a shadow detached itself from the stars. Wings stretched wide—silent as snowfall, black as polished jet. The owl spiraled downward in elegant loops, gliding through shafts of moonlight with eerie grace.

  It landed without a sound, talons curling around Aradia’s forearm as if it had done so a hundred times before. The creature’s feathers were deep obsidian, so dark they seemed to swallow light, with a subtle shimmer that suggested they weren’t feathers at all but something older—arcane, almost metallic. Its eyes were twin amethysts, lit from within, glowing with the same inner light that pulsed in Aradia’s own gaze.

  “Hello, Midnight, my love,” she said, her voice low, melodic, touched with reverence.

  The owl nudged beneath her chin in response, a soft croon humming in its throat.

  “Would you be so kind,” she murmured, “as to part with one of your exquisite feathers?”

  Midnight turned slightly, angling his tail feathers with deliberate grace. Aradia’s hand moved with practiced ease, plucking a single plume—long and dark, its edges tipped in violet fire. Midnight let out a quiet screech, then leapt into the air, wings slicing through the night as he vanished once more into the canopy above.

  Aradia cradled the feather with care, then dipped its quill into a small vial of ink. The liquid shimmered faintly, thick as oil and dark as the depths it had been drawn from—Emberdark ink, harvested where no light dared tread.

  Kneeling at the edge of the circle, she began her work.

  Each sigil was drawn with exact precision, her strokes fluid, unwavering. They seemed to form not just a pattern, but a language—a plea, a warning, a key. The feather left no streaks, only luminous marks that settled into the earth like starlight being pulled into stone. As she completed the final glyph, she pressed a fingertip to its center.

  “Aperian in tenebris,” she intoned.

  The effect was immediate.

  One by one, the sigils flared to life. First a pale white glow, flickering like candlelight. Then, with a sudden intensity, they deepened to violet, pulsing in time with something unseen—perhaps the breath of the portal itself. The grass inside the circle withered instantly, curling into ash that vanished on the wind. In its place bloomed a light, deep and rippling, like a pool of melted sapphire stirred by distant thunder. The portal shimmered, waiting.

  Aradia stood.

  “Mind your step,” she said. No sweetness in her voice now. Only steel. “Crush any of my children, and you’ll learn firsthand what it means to earn the hatred of Aradia Thorne.”

  Her eyes swept over us, luminous and unwavering, her words landing like a curse sealed in silk.

  “This portal leads one way, be certain you wish to enter.”

  She turned then, just slightly, to Corran. Her tone softened, the ghost of a smile brushing her lips.

  “A pleasure, as always.”

  “Aradia,” he replied with a simple nod, the weight of old friendship passing silently between them.

  One by one, the others stepped forward. Lyra went first, her silhouette vanishing in a flash of indigo light. Rhys followed, bold and fearless. Mylena, silent, Alexander with a look of uncertainty. Emre, scowling. Yalela and Corran lingered a heartbeat longer, then disappeared as well.

  I was the last.

  The portal churned before me, full of promise and danger. Its light rippled like a living thing, casting violet shadows across the clearing. My chest tightened. Somewhere through that glow waited the truth of Killian’s betrayal… and the venom threading through my veins. The answers I sought. The end—or the beginning—of everything.

  Behind me, something shifted.

  One of the Baskerites tilted its crystalline head toward Aradia, the faint hum of resonance stirring the air like an unspoken question.

  Aradia placed her hand gently atop its brow. Her voice, though quiet, carried across the stillness—clear, deliberate, and heavy with knowing.

  “Madness waits for them, my love,” she said.

  I froze. The words slid beneath my skin like ice.

  “It sits in the dark, patient and silent. It breathes in forgotten places. And when it comes…” she paused, her eyes flicking briefly toward the portal, toward me, “it does not knock.”

  Her fingers left the crystal’s surface.

  “They chose the descent.”

  I turned back to the portal. It pulsed like a heartbeat.

  I took a breath.

  And stepped through.

  Light swallowed me whole—bright, sharp, and endless. For a heartbeat, I was suspended between moments. And then there was nothing.

  The sound of the portal sealing itself behind me was the last echo of the world I’d known.

  Thank You, Readers

  From the first page to the final chapter, thank you for taking this journey with me. Your time, imagination, and trust mean more than words can express. Every moment you spent in this world, with these characters, brought it all to life in a way only a reader can.

  But the story doesn’t end here.

  Venom’s Dark Heart is coming in 2025—and with it, deeper shadows, higher stakes, and revelations that will change everything.

  Until then, thank you for being part of this adventure.

  —Niah Ashbourne