Chapter 3
The Vhengal Forest was not merely a backdrop to Amriel's life—it was woven into the very marrow of her existence. She had known it first as a playground, filled with the laughter of childhood wonder, then as a refuge where the ache of loneliness could be softened by the rustle of leaves and the call of distant birds. And finally, it became her teacher, offering lessons that no classroom at the Khymarh Academy could replicate.
Today, however, its familiar embrace felt muted. The golden shafts of sunlight that pierced through the dense canopy and painted intricate patterns on the forest floor barely registered in her distracted mind. The vibrant scent of damp earth mingled with cedar and wildflowers, usually so grounding, was little more than background noise.
Her boots crunched softly over a path strewn with fallen leaves as she made her way deeper into the woods. The ancient forest thrummed with life—a ceaseless reminder of its vitality—but Amriel remained locked inside her own spiraling thoughts.
She couldn't shake the memory of the tome. The haunting beauty of its once-indecipherable script lingered behind her eyes, like the afterimage of staring too long at the sun. Those same runes had mocked generations of scholars, their meaning impenetrable. Yet for her, they had unfurled effortlessly, revealing secrets that should have remained lost to time.
A prophecy. A warning.
Last night she had hardly slept a wink thinking of it.
With a heavy sigh, she knelt by a stream that carved a gleaming silver ribbon through the landscape. The water babbled softly, its endless journey oblivious to the turmoil within her. Dipping her fingers into the cool current, she sought the grounding calm it usually offered.
"What the heck are Starlight Witches?" she murmured, her voice barely louder than the stream's gentle song.
The water carried her question away, offering no answers, only its eternal movement forward.
Walks in the Vhengal often stirred memories of her mother, Nythia—a presence as enigmatic as the forest itself. Today was no different, though for the first time in years, Amriel found herself yearning to speak with her.
Her mother had always known things, secrets that stretched beyond the limits of ordinary understanding. If anyone might have understood the tome or the strange awakening within Amriel, it would have been Nythia. But Nythia was gone.
Watching the stream bubble and swirl around her fingertips, Amriel wondered where her mother had gone after leaving. Was she even still alive?
The memory of Nythia tugged at her—a complex tangle of emotions. There was love, of course, though it had long since been tempered by bitterness. Nythia had taught her much of what she knew about herbology and the arcane. The Academy merely formalized that knowledge, polishing it with lectures and credentials. But nothing compared to the hands-on lessons from those early years with her mother, wandering the forest together as Nythia demanded precision, discipline, and mastery.
But affection? That had always been withheld.
Her mother's love was conditional—given only in exchange for perfection. And when Amriel failed to meet those impossible standards, there were no gentle reassurances, only cold disappointment.
And then, on her thirteenth birthday, Nythia left. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just an empty cabin and a silence that lingered like a bruise on Amriel's heart.
The ache of abandonment had dulled over the years but never fully faded. Even now, it lingered beneath the surface, flaring when she least expected it—like today.
Amriel pulled her hand from the water, droplets clinging to her skin before falling back into the stream. She drew a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. The forest had always been her sanctuary, a place to clear her mind. But not even the Vhengal's ancient magic could quiet the storm brewing within her today.
What if I'm not ready for this? What if I never figure it out?
The prophecy's weight pressed heavily against her chest, but she forced herself to stand. Answers wouldn't come by drowning in fear. And Nythia's lessons, for all their harshness, had taught her one thing above all—when the world tries to break you, you keep moving.
And so she did.
As she walked the path her feet knew well, a sudden rustle in the underbrush shattered the quiet rhythm of her thoughts.
Amriel's hand flew instinctively to the small blade at her belt—a lesson drilled into her by her mother long before she ever stepped foot inside the Academy. Keep your guard up. Nature's beauty was never without its dangers.
Her pulse quickened, but the tension in her body eased when a rabbit darted across the path, its small body vanishing into the thicket as quickly as it had appeared.
"Jumping at shadows now?" she muttered under her breath, exhaling slowly. The air left her lungs like a weight being lifted, though she still felt the coil of unease lingering beneath her ribs.
Standing, Amriel brushed dirt from her knees and adjusted the strap of her satchel. She'd knelt by every patch of undergrowth she'd come across and still hadn't found what she needed. Even the forest seemed determined to deny her peace today.
Above her, sunlight poured through the spring canopy, painting dappled patterns of gold across the dirt path. It was beautiful in the way Vhengal always was—untamed yet oddly harmonious, a living entity that thrived on both chaos and order.
Amriel closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath of cool, fragrant air. The mingled scents of damp soil, cedar, and decaying leaves filled her lungs. To most, decay was unpleasant—something to avoid or dismiss. But to Amriel, it was part of the promise the forest always made: Life finds a way. Even in ruin, there was renewal.
She opened her eyes and pressed forward, ferns brushing against her hips and shoulders like playful companions. Normally, she would have relished these walks. The Vhengal Forest had been her sanctuary for as long as she could remember—a place to escape the pressures of the Academy, the hollow ache left by her mother's absence, and the weight of expectations that never seemed to lift.
But today, the forest couldn't soothe her restless mind.
The revelation from the ancient tome lingered like a shadow she couldn't shake. The prophecy—the Starlight Witches, the strange language she had no business understanding—it gnawed at her relentlessly. How could she read it when no one else could? And why now?
She clenched her fists, frustration prickling at the back of her throat. There was no answer, just endless questions swirling like dead leaves caught in a whirlwind.
Amriel forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She'd told herself this herb-collecting mission was necessary, though deep down she knew it was just an excuse to escape her usual world. Finals loomed on the horizon, and while her classmates were buried in books, she couldn't think beyond the tome.
Her cobalt eyes scanned the forest floor, darting over patches of undergrowth in search of vibrant green sprigs. She knew these paths intimately, had walked them so many times she could map them blindfolded.
The pouch at her hip swung lightly with each step, its near emptiness a constant reminder of her failure so far. She knelt by a patch of undergrowth, brushing aside leaves in search of the elusive herbs she needed. Nothing. With a sigh, she stood again, wiping dirt from her palms.
Her gaze flicked toward the canopy where the trees thickened into shadow. She thought of her mother—Nythia—and that old, gnawing ache surfaced again.
Most of the time, memories of Nythia were kept neatly boxed away, pushed to the corners of Amriel's mind where they couldn't sting as much. But the forest always had a way of unraveling those defenses.
Nythia had been both teacher and taskmaster, demanding perfection in all things. The lessons Amriel had learned from her were invaluable—hands-on knowledge that the Academy only refined. But warmth? Reassurance? Those were foreign concepts to her mother.
And then, on Amriel's thirteenth birthday, Nythia had left without warning. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just... gone.
Amriel swallowed hard, pushing back the bitterness that threatened to rise. She had long since accepted that her mother wasn't coming back. And with her father already dead, Amriel would have been alone in the world, if it hadn't of been for Simon and Nimah.
But that didn't stop the questions from lingering, or the occasional flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, she would find answers one day.
Her fingers brushed the hilt of her blade absently as she walked. Whatever lay ahead—whether in the forest or within the tangled secrets of the prophecy—she would face it head-on.
The forest had guided her before. Maybe, just maybe, it would do so again.
She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to focus on the familiar rhythm of the forest. The Vhengal had always been her sanctuary—her oldest refuge. Its towering trees were steadfast guardians, its winding paths a map etched into her very being. Here, life thrived in perpetual motion: leaves shivering in the wind, birds flitting through shadows, distant streams murmuring songs older than memory.
Each rustle of leaves heightened her senses, and she narrowed her focus on the task ahead. It was time to remedy this mostly empty herb bag.
"You let the stocks dwindle this low? Careless."
Her mother's voice haunted her thoughts, sharp and cutting as ever. Letting supplies run dry was more than an oversight—it was a failure.
Amriel pressed her lips into a thin line. Even now, years after Nythia's departure, the weight of her mother's expectations lingered like a ghost she couldn't banish.
No use dwelling on the past. The forest didn't care about her frustrations—it simply was, indifferent yet welcoming. And she needed to ground herself in that simplicity before the storm inside consumed her entirely.
As Amriel approached a fork in the path, she hesitated.
To the right, the trail looped back toward familiar territory, a route she had traversed just days ago without success. On the left, the path veered north, its narrow trail winding toward the distant mountains.
Her heart quickened at the sight of it.
The northern path was rarely traveled for a reason. The closer it crept to the mountains, the more unsettling the stories became—whispers of travelers who vanished, strange shadows lingering where none should be. Even Nythia, pragmatic to a fault, had warned against venturing too far in that direction.
Amriel gnawed on her lower lip, torn between caution and necessity.
Play it safe, head back empty-handed, she thought grimly. Or take the risk and see what the North has to offer.
The wind stirred around her, cool and urgent, rustling the newborn leaves above. Tendrils of auburn hair slipped free from her braid, brushing against her flushed cheeks. Amriel lifted her gaze to the horizon, where slate-gray clouds crept ominously across the sky. The tang of impending rain hung heavy in the air.
"Well, shit," she muttered, frustration bleeding into her voice. "Alright, north it is. Just won't go too far."
She cast another wary glance at the northern path. The unease coiling in her stomach was hard to ignore, but so was the gnawing certainty that turning back would yield nothing but wasted time.
Brave the unknown, or cling to safety.
Talking to herself felt strange without Meeko's silent company. Her forest cat companion usually flicked an ear at her ramblings, offering a measured dose of feline indifference. She missed that quiet, steady presence padding through the underbrush beside her, like a tangible tether to home.
But today, Meeko had remained curled up on the edge of their bed, tucked into a loaf-shaped ball with his tail neatly wrapped around him. Likely sensing the brewing storm, he had chosen warmth and safety over the unpredictable forest trek. Amriel couldn't blame him. Cats had a knack for knowing when to stay behind.
"Tales be damned," she muttered, her voice cutting through the quiet. "They're just stories, right? Scary tales to keep kids in line."
Yet her voice faltered as doubt clung stubbornly to her thoughts, heavy as wet wool. She knew better than most how myths often grew from some bitter truth—distorted over time but never fully extinguished.
The thickening scent of rain sharpened her senses, mingling with the earth's musk. Gray clouds pressed low against the horizon, and the wind stirred uneasily through the forest canopy. The valley's spring storms were unpredictable and fierce. One moment, golden shafts of sunlight danced through the leaves; the next, the skies opened, pelting everything with needle-sharp rain.
Amriel set her jaw, quickening her pace along the narrow northern trail. She ignored the gnawing unease creeping into her chest, focusing instead on the task at hand.
Each crunch of leaves and snap of twigs beneath her boots punctuated her search as her gaze combed the underbrush for signs of the herbs she sought. Time was slipping through her fingers faster than she'd hoped, but giving up wasn't an option. She wouldn't fail.
A flash of vibrant green caught her attention, and her heart lifted.
"Finally," she breathed, relief softening the tight lines of her face. "Horissa Vharia."
The delicate blue-green plant thrived in patches where sunlight dappled the forest floor. Its heart-shaped leaves stood out like polished gemstones against the browns and grays of the undergrowth.
Navigating carefully around a moss-covered fallen trunk, Amriel knelt beside the herb, marveling for a moment at the scene before her. The ancient tree, felled long ago by some violent storm, had become a cradle for new life. Its rotting wood served as fertile ground for moss, fungi, and budding saplings already stretching skyward. Even in decay, the forest found renewal.
There's always something growing, Amriel thought. Even from ruin.
As she reached for the Horissa Vharia, her fingers paused midair.
A flash of black among the shadows beneath the fallen tree caught her eye—leaves sharp and pointed, veined with crimson. Her breath caught, and instinctively, she drew back.
Khasta Vhar.
Her pulse quickened as recognition struck like a blow to the chest. Even without years of herbal study, Amriel would have known this plant on sight. Every child in the realm did.
A shiver traced its way down her spine. The stories surrounding Khasta Vhar weren't bedtime warnings—they were something far darker, etched deep into the collective memory of the land.
Wherever Khasta Vhar grows, an angel has fallen.