Chapter 2: The Thorn-Warded House

Morgwyn didn't look back as she walked, her black cloak brushing through nettles that recoiled like frightened beasts. Elara followed, holding the precious vial close, the fernleaf inside still weeping silver drops like the breath of a mourning star.

They moved deeper into the Dreadwood, past trees with split trunks like open mouths, past whispering mushrooms and blood-colored moss. The air here was thick with magic — not the kind Elara knew from the Verdant Ring, but older, weightier. Wild and wounded.

"How do you live here?" she asked, trying to fill the silence that pressed like a second forest.

"I don't live," Morgwyn replied. "I remain."

The words sat in Elara's chest like cold stone.

Eventually, the trees thinned just enough to reveal a house nestled between roots and cliffs — if it could even be called a house. It looked as if the forest had tried to swallow it and failed. Thick briars wrapped the outer walls like chains. Towering thorns, taller than Elara herself, curved protectively around it in spiraling shapes. Parts of the roof had silver fungus growing in tiles, and a chimney oozed lavender smoke that didn't rise, but curled downward like a serpent's tongue.

It was terrifying.

And beautiful.

"Home sweet cursed home," Morgwyn said dryly.

Elara stepped carefully through the brambles. They moved aside for Morgwyn. For her, they hissed and snapped.

"Don't touch anything that growls," Morgwyn added as she pushed open the crooked wooden door.

Elara blinked. "Growls?"

"You'd be surprised how much in here growls."

Inside, the house was a paradox. One corner brimmed with vials, spellscrolls, and bones — clearly a witch's den. But another part looked oddly lived-in: soft rugs, a battered kettle steaming over a hearth, a single chair with a quilt Elara could swear had been mended a dozen times. And books. Hundreds of them, stacked in dangerous towers and trailing across the floor like migrating beasts.

The place smelled like cinnamon bark and ghosts.

"I'll need that," Morgwyn said, pointing to the vial.

Elara hesitated. "You said the leaf could slow the sickness. I was going to bring it back—"

Morgwyn extended her hand, palm up. "Unless you know how to prepare it, the sap will rot in two hours. The plant's magic resents containment."

Grimacing, Elara surrendered the vial. Morgwyn took it with practiced grace and moved toward a stone basin veined with glowing runes.

Elara lingered at the doorway, uncertain.

"You may sit," Morgwyn offered without looking. "The chair doesn't bite."

"That's oddly comforting."

"No, truly. It's the only piece of furniture in here that hasn't been possessed or hexed."

"…You're joking."

Morgwyn didn't answer.

Elara sat very, very slowly.

She watched as Morgwyn prepared the potion — movements elegant, deliberate, with the quiet confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times, and expected no audience for the thousand-and-first.

There was power in her, yes — enough to melt armies, if the stories were true — but there was also precision. Control. A strange kind of gentleness.

Elara's gaze drifted again to the witch's face. Sharp angles softened by fatigue. A frown worn so long it seemed stitched to her skin. But beneath it all: a glimmer of… loneliness.

No, not just loneliness.

Longing.

"Why did you help me?" Elara asked quietly. "You didn't have to."

"I didn't."

"Then why?"

Morgwyn didn't answer at first. She ground the fernleaf with the edge of a crystal blade, humming a low note — the kind that made the walls pulse and the flames stutter.

"I've seen that look before," she said finally. "The one in your eyes when you mentioned your sister. Like the world can't go on without her."

Elara nodded. "It can't."

"I once said that about someone too." Morgwyn's voice grew distant. "And when she died, the world went on anyway. Cruel thing, time."

Elara felt the ache in those words. It made her chest hollow out.

"I'm sorry."

Morgwyn gave a humorless smile. "Don't be. She was the only one who saw me as something more than a weapon. When she died, I believed they were right. That I was what they made me."

Elara stood and crossed the room.

"You're not," she said softly. "You're not what they say."

"You don't even know me."

"Not yet."

For the first time, Morgwyn looked her in the eyes — really looked. It was like being studied by a storm. And yet, something in her expression softened. Barely.

"You remind me of her," she murmured.

"Your lost love?"

"No. My worst student. She was stubborn, loud, and always asked the wrong questions. Drove me mad."

Elara grinned. "Sounds like good company."

That night, Morgwyn let her sleep near the fire — on a conjured cot that occasionally sprouted teeth, but otherwise behaved. Elara dozed fitfully, images of her sister Sari flickering behind her eyes — pale, fevered, slipping further away.

She woke to the sound of humming.

Morgwyn stood over the cauldron again, adding silvery root threads. "Your sister," she said without turning, "will need a stronger dose in five days. The first will only slow the fever's root. The next must sever it."

"Then I'll come back."

Morgwyn turned, raising a brow. "The Dreadwood doesn't favor repeat guests."

"Then I'll make it like me."

The witch actually snorted. "Arrogant little mortal."

"Optimistic," Elara corrected.

"…Reckless."

"Determined."

Morgwyn's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "I don't like visitors."

"I'll bring tea."

That got a proper laugh — low, surprised, and musical.

"I haven't laughed in decades," Morgwyn said, surprised.

Elara tilted her head. "Then you're long overdue."

As dawn broke — pale and blue through the forest canopy — Morgwyn handed Elara a sealed vial, the potion glowing softly in her palm.

"Give this to your sister at moonrise. Then return. If you dare."

Elara took it carefully. "I'll be back in three days."

"I said five."

"I know," Elara said with a smirk. "But I'm stubborn, remember?"

Morgwyn gave her a long, unreadable look. Then, softly:

"Elara Wynn… I don't know whether you're salvation or a storm."

"Maybe both."

And with that, Elara turned from the thorn-wrapped house and began her journey home — the forest watching her not as an intruder, but as something else entirely.

Not prey.

Not trespasser.

Promise.

END OF CHAPTER 2