Chapter 3: The Girl Who Spoke To Thorns

The forest did not like her.

Elara felt it in every creaking branch, every eye-shaped knot in the trees, every vine that coiled too slowly to be mere plant. The Dreadwood pulsed beneath her feet — not with life, but with memory. Angry, aching memory.

But Elara had made a promise. And she had the vial.

The potion Morgwyn gave her had been warm when she pressed it to Sari's lips. Her sister, pale and shivering, had gasped once — then her body relaxed, fever lines fading from her brow like a storm finally breaking.

It hadn't been a cure. Not yet. But it had been hope.

And now Elara was walking back into the maw of the unknown, a satchel at her side, a new herb journal tucked into it, and a very determined look in her eyes.

The Dreadwood hissed around her.

"I'm not here to hurt you," she said aloud, unsure who she was addressing — the trees, the air, the old things beneath the moss.

Her voice sounded too small for this place.

Then, from the undergrowth, a growl.

She froze.

Not a vine. Not a whisper. A growl — low, guttural, and close. Something primal stirred just behind the roots of a dead ash tree. Two eyes flickered open like coals.

Elara took a step back.

"Nice… beastie?" she tried. "I'm just here to see the witch again. She's expecting me."

The creature slunk forward, mostly shadow and muscle. A wolf, she realized — or something like it. But its fur shimmered between dark silver and void-black, and its eyes burned with uncanny intelligence.

It circled her slowly.

"You don't smell like her," it said.

Elara's breath caught.

It talked.

"You're not from this forest," the wolf went on. "You're too soft. Too stupid."

"Excuse me?" Elara snapped.

The wolf tilted its head, baring its teeth in a grin. "And bold. Interesting."

"I'm not here to impress you. Who—what are you?"

"I'm Fenric Hollowhart, though most just call me Fen. Familiar, guardian, occasional sarcastic nuisance. And you're the foolish mortal Morgwyn didn't vaporize. Curious."

Elara blinked. "You're her familiar?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"You talk."

"I do many things."

Elara crossed her arms. "She didn't mention you."

"She doesn't talk about her past. Or her pain. Or her wolves. You must've gotten under her skin."

"I'm trying not to die, if that counts."

Fen sniffed. "And yet you walk straight back in."

"She saved my sister."

"She doesn't do that either. Something about you is… different."

He stopped circling and sat, watching her. "You're either the beginning of her healing or the spark that ruins everything she's rebuilt."

Elara's spine straightened. "Or maybe I'm just a girl who keeps her word."

Fen's grin widened. "You'll do."

With a flick of his tail, he turned and started walking.

"She's at the pond. Don't touch the water."

The pond was mirror-still and black as ink. Tall white lilies bloomed from its edges, and willows hung low like grieving women. Morgwyn stood at the edge in silence, one hand outstretched over the surface. Small motes of green-blue light circled her fingertips, like dragonflies made of moonlight.

Elara stopped just outside the willow curtain.

"You came early," Morgwyn said without turning.

"You expected me not to?"

"I expected the forest to swallow you."

"It tried."

Morgwyn turned slowly. "But you weren't afraid."

"I was," Elara admitted. "Still am. But my sister smiled for the first time in weeks after taking your potion. That's worth braving a few snarling trees and sarcastic wolves."

A beat of silence. Then Morgwyn chuckled — just a little.

"So. You met Fen."

"He threatened me."

"That means he likes you."

Elara stepped forward, careful not to touch the water. "Why are you here?"

Morgwyn gestured to the pond. "This place remembers everything. It's one of the few honest mirrors left in the world. It shows not the face, but the heart."

"What do you see?"

"Too much," the witch murmured. "And not enough."

Elara hesitated. "Can it be used to find the root of Sari's sickness?"

Morgwyn looked at her sharply. "You're thinking beyond the cure I promised."

"I'm thinking like a sister who's watched helplessly for too long."

Morgwyn studied her — and for the first time, her gaze wasn't guarded. It was open. Wary, but open.

"There's more to your sister's illness," the witch said. "I felt it in the potion's response. Her affliction wasn't natural. Someone placed it in her."

Elara's stomach dropped.

"Cursed?" she whispered.

"Bound," Morgwyn said grimly. "By threads I haven't seen in centuries. Dominion work, most likely. Possibly Aurelian."

The name struck Elara like a slap.

"The Aurelian Dominion? They're… they're healers. Scholars."

Morgwyn's expression darkened. "They were once. Now they chain magic to power, and call it order."

"But why curse Sari? She's no one—"

"You," Morgwyn interrupted, "are someone."

Elara stiffened. "I'm just an herbalist."

"No. You're something more. Or becoming more. That kind of curse doesn't attach itself by accident. It targets. It warns."

Elara's mouth went dry.

"…Then I have to go deeper."

Morgwyn raised an eyebrow. "Into the curse?"

"Into whatever this is," Elara said, waving her hand between them. "Into the truth. About my sister. About you. About why all this feels like more than coincidence."

The witch said nothing.

Then: "You're not as fragile as I thought."

"You keep saying that like it's a compliment."

"It is."

Back at the thorn-wrapped house, Fen circled Elara as Morgwyn ground new herbs in her crystal mortar.

"She's staying longer?" Fen asked.

"She wants to learn."

"She'll die if she stays."

"She'll die if she leaves," Morgwyn said quietly. "Or worse — lose herself trying to fix what she doesn't understand."

Fen turned his glowing eyes on Elara. "Are you sure about this, mortal?"

"No," Elara said. "But I've been afraid for too long. I'm not going to be a bystander anymore."

Fen snorted. "Very well. But when the dead start whispering and the trees scream your name, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Charming," Elara muttered.

That night, Morgwyn handed her a book.

It was old. Bound in leather that shifted subtly under the light, like scales or leaves or both. No title. No author.

"What is it?" Elara asked.

"A spellbook. And a history."

"Yours?"

Morgwyn looked away. "Some of it. The rest... are things you need to know. About the Dominion. About the forest. About the gods that once walked through it."

Elara opened the first page. The writing shimmered.

"Teach me," she said.

Morgwyn looked at her — truly looked. Then nodded once.

"We begin tomorrow."

And for the first time in years, the witch didn't feel alone.

And the girl didn't feel small.

END OF CHAPTER 3