Lydia woke to the soft shimmer of morning light sliding across the ceiling. For a moment, she forgot where she was. The quiet, the warmth of the blankets, the gentle scent of herbs drifting through the room—it all wrapped around her like a cocoon.

  Only day three, she reminded herself.

  And yet… she was already starting to feel like she belonged here.

  Not necessarily by choice, but her body seemed to be adjusting faster than her stubborn mind.

  She sat up slowly, stretching her arms. Her muscles still carried the faint ache of yesterday’s attempts at meditation—more exhausting than she had expected. Maera’s final words still lingered in her mind, as stubborn and sharp as the woman herself:

  “How strongly do you want it?”

  Those words echoed persistently in Lydia’s mind. She found herself replaying the question—did she truly want to master magic? Even now, with Maera’s conviction still ringing in her ears, Lydia was uncertain. She wasn’t sure if she could offer a clear answer, not yet. The desire was there, perhaps growing, but doubt lingered just beneath the surface, making her hesitate each time she tried to decide.

  When Lydia stepped outside, the crisp morning air brushed her skin, carrying the gentle rustling of leaves and the muted pulse of nature waking up. The grove always felt… alive. More than alive. It breathed.

  Maera was already in the herb garden, of course—kneeling among rows of shimmering plants, her hands deep in the soil as if she were communing with the earth itself. Lydia sometimes wondered if Maera slept at all.

  “Good morning,” Lydia called.

  Maera looked up, and the sunlight caught in her eyes. “You rested. Good.”

  “I slept like a log,” Lydia said. “In a good way.”

  Maera chuckled softly. “Moonmint often has that effect. Come. Breakfast first.”

  Inside, breakfast waited for them—warm flatbread, roasted root vegetables that smelled sweet and earthy, and a bowl of star-fruit that glimmered faintly like scattered dew.

  Lydia reached out, hesitating. “This isn’t going to explode my insides, right?”

  Maera’s expression softened into amusement. “Lydia. If I wanted to poison you, I would have done it before feeding you three meals.”

  “That… doesn’t actually make me feel better.”

  “Eat.”

  Despite her mock grumbling, Lydia found herself smiling as she obeyed.

  This rhythm—Maera’s dry tone, her gentle but firm guidance, the warm food—felt weirdly comforting.

  She hated how much she had begun to like it.

  After breakfast, Maera led Lydia to the clearing behind the house. Morning light filtered through the trees in soft golden beams, painting the moss in luminous green.

  “This,” Maera said, “is where we continue.”

  Lydia braced herself. “Let me guess. More sitting?”

  “More breathing.”

  “Breathing? Last I check I already masted how to”

  “Not well enough.”

  Lydia groaned dramatically, but she sat anyway.

  And the strangest part was— she did it without being told twice.

  Maera circled her slowly, her presence steady, grounding.

  “Close your eyes. Listen not to the world, but to yourself.”

  Lydia let her eyelids drift shut. The forest faded. Her thoughts frayed. The usual tight coil inside her chest loosened, unwinding with each inhale and exhale.

  She didn’t drop into some mystical trance.

  She didn’t feel waves of glowing energy fill her.

  But something shifted.

  A subtle pressure beneath her skin.

  A quiet awareness humming at the edge of her thoughts.

  Distant—yet undeniably hers.

  Like a whisper.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Like a hand reaching back when she reached out.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “…I think I felt something.”

  It lingered in her vision—small motes of light drifting away like dandelion fluff before dissolving into nothing.

  She wasn’t sure if they were real or just her imagination, but they made her heart pound.

  Maera’s gaze sharpened for the briefest moment, catching the faint glow before it vanished.

  “That’ll do,” she said, voice gentler than before. “You don’t poke at something new for too long. It pokes back.”

  Maera straightened.

  “So soon?” Lydia blinked. “You’re not going to make me sit for hours until I ascend or something?”

  “Not today,” Maera said. “You fidget too much.”

  Lydia sputtered. “I—I do not—!”

  “You do.”

  And Lydia couldn’t even argue, because she knew Maera was right.

  Before Lydia could gather a counterargument, Maera’s gaze shifted sharply toward the forest path.

  Her posture—normally relaxed—straightened, every line of her body alert.

  “What is it?” Lydia whispered.

  “Someone is coming.”

  Lydia’s heart leapt uneasily. “Is that… bad?”

  “That depends,” Maera said softly, eyes narrowing, “on why they’re here.”

  The grove went still.

  Wind paused.

  Birdsong faded.

  The world held its breath.

  Footsteps—light but deliberate—approached through the trees.

  Lydia straightened instinctively, pulse quickening, unsure if she should hide or stand her ground.

  This new life was becoming familiar…

  but danger, it seemed, was just as much a part of it as moonmint tea and morning meditation.

  The footsteps resolved into a figure stepping through the trees—a broad-shouldered man with weathered skin and a permanent downward pull to his mouth. His clothes were neat, his posture rigid, and even from a distance Lydia sensed something off about him. Not outright hostile… just unpleasant.

  “Village Chief,” Maera said flatly.

  “Maera.” His voice was stiff, clipped, like every word was rationed. “We need to speak.”

  He stepped inside without being invited. Lydia noticed immediately how Maera’s shoulders tensed—barely, but enough to clock.

  The chief’s eyes finally drifted toward Lydia.

  It felt like being measured, not greeted.

  “This the girl you took in?” he asked.

  Maera nodded. “Lydia. She’s helping me for now.”

  The chief made a noncommittal sound, somewhere between a grunt and judgment.

  Lydia offered a small, polite nod.

  He didn’t return it.

  And then—there it was again.

  That strange shimmer she had felt before, only faint this time. Like the air around him was dusted with purple motes she wasn’t sure were real.

  Her breath stalled.

  Was that… normal?

  Was he dangerous?

  She forced her breathing steady, pretending to study the floorboards so he wouldn’t see the unease on her face.

  Maera’s voice snapped her attention back.

  “Perfect timing,” she said briskly, placing a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “You were about to head back to the Wyrdwood, weren’t you?”

  Lydia blinked. “…I was?”

  “Yes,” Maera said in a tone that didn’t allow disagreement. “I want you to review the herbs we covered yesterday. A fresh look will help fix them into memory.”

  That, at least, was normal. Mundane. Safe.

  Maera’s eyes, however, were very clearly saying:

  Leave. Now.

  Before Lydia could question anything, Maera added, “Take the cat with you.”

  Behind them, Hest—curled comfortably on a shelf—opened one eye and gave Maera a profoundly unimpressed look.

  “Hest,” Maera repeated, firmer.

  The cat sighed in the put-upon way only cats can, hopped down, and padded to Lydia’s side, tail flicking.

  “Go on, child,” Maera said, softer now. “Stick to the path.”

  Lydia swallowed, nodded, and stepped past the chief as quickly as politeness allowed.

  His presence prickled at her back like cold needles until the door shut behind her.

  Only when she reached the edge of the clearing did she let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  Whatever the chief wanted…

  It wasn’t something Maera wanted her anywhere near.

  The moment Lydia and Hest disappeared into the trees, Maera lead the chief inside and let the polite mask fall from her face.

  He sat himself at the table without asking, hands folded neatly over one knee. “You’ve received the notice I sent?”

  Maera moved around the cabin, gathering small bundles of dried herbs. “About the cough spreading near the docks? Yes. I’ve prepared enough tincture to slow it, but if winter comes early—”

  “It will.” He cut her off as if stating a fact, not a prediction. “Already getting signs in the wind patterns. We’ll need double your usual supply.”

  Maera lowered the herbs and raised an eyebrow.

  “Double, is it? Fine. But for the love of all things clean, warn your hunters to bathe first. I’m still finding bits of bark from the mess they made last year.”

  He gave a short, dismissive chuckle. “You’ve always been fussy.”

  “And you’ve always been careless.” Maera shot back, though her tone stayed professional. “I’ll do what I can. But you’ll get better results if the village cooperates.”

  He waved a hand as if bored. “I’ll make the announcement.”

  For a moment, it was all routine—clinical, predictable.

  Then his gaze drifted toward the hallway Lydia had disappeared through earlier, and the air shifted.

  “…So,” he said slowly, “another stray girl in your care.”

  Maera froze.

  The chief leaned back with a sigh that carried judgement. “Tell me, Maera… is she another bewitched child you’ve grown attached to? Perhaps A replacement?”

  Maera turned sharply, eyes flaring.

  “Lydia is not bewitched,” she snapped. “And she is not a replacement for anything.”

  His lips curled. “You say that now. But we’ve heard it before. That same pitying tone. That same stubborn insistence they’re just ‘sensitive,’ or ‘special,’ or ‘gifted.’”

  Maera’s jaw tightened. “She wasn’t cursed. None of them were. If we’d had proper understanding—if people had listened instead of panicking—we might have saved half the children lost that year.”

  “And your husband?” he asked quietly.

  Silence cut through the cabin like a blade.

  Maera’s hands stilled. Not shaking—but rigid.

  Her voice, when it came, was low and cold.

  “Leave him out of this.”

  The chief did not.

  “You chased ghosts for years after he died. Everyone knows it. Trying to prove he wasn’t cursed—trying to find someone to blame.” His gaze hardened. “Don’t drag this new girl into that grief.”

  Maera stepped closer—not threatening, but commanding.

  “If you think my care is dangerous,” she said, “then show me proof. Otherwise, mind your tongue.”

  The chief stood, brushing off his coat. “I’m warning you, Maera. The village won’t tolerate another incident.”

  “And I,” she replied sharply, “won’t tolerate ignorance.”

  For a moment, they stared each other down—old friction, old wounds, neither bending.

  Finally, he turned for the door.

  “I’ll return next week to check on the supplies,” he said, pausing just long enough to add, “And to see how the girl is faring.”

  The door shut behind him with a final thud.

  Maera stood alone in the quiet cabin, fists clenched, breath trembling only after he was gone.

  “…She’ll break through….,” she whispered to no one.

  And for the first time in a long time, Maera wasn’t entirely sure if that comforted her—or terrified her.