The Dreadwood had moods.
Elara woke to one of its darker ones — clouds bruising the sky above the thorn-wrapped cottage, and the trees creaking low like they were whispering warnings. Wind hissed through the vines in voices not quite natural. Something in the forest had stirred.
Something old.
Still, Morgwyn handed her the mortar and told her to grind.
"Blackroot, bellthorn, three drops of bloodmoss sap," the witch listed, her tone unreadable. "Don't flinch at the smell."
"I've smelt worse," Elara muttered, cringing as the bitter stench rose. "Sari once made tea out of nettle and sheep's milk."
Morgwyn gave a faint smirk. "That sounds cursed."
"It was."
They were sitting in what passed for a study — curved walls of bark and bone, shelves of glowing jars, an overhead chandelier woven entirely from spiderweb and glass orbs. Morgwyn moved like she belonged in this strange place, her cloak trailing shadows behind her, her bare hands tattooed with ancient sigils that pulsed when she passed certain books.
Elara, in contrast, felt like a girl in a storybook who'd fallen between the wrong pages.
But she was learning.
She had memorized the properties of forty herbs. Learned to read the edges of runes. Could almost — almost — light the spellcandle with just a word.
And every day she stayed, Morgwyn gave her more. Not just knowledge, but trust. Small pieces at first — a story here, a warning there.
Today, though, something was different.
The witch hadn't spoken since dawn.
"Who taught you magic?" Elara asked suddenly, needing the silence to break.
Morgwyn paused mid-pour.
"My mother," she said at last. "Velra. Witch of the Pale Halls. She made war songs out of incantations. She could call down frost with a breath. She died before she could teach me everything."
"What happened?"
"The Dominion happened."
Elara blinked. "I thought you said they were once… scholars."
"They were. And then they discovered control tasted better than curiosity."
Morgwyn didn't elaborate. But her eyes burned with old wounds.
"You don't have to tell me everything," Elara said gently. "But I'd rather know your truth than someone else's rumors."
The witch looked at her. And for a flicker, her guard dropped.
"There was a city once, buried in lilies and snow," she said. "The Dominion called it Irid Vale. A refuge of old magic. They burned it to the ground when they couldn't harness its power."
She lifted the vial and poured.
"I was twelve."
Elara's heart ached. "You survived?"
"I didn't." Morgwyn met her eyes. "Not the version of me that lived there."
Later, while gathering moss by the northern edge of the glade, Elara found the flowers.
They shouldn't have been there.
Ghost-white, bell-shaped, and blooming in a ring — Moonshade Lilies. Flowers that only grew on graves. Flowers that fed on memory and magic.
"Fen?" Elara called.
The wolf loped out of the trees, his silver-black coat bristling.
He stopped when he saw the ring. His hackles rose.
"She shouldn't have come here."
"Who?"
"Morgwyn."
"She's not here."
"She is now."
The air turned cold.
Elara turned — and there she was.
Morgwyn stood at the edge of the ring, frozen like someone staring at a dream they'd tried to forget. The witch's lips moved, soundless.
"This is where you came from," Elara guessed.
Morgwyn didn't answer.
"Elara," Fen whispered, "step away. Those lilies drink the mind. If she's remembering too much—"
"I'm staying," Elara said firmly.
The witch knelt, touching a single bloom. The petals turned red at her fingertips.
"Elara," Morgwyn said at last, "these flowers should've died centuries ago."
She rose, and her voice turned sharp. "Someone fed them. Recently."
Elara felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.
"Meaning what?"
"Someone's walked this graveyard. Someone who knows what was buried here."
"What was buried here?"
Morgwyn didn't answer.
Instead, she reached into her cloak and pulled free a silver ring carved with runes — not hers.
"Aurelian sigils," she said grimly. "Fresh."
Elara's blood ran cold.
"They're following me."
"No," Morgwyn said darkly. "They're hunting me."
They rushed back to the cottage. Morgwyn's hands moved fast — scattering salt, drawing protective glyphs, setting flame wards in the air.
Elara helped where she could, but it was like watching a storm contain itself.
"Do you know who it was?" she asked.
"I have enemies older than your family tree," Morgwyn muttered. "But if they left a sigil behind, they wanted me to know. That means it's a warning."
"Or a trap?"
"Or both."
Fen growled low. "We should move."
"No," Morgwyn snapped. "I'm done running. If the Dominion wants me, let them come. But not through her."
She nodded toward Elara.
Elara stepped forward, heart pounding. "I won't leave."
"You should."
"I won't."
The room went still.
Then Morgwyn whispered, "You're an idiot."
Elara smiled. "You've said that before."
"And I'll say it again, if you survive."
That night, they slept in shifts.
Elara lay wrapped in a thick, velvet blanket beside the hearth, staring into the dancing fire. She thought of her sister's laugh. The smell of their home garden in summer. The first time she touched magic — when Morgwyn guided her hand over a glowing rune and said, "See? Even the stars leave traces."
Across the room, the witch stood sentinel, unmoving as a statue.
But when Elara finally drifted into sleep, she didn't dream of fire.
She dreamed of silver lilies, blooming in a circle around a girl with shadow in her eyes and light on her hands — and a voice whispering:
"You were never meant to be ordinary."
END OF CHAPTER 4