Amriel’s boots pressed into the soft loam of the Vhengal Forest floor, each step releasing the earthy perfume that was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Golden light fractured through the ancient canopy overhead, dappling the ground in shifting patterns that normally captivated her attention. Today, she barely noticed.

  She stepped over a fallen log, its surface carpeted in emerald moss and miniature shelf fungi that glowed amber in the afternoon light. How many times had she banced along this same fallen giant as a child, arms outstretched, her mother watching with that inscrutable look on her face? The memory flickered and faded, unable to hold her scattered attention.

  The prophecy’s words repeated themselves like a fever dream: When the st of the Starlight Witches falls, the door to Eternity will open.

  Amriel drew a ragged breath, inhaling the damp scents of the forest air, willing it to clear her mind as it had countless times before.

  The Vhengal had been everything to her—first pyground, then sanctuary, finally teacher. But today, its wisdom remained stubbornly silent.

  She paused where the path curved alongside a narrow stream that cut through the forest like a silver thread on velvet. Water tumbled over smooth stones, creating a liquid melody that had lulled her to sleep on countless nights when she’d camped beneath these trees. Kneeling, she dipped her fingers into the cold current, watching ripples spread outward from her touch.

  “What the heck are Starlight Witches?” she whispered, the question almost lost beneath the stream’s gentle song.

  The water swirled around her fingers, offering no answers—only the eternal forward movement that had carved this channel through stone and earth over millennia.

  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.

  A fsh of her mother’s face surfaced in her mind—angur and beautiful, eyes the color of thunderclouds, dark hair shot through with a single streak of silver

  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 Lyceum 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.

  “Again,” Nythia would say when Amriel failed to correctly identify a pnt or recite an incantation. Never anger in that voice—anger might have been easier to bear—only cool disappointment. “Until you get it right. Excellence isn’t optional, Amriel. It’s survival.”

  And then, on her thirteenth birthday, Nythia left. No expnations. No goodbyes. Just an empty cabin and a silence that lingered like a bruise on Amriel’s heart.

  Time, and the love of Simon and Niamh had eased the ache of abandonment, but it never fully faded. Even now, it lingered beneath the surface, fring when she least expected it—like today.

  Amriel withdrew her hand from the water, watching droplets slide from her fingertips back into the stream.

  Rising, Amriel brushed damp soil from her knees. She drew a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. 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 jolted her from her thoughts. Her hand flew to the bone-handled knife at her belt, fingers curling around its familiar grip before her conscious mind could process the movement.

  Another of Nythia’s lessons: Never enter the wild unarmed. Beauty and danger walk hand in hand in pces of power.

  Her pulse quickened, senses sharpening as they always did in moments of potential threat.

  A rabbit darted across the path, its brown-gray coat blending with the forest floor. It paused for a heartbeat, nose twitching, dark eyes reflecting Amriel’s stillness before vanishing into the opposite thicket.

  She exhaled slowly, her grip on the knife loosening. “Jumping at shadows now?” she whispered, a mirthless smile tugging at her lips. “Mother would be so disappointed.”

  The knife slid back into its sheath with a soft click that seemed unnaturally loud in the forest’s hush. She adjusted the strap of her nearly empty collection satchel, the worn leather smooth against her palm from years of use. The familiar weight should have been comforting, but today it felt like one more reminder of her failure.

  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.

  Ferns brushing against her hips and shoulders like pyful companions. Normally, she would have relished these walks. But today, the forest couldn’t soothe her restless mind.

  The revetion from the ancient tome lingered like a shadow she couldn’t shake. The prophecy—in a nguage she had no business understanding—gnawed at her relentlessly.

  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 cssmates 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.

  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. The forest had guided her before. Maybe, just maybe, it would do so again.

  Not much te Amriel stood motionless at the fork in the path, her worn leather boots sinking slightly into the damp moss. The forest’s breath surrounded her—earthy and ancient, carrying the subtle perfume of wild mushrooms and decomposing leaves. Perspiration beaded along her hairline despite the cool air, her dark braid heavy against her neck after hours of trekking.

  To her right stretched the familiar trail, a ribbon of packed earth winding between silver-barked saplings. Three days ago, she had searched that very ground with meticulous care, returning to her cottage with an empty satchel.

  To her left, the northern path disappeared into the ancient heart of the Vhengal. Here, trees older than the kingdom itself reached skyward, their massive trunks wider than vilge wells. Their interced canopy filtered the sunlight into scattered gold coins that danced across the forest floor. The air itself seemed heavier there, den with secrets whispered between roots that had witnessed centuries pass.

  A silvercrest jay called overhead, its harsh cry shattering the stillness. Amriel flinched, her hand instinctively moving to the bone-handled knife at her hip.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” she whispered, though the sound of her own voice provided little comfort.

  Her fingers traced the leather strap of her gathering bag, feeling the emptiness where medicinal herbs should have been bulging against the worn hide.

  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. Nythia had warned against venturing too far in that direction.

  Amriel’s gaze now drifted to those very mountains, violet-hued peaks barely visible through gaps in the canopy. Something about their jagged silhouette against the sky made her skin prickle.

  Py it safe, head back empty-handed, she thought grimly. Or take the risk and see what the north has to offer.

  “Well, shit,” she muttered, frustration bleeding into her voice as she pulled her worn cloak tighter. “Alright, north it is. Just won’t go too far.”

  The sound hung oddly in the space around her. For years, such utterances had been met with Meeko’s silent companionship—an ear twitch, a slow blink of amber eyes, or sometimes the soft bump of a furred head against her calf.

  This morning, Meeko had watched her preparations from his favorite spot on the edge of their bed, his silver-dappled body forming a perfect loaf, tail curled precisely around massive paws. When she’d whistled their usual signal to depart, he’d simply yawned, dispying impressive fangs before settling his chin on his paws with finality.

  “Some help you are,” she’d snorted, but the memory now stirred unease rather than amusement. Meeko had never refused a journey before. The forest cat’s instincts had saved her more than once.

  “Tales be damned,” she muttered, her voice cutting through the quiet. “They’re just stories, right? Scary tales to keep kids in line.”

  The words dissolved into the hushed forest, swallowed by moss and shadow. Her bravado felt hollow. In her twenty-six years, Amriel had learned that folk tales seldom emerged from nothing. Like river stones, they might be smoothed and shaped by time, but at their core y something solid and unyielding—some truth too dangerous or profound to be spoken pinly.

  Amriel adjusted the leather thong holding back her hair and squared her shoulders beneath her well-worn hunting jacket. The garment, patched at the elbows with mismatched fabric, still smelled faintly of woodsmoke from st night’s fire.

  With decisive steps that belied her inner turmoil, Amriel turned left. The northern path immediately began to narrow, as though the forest itself was reaching inward, reluctant to allow passage. Brambles snagged at her leggings, and low-hanging branches forced her to duck repeatedly.

  The quality of light changed subtly as she ventured deeper. Though midday had barely passed, a dusky quality pervaded everything, casting blue-gray shadows that seemed to shift when viewed directly. Birds fell silent. Even the ever-present insects quieted their chorus, leaving only the sound of her breathing and the occasional snap of twigs beneath her boots.

  Amriel kept her eyes trained on the ground, scanning methodically for the distinctive blue-green leaves of Horissa Vharia. The herb preferred dappled light and rich soil—conditions growing increasingly scarce as the canopy thickened overhead. Her hand occasionally brushed the leather pouch at her belt containing her collecting tools: small shears, a bone-handled knife with a bde thin enough for delicate work, and linen squares for wrapping specimens.

  Time slipped by with deceptive fluidity. The forest’s perpetual twilight made it difficult to gauge the hour, but the growing ache in her lower back and shoulders testified to the distance covered. Frustration mounted with each empty clearing, each promising patch that yielded nothing but common ferns and mushrooms.

  Amriel paused to take a swig from her waterskin. The liquid was cool against her throat, tasting faintly of the mint leaves she’d added that morning.

  And then she saw it.

  “Finally,” she breathed, the tight lines of her face softening. “Horissa Vharia.”

  The pnt grew in a small clearing where a gap in the canopy allowed sunlight to penetrate. Its delicate, heart-shaped leaves gleamed with an almost metallic blue-green sheen, distinctive against the forest floor’s muted palette. Clusters of tiny star-shaped flowers, barely rger than pinheads, dotted the stems in pale vender consteltion.

  Navigating carefully around a fallen tree trunk draped in emerald moss and bracket fungi the color of sunset, Amriel approached the patch. The ancient oak must have fallen decades ago, its massive girth now serving as nursery for countless forms of life. Tiny saplings sprouted from its decaying bark, while colonies of mushrooms spread like pale vilges along its length. Bright red berries from a nearby shrub had fallen onto the moss, looking like droplets of fresh blood against the verdant cushion.

  There’s always something growing, Amriel thought, a faint smile touching her lips. Even from ruin. The observation felt important somehow, a truth worth holding.

  She knelt beside the herb patch, mud seeping through her leggings. The chill against her skin was a small price for such a find. Reaching into her pouch, she retrieved her cutting tools, fingers moving with practiced precision despite her eagerness.

  “Not too much,” she reminded herself, a discipline learned through years of gathering. “Take only what’s needed, leave enough to thrive.”

  As she reached toward the first stem, her fingers paused midair.

  A fsh of bck among the shadows beneath the fallen trunk caught her eye—leaves sharp as arrowheads, veined with crimson that seemed to pulse in the dim light. Something about their arrangement struck her as deliberate, almost sentient.

  Recognition hit her like a physical blow, driving the air from her lungs. Her hand jerked back instinctively, as though the pnt might lunge for her.

  Khasta Vhar.

  Even without her years of study, Amriel would have known this pnt. Every child in the realm did.

  A cold sweat broke across her skin despite the forest’s chill. This wasn’t mere superstition or cautionary folklore; the presence of Khasta Vhar was a documented omen. Historical accounts spanning centuries described the same phenomenon—the pnt appeared only in pces marked by tragedy or supernatural disturbance.

  Wherever Khasta Vhar grows, an angel has fallen.