Amriel’s ughter died in her throat, leaving only the hollow echo of her breath against the cottage walls. She pressed her back against the door, feeling the rough grain of the wood through her soaked tunic. Her legs trembled—not just from the sprint through the forest, but from everything that had happened. The ancient tome. The prophecy. The Khasta Vhar with its blood-red veins. Too many impossibilities for one day.

  Three days ago, she’d been hunched over scrolls in the Lyceum library, worrying about final exams. That life now seemed as distant as a childhood memory, blurred at the edges and fading fast.

  A pair of silver discs gleamed in the shadows. Meeko lifted his massive head from his pce on her bed, his tufted ears swiveling toward her. He regarded her with the detached curiosity only a cat could master, utterly unimpressed by her rain-soaked state or the tempest howling at the windows. His massive paws flexed, kneading the bnket as if to emphasize how comfortable he’d been before her dramatic entrance.

  “Must be nice,” Amriel muttered, wincing as she peeled the sodden cloak from her shoulders. The weight of it had left her muscles screaming. “Lounging about while I’m out there getting half-drowned.”

  Water pooled at her feet, seeping into the cracks between the floorboards. She’d have to mop that up before it warped the wood. Another task. Another normal, mundane concern that felt almost ughable after what she’d witnessed as of te. Her fingers trembled as she worked at the csp of her cloak.

  Meeko stretched, his spine arching in a nguid curve. Each movement was deliberate, almost liquid, muscle rippling beneath his dappled coat of tawny gold and midnight bck. He wasn’t just rger than a housecat; he moved differently—with the contained power of something wild that had chosen domesticity rather than been born to it.

  He leapt soundlessly to the floor and padded toward her, each step pced carefully. Up close, the top of his head reached her hip. He bumped his forehead against her thigh with enough force to nearly buckle her exhausted leg.

  The rumble that emanated from his chest wasn’t just a purr—it was a physical force that seemed to vibrate through her bones, loosening something knotted deep inside her chest. His chirps followed, half-admonishment, half-greeting.

  “I know,” Amriel said, her voice softening as she crouched down despite her protesting muscles. “You’re right. I should have listened when you refused to come.”

  She sank her fingers into his fur, still warm and dry while she dripped everywhere. The simple contact anchored her, tethering her to this moment, this pce. His fur felt like silk against her cold fingers—another small, real thing to focus on.

  “You felt the storm coming, didn’t you?” she whispered, scratching under his chin where the fur grew thickest.

  Meeko only purred louder, eyes half-closed in contentment, offering neither confirmation nor denial. Just presence.

  Amriel’s lips curved into a genuine smile for the first time since morning. “Smart beast. Keeping your secrets.”

  She pushed herself upright with a groan. Her cottage surrounded her, small but solid. The stone walls kept out most of the wind, though occasional drafts still found their way through the seams of the shutters. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters in neat rows—Nythia’s organization system that Amriel had never been able to abandon, even after her mother left. Bookish habits died hardest.

  The familiar scent of dried morrow leaf and sage enveloped her, mingling with the sharper tang of rain she’d brought in with her. This pce wasn’t grand like the estates near the Academy where many students lived. No servants. No marble. No enchanted gardens. But it was hers. And that was enough.

  The forty-minute trek each way gave her time to think, to breathe. Besides, walking with Niamh and Simon made the journey bearable, even pleasant, their easy banter clearing her mind before lectures.

  Meeko chirped again, more insistently this time, circling her legs twice before settling down near the empty firepce.

  “Fine,” she said, pushing wet strands of hair from her face. “You’re right. Let me take care of these first.”

  She removed the leather pouch from her back, wincing at the sodden state of it. Crossing to her workbench beneath the window, she untied the gathering bag and carefully emptied its contents. The pnts y damp but intact, a meager haul for hours of searching, but better than nothing.

  The Chaliss Moss came first, its feathery fronds almost luminous in the dim light. Amriel spread it carefully on a drying cloth, remembering the first time her mother had shown it to her. She’d been eight, scraping her knee badly on a stone outcropping. Instead of coddling, Nythia had crouched beside her, pointing to the moss growing in the shadow of the rock.

  “This is Chaliss,” Nythia had said, voice crisp and clear. “It prevents rot and sickness in fresh wounds. Remember its texture, its scent. It may save your life when I cannot.”

  No “I love you.” No embrace. Just knowledge, offered like armor for a world Nythia always seemed to be preparing her for. Amriel had learned early that her mother’s love came wrapped in practicality, not tenderness.

  Next came the roots of the morrow pnt, gnarled and aromatic. She pced them in a separate pile, inhaling their earthy fragrance. The leaves would make a tea that brought crity and cheer; the roots, ground and steeped, would bring calm to even the most troubled mind.

  Bance in all things, her mother’s voice whispered from memory. The forest offers both joy and sorrow, peace and peril. Take only what you need.

  Last came her prize: the delicate blue-green heart-shaped leaves of the Horissa Vharia. Even bruised from the journey, they retained their waxy sheen, almost glowing in the dim light. She’d found precious little, but even this small amount would be enough for several potent tinctures.

  A violent gust of wind rattled the shutters, sending a chill draft through the cottage. Amriel’s skin prickled with gooseflesh, her damp clothing suddenly unbearable. The storm wasn’t finished with her yet.

  Meeko pressed against her leg, gaining her attention before he looked toward the cold hearth, then back at her, intent unmistakable.

  Amriel chuckled softly and ruffled his ears gently, “Fine. Fire first, then finish with these.”

  She moved to the firepce, kneeling on the worn hearthstone. The chill from the floor seeped through her wet leggings, but she ignored it. Inside the hearth y this mornings ashes, almost completely cold.

  From the basket beside the hearth, she selected the driest kindling—small twigs and fibrous bark she’d collected during summer and stored for winter nights. She arranged them into a careful nest, building a foundation that would catch easily and burn steadily.

  Thunder crashed overhead, so close the cottage seemed to shudder in response. The shelves rattled, gss jars clinking against each other like nervous chimes. A particurly vicious draft cut through the room, dousing the single ntern she’d lit upon entering.

  Darkness swallowed the cottage whole.

  “Perfect,” she muttered, blinking as her eyes adjusted. “Just perfect.”

  She could hear Meeko moving nearby, his presence a comfort in the sudden gloom. Unlike her, he could see perfectly well in darkness. She fumbled for the flint and steel she kept in a small pouch by the hearth, fingers closing around the familiar shapes.

  The flint felt cold and hard against her palm, the steel striker smooth from years of use. Amriel positioned the kindling, then struck the flint. A spark leapt—brief, bright—then died before touching the tinder.

  “Come on,” she whispered, striking again.

  Another spark, brighter this time, nded among the shavings of bark. A tiny curl of smoke rose, hesitant and fragile. Amriel bent close, cupping her hands around the ember, and blew—soft, steady, patient. The spark fred, feeding on the dry fibers, growing from orange pinprick to hungry fme.

  “There you are,” she murmured, the same way she might speak to a shy animal coaxed from hiding. “That’s it.”

  She added more kindling, gradually increasing the size of the pieces until the fire was strong enough to accept a small log. The fmes spread slowly, licking up the sides of the wood, casting dancing shadows across the stone floor. Heat bloomed outward, a living thing unfurling toward her.

  Meeko wasted no time. He circled once, twice, three times before settling himself precisely where the warmth was strongest, his silver eyes half-closed in contentment. His massive frame cast elongated shadows, turning him into something almost mythical in the flickering light.

  Amriel remained kneeling, letting the fire’s warmth seep into her damp skin. The fmes spoke in whispers and crackles, telling stories of the wood that fed them.

  “I think we’ve earned some tea,” she said softly, more to herself than to Meeko, though his ear flicked in acknowledgment.

  He chirped once, a sound of clear agreement.

  “You always know what I need, don’t you?” She smiled, running her fingers along his spine as she rose.

  Meeko’s purr intensified, as if he understood every word.

  Amriel moved to the iron hook where her battered kettle hung, lifting it down with practiced ease. The familiar weight of it in her hands was another comfort—simple, tangible, real. She filled it from the water barrel, the quiet spsh a counterpoint to the storm’s rage outside.

  She hung the kettle over the growing fire, then turned toward her shelves of herbs and teas. Her fingers hovered over several jars before selecting a blend she’d prepared weeks ago—morrow for calm, mint for crity, and just a touch of honey-sweet goldthread to chase away the lingering chill.

  As she worked, measuring precise amounts into her wooden tea press, the cottage gradually transformed. The fire’s light softened the shadows, warming the stone and wood until the space felt not just habitable but welcoming. The scent of herbs and burning applewood repced the sharpness of rain and lightning.

  Outside, the world might be ending. The prophecy might be unfolding even now. The Khasta Vhar might be spreading its dark leaves farther through the forest, marking where other angels had fallen.

  But in this moment, in this pce, there was just fire and warmth and the steady presence of her oldest friend. There were small rituals that had sustained her through harder times than this—the careful measuring of herbs, the heating of water, the patient waiting for tea to steep.

  Tomorrow would come with its questions and fears. Tonight, she would allow herself this peace, however fleeting. She would gather her strength in silence and stillness, storing it like the kindling beside her hearth, ready for when she would need it most.