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. Shafts of golden afternoon sunlight pierced the spring canopy overhead to dapple the ground in patterns that shifted and moved, almost as if they were alive. Ancient trees covered in vines swayed in a crispy breeze while wind whispered through the new leaves.
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 playful companions. Normally, she would have relished these walks. But this evening, she was here for a purpose—to find some Horissa Vharia.
She'd hoped the mission would prove a distraction. Unfortunately, thoughts of the ancient tome and the prophecy it contained lingered like a shadow she couldn't shake.
Not even her sanctuary brought her safe haven from the words that repeated themselves like a fever dream: When the last 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. To help guide her, as it had so many times before. But this afternoon, there were no answers, just endless questions swirling like dead leaves caught in a whirlwind.
She clenched her fists, frustration prickling at the back of her throat.
Carefully, she stepped over a fallen log, its surface carpeted in emerald moss and miniature shelf fungi that glowed amber in the afternoon light. The scent of decay and rebirth mingled in the air, triggering a sudden memory of her mother crouched beside a similar log, slender fingers tracing the edge of a mushroom's cap.
"Life and death are neighbors here," Nythia had said, her voice carrying that familiar instructional tone. "Remember that, Amriel. The forest doesn't recognize endings, only transitions."
The iron ring at Amriel's throat seemed to warm slightly, as if responding to the memory.
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 flash of her mother's face surfaced in her mind—angular and beautiful, eyes the color of thunderclouds, dark hair shot through with a single streak of silver
Her mother had always known things. Things that no one else did. If anyone might have known what Starlight Witches were, or understood 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. Was she even still alive?
Amriel sighed, withdrawing 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. 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 pressed forward, determination overriding her growing unease.
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.
Never enter the wild unarmed. Beauty and danger walk hand in hand in places of power.
Her mother's lessons, whatever their emotional deficits, had kept her alive.
A rabbit darted across the path, its brown-gray coat blending with the forest floor. It paused for a heartbeat, pink 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 save for a few random herbs she'd come across, it still contained none of the Horissa Vharia she came here for.
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.
Time slipped away as Amriel searched, but after over an hour of methodical searching along her usual paths, her satchel remained empty.
Amriel now stood motionless at a fork in the path, her worn leather boots sinking slightly into the damp moss. To her right stretched the familiar trail, ribbon of packed earth winding between the dense underbrush, that had already yielded nothing only days before. To her left, the northern path disappeared into the ancient heart of the Vhengal, where trees older than the kingdom itself reached skyward.
Her gaze drifted to the mountains visible through gaps in the canopy. Unlike the rounded, welcoming peaks to the west, the northern range stood like jagged teeth against the sky—sharp, unwelcoming spires of dark stone that seemed to pierce the clouds. Something about them had always unsettled her, even in childhood. They weren't natural formations; they looked carved, as if some massive hand had shaped them with violent purpose.
The iron ring at her throat grew unexpectedly cold. She clutched it through her tunic, startled by the sudden chill against her skin.
A silvercrest jay called overhead, its harsh cry shattering the stillness. Amriel flinched, once more her hand instinctively moving to the bone-handled knife at her hip.
"Get ahold of yourself," she chidded herself, her voice oddly reminding her of her mother's.
The bird's call came again, more insistent, drawing Amriel's attention to where it perched on a branch along the northern path. Its dark eyes stared at her with uncanny focus before taking flight deeper into the forest's heart.
The northern path was rarely traveled for a reason. The closer it crept to those unnatural 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.
"The deeper forest has its own rules," she'd said once, her eyes focused on those distant peaks. "Rules older than our understanding."
Yet something about the jay's call, about the strange pull of the northern trail, felt like a sign.
"Well, this is probably a terrible idea," Amriel decided, adjusting her empty satchel. "But the boy needs that herb, and terrible ideas are apparently my specialty."
She patted the knife at her hip, drawing reassurance from its solid presence.
Amriel adjusted the leather thong holding back her long black 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 last night's fire.
This afternoon, when she'd stopped by her cottage to change and gather her satchel, Meeko had watched her preparations from his favorite spot on the edge of their bed, his black and silver-dappled body formed into a perfect loaf.
When she'd called his name as she made to depart, he'd simply yawned, displaying impressive fangs before settling his chin on his paws with finality.
That refusal should have been warning enough. Meeko had never missed a journey before. The forest cat's instincts had saved her more than once.
The iron ring pulsed with another wave of cold as she turned left. Immediately the northern path 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 deeper she ventured, the more the forest seemed to change around her. The light here seemed to have 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.
"Oh, this isn't ominous at all," she murmured, her voice too loud in the unnatural silence. "Just a perfectly normal forest where everything suddenly decides to shut up at once. Nothing concerning about that."
Her attempts at humor fell flat even to her own ears. The further she walked, the more pronounced the wrongness became. Tree trunks seemed to twist at impossible angles. Mushrooms grew in perfect circles that she carefully avoided stepping within. The air itself felt thicker, as if reluctant to fill her lungs.
Pushing away the unsettled feeling that now coiled around her, Amriel kept her eyes trained on the ground, scanning methodically for the distinctive blue-green leaves of Horissa Vharia.
She could hear her mother's voice in her head, "And where does the Horissa Vharia grow?"
The younger voice of herself answered in Balvic, "The Horissa Vharia, also known as the Gentle Sleep, prefers dappled light and rich soil—most often found around fallen trees."
Amriel could speak seven different languages, most fluently. To teach her daughter the languages of the world, Nythia had assigned different languages to their tasks; Fendor, the language of the people of the North, Niamh's people, was used when they hunted. Sa'Dar, the tongue of the coastal people, for healing lessons. And Balvic, spoken by the fading people of the forest, for when they went in search of herbs.
Time slipped by with deceptive fluidity. The deeper forest's deepening darkness made it clear her time was running short. As much as the Vhengal felt apart of her, she did not wish to linger in these parts when the sun vanished completely.
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. As she recapped it, the iron ring about her throat pulsed a cold that made her gasp.
This was new—the ring had never reacted like this before.
"What are you trying to tell me?" she whispered, studying the plain metal band. It had been her father's—his last gift before marching off to war against the Fallen. When he'd returned, broken in body and spirit, he'd never asked for it back. And when death finally claimed him years later, Amriel couldn't bear to bury it with him. It was the one piece of the man he'd been before that she could keep.
The ring offered no answers, but its persistent cold seemed like warning enough.
Everything around her screamed for her to turn back, and still Amriel found herself torn. The miller's boy. She had to help him. As a healer, she knew what fate he faced if she didn't find the herb for the Gentle Sleep. And no one deserved such agony, especially not a child.
She actively jammed down the rising fear that threatened to choke her, and was soon rewarded for her determination.
"Finally," she breathed, the tight lines of her face softening. "Horissa Vharia."
The plant grew in a small clearing where a gap in the canopy allowed the dying sunlight to penetrate and faintly dapple the forest floor. Its delicate, heart-shaped leaves gleamed with an almost metallic blue-green sheen, distinctive against the forest floor's muted palette. And there was a cluster of them—enough to make six or seven doses of Gentle Sleep, more than enough for Mirna's patient.
Navigating carefully around a fallen tree trunk, 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 villages along its length.
There's always something growing, even from ruin. The thought came with her mother's voice, one of the rare moments when Nythia had spoken with something approaching tenderness. The observation felt important somehow, a truth worth holding.
She sank to her haunches beside the herb patch, cool dampness seeping through her leggings. 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 flash of black 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.
Recognition hit her like a physical blow, driving the air from her lungs. Her hand jerked back instinctively, as though the plant might lunge for her.
Khasta Vhar.
Even without her years of study, Amriel would have known this plant. Every child in the realm did. The very sight of it called to mind her mother's most grave warnings—the only times Nythia's voice had carried genuine fear rather than mere caution.
"If you ever see those red-veined leaves, you run, Amriel. You run and you don't look back. Where Khasta Vhar grows, death has come and worse may follow."
The iron ring at her throat now burned with cold so intense it felt like fire against her skin.
A cold sweat broke across her body 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 plant appeared only in places marked by tragedy or supernatural disturbance.
Wherever Khasta Vhar grows, an angel has fallen.
And there, growing alongside the very herb she had come to harvest, was proof that something terrible had happened in this forgotten corner of the Vhengal Forest.