Amriel's fingers stilled as she stared at the black plant nestled beneath the fallen log. Every serrated leaf, every crimson vein pulsed with malevolent intent, as though it fed on shadow rather than sunlight. A single ray of light filtered through the dense canopy, illuminating dust motes that danced around the black leaves, almost as if the plant commanded its own peculiar gravity. Around her, the forest had gone unnaturally quiet, the very trees holding their breath.
Khasta Vhar.
The name slithered through her thoughts like ice water through veins. "Of course I'd find you today," she muttered, her voice surprisingly steady despite the storm brewing within. "Because apparently, the universe decided I hadn't faced enough shit today."
The plant, predictably, didn't respond.
A healer's instinct warred with her fear as she observed the forbidden flora. Despite its ominous reputation, she couldn't help noting its unusual structure—how the crimson veins converged at the stem, how the serrated edges resembled a perfect defensive pattern. What medicinal properties might it possess? Could something so associated with destruction also contain the power to heal? She shook the dangerous thought away. Some knowledge wasn't worth the risk.
Amriel had been seven the last time their kingdom faced war with one of the Fallen, but the memories were etched into the very essence of her soul. Her father had been one of the fortunate few to return, though "fortunate" proved a hollow word that tasted of bitter herbs when spoken.
Before the war, Kier Vardon had been a different man—a blond haired haired master carpenter whose laughter filled their small cottage daily. She recalled sitting on his broad shoulders during the harvest festival, higher than all the other children, his strong hands steady on her ankles. On winter evenings, he'd whittle animal figures from scraps of wood while telling her stories, his cobalt eyes—so like her own—twinkling with mischief and warmth. When spring came, he'd race her through meadows, always slowing just enough that she sometimes won, her childish triumph met with his exaggerated groans of defeat.
But the man who limped home eighteen months later was not the father she remembered. Like the blond hair turned white, whatever brightness had once animated him had been leached out, replaced by an emptiness as cold as winter's breath. His eyes—once so expressive—became vacant, like windows to an abandoned house.
"It would have been better if he had perished on that battlefield," Nythia had once said, her clinical tone slicing through the air as Amriel tended to her father after one of his night terrors. "To live half a life is no life at all."
At the time Amriel had thought her mother harsh. Now, she wasn't quite so sure.
He survived another two years after returning, though "survived" barely described his existence. He never spoke of what he had seen on the battlefields. He simply sat for hours, staring into the hearth flames as though willing them to burn away his memories. Time wore him down like a relentless tide against stone until one frostbitten morning, when Amriel was fifteen, he simply did not rise.
Her hand moved unconsciously to the silver ring hanging from a leather cord about her throat—her father's wedding band. The metal felt unusually warm against her fingertips.
She'd been the one to find him. That day was branded into her being: the brittle quality of winter light through frost-rimed windows; the peculiar stillness of his hands that had always fidgeted, even in sleep. She remembered how her voice trembled when she whispered his name, already knowing he couldn't hear.
"Damn it all," she muttered.
Amriel shook her head to displace the memories and focus on what lay before her.
"The Khasta Vhar only takes root in the places where angels have fallen," the verse from Nythia's teaching rang in her head. Angels. The Fallen. Those celestial beings whose war had broken her father and countless others.
The fallen log where both the Khasta Vhar and the healing herb she sought grew side by side seemed a contradiction that bordered on mockery—death and life, omen and remedy, sharing the same decaying cradle.
Her lips thinned into a determined line. "I don't have time for your existential implications," she informed the plant dryly.
Slowly the tremors in her hands faded and her pulse returned to its normal rhythm.
Amriel took another deep breath, this one reaching deeper into her lungs. In the wake of being able to spontaneously read an ancient language—the once ineligible symbols now telling of a possible doomsday prophecy—finding a Khasta Vhar wasn't overly unsettling.
"Perspective," she whispered, the word a talisman against fear. "One impossible thing at a time."
The Horissa Vharia, the gentle sleep, still waited, its blue-green heart-shaped leaves gleaming like a promise against the forest floor. She needed that plant. To leave without it after coming this far would be beyond foolish, not to mention cruel.
Amriel wasn't sure she could live with herself if that child suffered unnecessarily, just because she let old tales get the best of her.
She crouched closer to the plant, careful not to disturb the Khasta Vhar nearby. Despite Nythia's extensive tutelage on the forest's flora, Khasta Vhar had remained theoretical knowledge—something to be memorized but never encountered. Now it grew before her, undeniably real, its presence a dark herald that couldn't be ignored.
Drawing her knife from its sheath, Amriel made a clean, practiced slice near the base of the herb, leaving behind a few resilient leaves so the plant could recover. The blade—forged by Simon—gleamed briefly in the muted forest light before she palmed it carefully, unwilling to fully part with it just yet. Its bone handle felt reassuring against her calloused palm.
Swiftly, she opened her herb pouch, tucking the precious plant inside and pulling the draw strings tight.
Blade still in hand, she rose and stepped onto the narrow path. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she forced herself to walk deliberately, unwilling to trigger any predator's chase reflex—human or otherwise.
The air had changed. Between one breath and the next, the forest's atmosphere shifted from wary silence to watchful menace. Hairs rose along her arms, not from cold, but from the primal certainty that eyes tracked her movement.
Only when the dense undergrowth had swallowed the clearing behind her did Amriel quicken her pace. Not quite running—not yet—but moving with purpose, her steps light and swift along the path she'd followed deeper into the forest.
The path narrowed once more, forcing her to duck beneath low-hanging branches heavy with lichen. She stumbled on an exposed root, catching herself against the rough bark of an ancient oak. The contact left her palm stinging, tiny splinters embedded in her skin.
"Come on," she muttered, wiping her hand against her leggings. "Just get back to the main path."
A branch snapped somewhere to her left.
Amriel froze, knife raised before her.
Nothing moved in the undergrowth. No bird called. No leaves rustled in the nonexistent breeze.
She forced herself forward again, abandoning any pretense of calm as she broke into a run, her pace measured to maintain endurance rather than exhaust herself in a futile sprint. The forest floor changed subtly as she ran—transitioning from the spongy moss of the deepest Vhengal to the more compacted earth of frequently traveled routes.
Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, clinical and matter-of-fact as always: "The Fallen don't hunt humans. We're beneath their notice—fleeting, fragile things hardly worth their time."
"That's not exactly what you would say, Dad, is it?" she gasped between breaths, the words tumbling out unbidden.
No answer came except the pounding of her heart, the rasp of her breath, the thud of her boots against the increasingly hardened path. But for an instant, she could almost feel the phantom weight of her father's hand on her shoulder, urging her onward.
The path widened, branching into more frequently traveled routes. Relief surged through her, though she knew better than to slow her pace.
Amriel was petite and slight of frame, and she knew she was often underestimated—her slender hips and lean build deceiving those who expected weakness. But she possessed a quick, determined stride that could outlast even those with longer legs.
Nythia had made sure of that, forcing her to run the boundary stones of the Vhengal each morning before breakfast from the age of five, regardless of weather or season. "You do not have a man's strength in your arms," her mother had told her bluntly one dawn, as sleet stung their faces. "But you will carry endurance in your legs and cunning in your mind, or you will not survive the wilds."
As the path widened enough to allow two to walk abreast, Amriel risked a backward glance. The deeper reaches of the Vhengal had disappeared behind a curtain of green and gray, the ancient trees standing sentinel at the boundary between the world she knew and the realm where older powers held sway.
For a heartbeat—so brief she might have dismissed it as exhaustion playing tricks on her vision—something moved within that living curtain. Not the familiar rustle of a forest hare or the deliberate stalking of a lynx, but something else entirely. Tall, impossibly angular figures that seemed to bend the very fabric of twilight around them, as though reality itself recoiled from their touch. Their limbs were too long, their movements too fluid, their silhouettes wrong in ways her mind couldn't fully process.
Her breath caught, a strangled sound escaping her throat. The ring at her neck burned suddenly cold.
Then the image was gone, leaving only trees and lengthening shadows as twilight approached.
Just the wind. Just shadows. Nothing more, she tried to convince herself, knowing the lie even as she formed it.
"First ancient prophecies. Then bad omen plants. Now that, whatever in all the hells that was" she gasped between ragged breaths. "Next I'll be dancing with forest spirits and having tea with the fae."
Then, her body decided that this was all too damn much.
Terror seized her then—not the gradual building of dread, but a sudden, overwhelming wave that crashed through every defense. She ran. No longer the measured pace of endurance, but the desperate flight of prey.
The world blurred around her as she fled. Branches tore at her clothes, roots threatened to trip her with each frantic stride. A stitch formed in her side, a hot knife twisting beneath her ribs, but she pushed through it, gulping air that burned her lungs.
For several heartbeats, there was nothing but movement—the desperate rhythm of survival: Run. Breathe.
Leap the fallen branch. Duck the low hanging branch. Dodge the jutting stone. Don't look back.
Then, a gust of wind struck her like a physical blow—the first breath of the approaching storm. She staggered, nearly losing her footing on the suddenly treacherous path. Above, clouds were gathering in the darkening sky. Thunder growled in the distance—a deep, resonant warning that echoed through the valley.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect," she growled through clenched teeth.
The forest offered no answer beyond the ominous creak of wind-stressed branches. The wind intensified, howling through the trees with a voice almost human in its fury, driving the first heavy raindrops before it. One struck her squarely between the eyes, startling her into a sharp breath.
"Really?" she muttered, swiping water from her face. "Because I wasn't already having the day from hell."
As if in response, the rain began in earnest then—a gentle patter that quickly gathered force as the sky darkened further. The distinctive smell of rich soil suddenly drenched was joined in moments by the sharp tang of ozone as lightning split the sky in the distance. Leaves turned silver-side up in the wind, their frantic rustling creating a whispered chorus of warning.
Heavy droplets pelted the earth, turning the dirt path slick beneath her feet. She slipped once, her knee striking a half-buried stone with enough force to bring tears to her eyes. The shock of pain cleared her head momentarily, focusing her thoughts on immediate survival rather than what might be following.
Her pace quickened, boots striking the damp earth with a steady rhythm.
Her waterproof leather satchel thumped rhythmically against her back as she moved, already heavy with rainwater. Her clothes clung to her skin, chafing with each stride. The rain had plastered her dark hair to her skull, sending rivulets down her face that blurred her vision.
Gritting her teeth against the burning in her legs, she summoned a final burst of energy. The trees were thinning now, ancient sentinels giving way to younger growth, then to scattered copses that marked the forest's edge. Beyond lay the open expanse of the valley and her eyes settled on the familiar outline of her cottage.
High cheekbones and delicate features spoke of her mother's lineage—the proud Sa'Dral bloodline. But those eyes—deep cobalt blue now darkened with determination—those were unmistakably her father's legacy. Kier's eyes.
Don't look back. The thought flickered through her mind, unbidden but insistent. She obeyed.