The wind whispered secrets through the branches of the old willow tree as twilight settled across the village of Liora. Lanterns blinked to life, one by one, casting a golden hush over the cobbled streets and ivy-covered cottages. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the scent of baked apples and thyme lingered in the cool evening air.

Elira sat beneath the willow, legs crossed, a book open in her lap and a half-carved wooden bird in her hand. The chisel trembled as she worked, more from the cold than from uncertainty. Her dark curls were tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and the sleeves of her faded linen dress were pushed up to her elbows. She hummed as she carved, a melody that came to her in dreams but never left when she woke.

“Your hands will go stiff if you sit in the cold any longer.”

Elira looked up to see Maelis, the old healer, standing at the edge of the garden path, her shawl wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders. Her eyes, sharp despite her age, flicked down to Elira’s left wrist.

Elira instinctively pulled her sleeve down, hiding the faint flower-shaped mark etched into her skin — like a scar, or something older. Something deeper.

“I’ll come inside soon,” Elira replied, her voice quiet but steady. “Just a few more lines.”

“You say that every night,” Maelis muttered, though without true irritation. “Dreamers and stargazers — all cursed with cold fingers and warm hearts.”

Elira smiled faintly, but her gaze wandered back to the mark beneath her sleeve. She had no memory of how it came to be. It had been there for as long as she could remember, pulsing faintly with warmth during storms or when she stood near wildflowers in bloom.

“Come now,” Maelis said more gently. “I’ve made nettle tea, and Old Ben brought honey from the valley hives. A bit sweet for my liking, but you’ll enjoy it.”

With a reluctant nod, Elira tucked the carving knife and wooden bird into her satchel and followed Maelis inside the stone cottage. The familiar scent of dried herbs, parchment, and honeyed bread wrapped around her like a comforting shawl.

The hearth crackled softly, and the room glowed with warm light. A cat stretched lazily on the windowsill, purring without opening its eyes.

Elira settled into her usual chair as Maelis poured the tea. The old woman moved with practiced grace, her hands steady despite the years.

“Did you have the dream again?” she asked without looking up.

Elira hesitated. “Yes.”

Maelis finally turned to face her, eyes narrowing. “The same as before?”

Elira nodded slowly. “The same field. The same voice. It says, 'Bloom, child. The roots remember.' And then... everything turns to ash.”

The silence that followed was too heavy for such a small room. Even the fire seemed to quiet.

Maelis set down her cup. “It’s growing stronger. The dreams. The mark. The wind speaks to you more often, doesn’t it?”

Elira flinched. “You always say the wind talks to everyone.”

“Yes,” Maelis said softly. “But not everyone listens.”

Before Elira could reply, a sudden gust rattled the shutters. The cat leapt from the sill with a yowl, and the flames in the hearth danced wildly.

“Elira,” Maelis said, standing slowly, “go and fetch the water jug from the well.”

“Now?”

“Yes. There’s something in the air tonight. I want to see if it reacts to you... away from the house.”

Though confused, Elira obeyed. She grabbed her cloak from the peg by the door and stepped into the night, the chill nipping at her skin. The village was unusually quiet — even the usual owl hoots and fox cries were absent.

As she neared the well, the wind picked up, swirling leaves in ghostly spirals. Elira paused, suddenly unsure. The moon slipped behind a cloud, and the world dimmed.

Then she heard it.

Bloom, child.

The voice echoed as if from beneath the earth. The air shimmered. Elira dropped the jug.

She turned — and saw it. A faint glow beneath her skin, just where the mark lay. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Her breath caught.

Suddenly, from the darkness near the edge of the woods, a low growl erupted.

Something moved. Something wrong.

A creature stepped into view — half-shadow, half-flesh, its body like smoke twisted into muscle. Its eyes burned like coals, and it stared directly at her.

Elira stumbled backward, heart racing. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t run.

Then, just as the creature lunged, a flash of silver streaked through the air.

The beast howled as a blade struck it across the shoulder, smoke peeling from its wound. A man in a tattered cloak stepped between Elira and the creature, sword raised.

“Stay behind me!” he barked.

She did. Frozen, wide-eyed.

With a swift motion, the stranger drove his blade through the creature’s chest. It gave a final hiss before dissolving into smoke.

The man turned to her, breath heaving. “You’re the girl with the mark.”

Elira took a step back. “How do you know about that?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said grimly. “For a long time.”

“Who are you?”

He sheathed the sword and knelt, looking up at her with storm-grey eyes. “A knight. Or what’s left of one.”

Elira’s hands trembled. “Why are you here?”

“To protect the flower before the forest burns.”

Before she could ask what that meant, Maelis appeared at the top of the path, eyes narrowed, staff in hand.

“Took you long enough,” she said to the knight.

“You knew he was coming?” Elira asked, bewildered.

Maelis stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I hoped he’d find you before they did.”

“They?” Elira whispered.

The wind answered for them — a long, cold howl through the trees, carrying the scent of ash.

The cottage felt different that night.

Elira sat silently beside the hearth, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket. Her tea had long gone cold, forgotten on the low table in front of her. Across the room, the stranger—this so-called knight—leaned against the wall, sharpening his sword with slow, precise movements. The rhythmic scraping set her teeth on edge.

Maelis bustled around the kitchen with deliberate calm, but Elira could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand lingered too long on each item she moved.

Outside, the wind had fallen silent, but its absence was louder than any storm.

Elira finally broke the quiet. “You never told me.”

Maelis paused, her back still turned. “Told you what?”

“What the mark means. Why it glows. Why something—something from the forest tried to kill me.”

The old healer turned slowly. Her eyes—so often kind—now looked tired, hollowed by the weight of years unspoken. “Because I hoped you would never need to know.”

The knight’s voice rumbled low from the corner. “You knew the prophecy, Maelis. Hiding her in this village wasn’t going to change what’s coming.”

Elira’s breath hitched. “What prophecy?”

He looked up at her then, properly. His face was rough with stubble, scarred along one jawline, eyes a piercing steel grey. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“I’m tired of being the only one in the dark,” Elira snapped, louder than she meant to. The fire popped in response, as if startled by her voice.

Maelis sighed and moved to sit across from her. “When you were born, the storms came.”

Elira blinked. “What?”

“There hadn’t been a storm in Liora for five years. The land was dry. The crops were failing. Magic itself was fading—waning like a sick sun. But the night you arrived, thunder cracked the sky, and rain poured for three days. Flowers bloomed out of season. Trees we thought long dead came back to life. The river swelled.”

Elira frowned. “I… I remember the willow always being strong.”

Maelis nodded. “It was nearly dead before you came. That tree stands because you exist.”

The knight sheathed his blade and stepped forward. “The mark on your wrist isn’t just a birthmark. It’s the Crest of Verdalis—the emblem of the ancient spirit of life. It only appears once every thousand years. When magic is dying.”

“And I’m supposed to… what? Bring magic back?”

“Not bring it back,” he said. “Guard it. Awaken it. Become it.”

Elira stared at them both, her voice hollow. “I’m just a girl.”

“You’re not,” Maelis said gently. “You never were.”

The knight folded his arms. “My name is Kael. I served the Thornwatch—a brotherhood that protected the Rooted Places. Until they were slaughtered.”

Elira’s eyes widened. “By what?”

Kael’s expression darkened. “They call themselves the Hollow Court. Creatures born of rot and ruin. They feed on dying things—old magic, fallen kingdoms, forgotten gods. And now they know you live.”

Elira’s heart pounded. “Why now? I’ve been here my whole life.”

Maelis shook her head. “The mark has been dormant. But something must have awakened it. Perhaps your dreams… or something worse.”

Kael nodded grimly. “The creature that came for you—Ashwraith. A scout. The real ones won’t be far behind.”

“So what do I do?” Elira whispered. “Run? Hide?”

“No,” Kael said. “You learn.”

Maelis stood slowly. “There’s an old sanctuary in the Wyrmwood. A place the Hollow Court can’t touch—not yet. That’s where you’ll begin.”

“Begin what?”

Kael’s voice was steady. “Your blooming.”

Elira flinched at the word. It sounded lovely and terrifying all at once. “I’ve never even left the village.”

“Then it’s time,” Maelis said softly. “You were never meant to stay here forever.”

A long silence fell.

Then Elira asked, “When?”

“Tomorrow,” Kael said. “At dawn.”

---

The night passed in restless fragments.

Elira lay in bed, the blankets twisted around her legs, staring at the ceiling beams. Outside, the wind had returned—but now it sang softly through the trees, almost like a lullaby. The willow leaves rustled like distant whispers.

Her mark pulsed faintly, not with pain but with something stranger. A call. Like something beneath the soil knew her name.

She thought of her dreams—the golden field, the voice, the sudden ashfall.

And the words.

The roots remember.

She whispered it aloud. “What do you remember?”

No answer came. Only the wind.

---

Dawn broke pale and grey. Mist clung to the fields as Elira stood at the edge of the village, her satchel packed and the wooden bird tucked safely inside. Maelis handed her a small leather pouch of herbs and a necklace bearing a stone carved with the same flower shape as her mark.

“For luck?” Elira asked.

“For protection,” Maelis replied, voice tight.

“I’m coming back,” Elira said, trying to smile.

Maelis didn’t smile. “I know. But not as the same girl who left.”

Kael waited a few paces away, already astride a lean dapple-grey mare. A second horse stood nearby, saddled and ready.

Elira hesitated one last time—then turned away from the only home she’d ever known.

They rode in silence at first, the hooves muffled by the damp forest path. Birds watched from the trees, and strange, rust-colored mushrooms dotted the roots.

“Is the forest always this quiet?” she finally asked.

“No,” Kael said. “Which means something’s watching us.”

Elira’s grip on the reins tightened.

---

By midday, the trees had grown denser, their trunks twisted and gnarled like knuckles. Vines dangled from the canopy, and the path turned narrow and dark.

Kael stopped suddenly, raising a hand. “Off the trail.”

“What?”

“Now.”

They dismounted quickly, hiding the horses behind a thick thicket of ferns. Kael drew his blade, motioning for Elira to stay behind him.

Then they heard it.

A sound like dry leaves scraping stone. Followed by laughter—thin and wrong, like a puppet being made to speak.

Shapes moved in the shadows. Pale limbs. Eyes like moth-light.

“Hollowlings,” Kael muttered.

Elira ducked low, heart in her throat.

The creatures passed—small, skeletal things wrapped in rags and smoke, sniffing the air. One stopped. Turned.

Elira held her breath.

Kael shifted slightly—barely a movement.

The creature shrieked suddenly and leapt forward.

Kael moved like a storm, blade flashing. One hollowling fell in a blur of ash and broken sound.

Another lunged. Elira raised her hand—instinct, nothing more—and light burst from her palm.

Green-gold, wild and blinding. The creature screamed as its form disintegrated.

When the light faded, Kael was staring at her, stunned.

“I didn’t know I could do that,” Elira whispered.

“You couldn’t,” he said. “Not before now.”

She looked down at her palm. The mark glowed bright. Her heart raced, but there was something else beneath the fear: a thrum of power.

Kael exhaled slowly. “The forest is listening to you.”

---

They reached the edge of the Wyrmwood by dusk.

The trees here were enormous, ancient—some with trunks wider than cottages, their bark etched with old runes. The air shimmered faintly with magic.

Kael led her to a clearing where a low stone altar stood, half-swallowed by moss. Small white flowers bloomed in a perfect circle around it.

“This is a Rooted Place,” he said. “The magic here is wild, but pure.”

Elira approached the altar, her skin tingling as if the air had turned electric.

“What do I do?”

Kael stepped back. “Kneel. Place your hand on the stone.”

She did.

At once, visions burst behind her eyes.

She saw forests in flame. Towers crumbling. A tree the size of a mountain weeping golden sap. A woman with eyes like moons placing a flower in a newborn’s hand.

“You are the last bloom of the first garden,” the vision whispered. “Remember what we forgot.”

Elira gasped, her body jolting as energy surged through her. The mark on her wrist glowed white-hot—then cooled.

When she opened her eyes, the flowers around the altar had grown—now bright, glowing softly like stars.

Kael watched in silence. “It’s begun.”

Elira rose slowly, her legs weak. “What now?”

He pointed deeper into the forest. “Now we go to the Sanctuary. And you learn what it means to be Verdalis.”

She nodded, though the weight of everything pressed heavy on her chest.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

Kael didn’t smile, but his voice softened. “Good. That means you’ll be careful.”

Elira looked at the flowers—living proof that something ancient had awoken.

The roots remembered.

And now, so would she.

The deeper they traveled into the Wyrmwood, the less the world felt real.

The trees stood taller than towers, their branches tangling into archways of shadow and light. The leaves shimmered faintly with silver veins, as if starlight ran through them. Strange creatures darted just out of sight — some with glowing eyes, others with no eyes at all. Moss glowed beneath their feet like faint moonlight, and the air buzzed with unseen voices.

“The forest is alive,” Elira murmured.

Kael nodded. “It’s one of the last old places left.”

“Elira,” the wind said — or perhaps she imagined it.

They walked single file, horses left behind at the Rooted altar. Kael had said they wouldn’t survive the deeper parts of the Wyrmwood — the magic here confused beasts, bent their minds.

Elira clutched her satchel tightly, feeling the carved wooden bird inside like an anchor. Her mark had stopped glowing, but her skin still tingled with that same undercurrent of energy, like roots curling under her flesh.

They crossed a bridge of woven branches that swayed with each step, then passed beneath a tree whose trunk was hollowed into the shape of a woman kneeling. Her arms formed an archway. Vines grew from her fingers and bloomed as Elira stepped beneath them.

Kael paused. “It accepts you.”

“What would have happened if it didn’t?” she asked nervously.

He didn’t answer.

---

By nightfall, they reached the Sanctuary.

It was not a building. Not a ruin. Not even something that could be seen at first. Just a glade, ringed by stones that hummed softly and trees that bent inward, their branches forming a natural dome.

The center of the glade held a pool — still and perfectly round, its surface like polished obsidian. Flowers ringed the water, glowing with faint blue light.

But what caught Elira’s breath was the figure standing in the center of it.

She was tall, robed in living leaves and white cloth that shimmered like silk and smoke. Her hair was silver moss that trailed behind her, and her eyes were the color of dusk — not blue, not grey, but something that felt like the end of the sky.

“Elira of Liora,” the woman said, voice like wind through reeds. “Child of Verdalis. Bloomed and not yet rooted.”

Elira stepped forward, half in awe, half in fear. “Who… who are you?”

“I am Lys,” the woman said, “Warden of the Whispering Sanctuary. And your first teacher.”

Kael bowed slightly. “She made this place.”

“No,” Lys said gently. “It made me.”

She turned to Elira. “You carry the mark of Verdalis, and already it stirs. But the Hollow Court has awakened too. They seek to burn what still lives. You must learn to fight them not only with blade or power — but with memory.”

Elira stepped to the edge of the pool. “Why me?”

Lys looked at her kindly. “Because the world chooses again and again the softest hands to bear its heaviest seeds. And you have already begun to grow.”

Elira stared at her reflection in the pool. Her dark curls framed her face, but her eyes… they looked older somehow. As if someone else had borrowed her gaze.

“Come,” Lys said, extending a hand. “It’s time to remember what the world has forgotten.”

---

The days that followed were unlike anything Elira had known.

There was no sun or moon inside the Sanctuary. Light came from glowing fungi, floating orbs of pollen, and the trees themselves. Time passed strangely — hours stretching or snapping like twigs.

Lys taught her to listen — not with her ears, but with her blood.

“Magic,” Lys explained, “is not a force to be controlled. It is a conversation. A promise. A remembering.”

Elira learned to coax vines from the earth, not by commanding them, but by asking. She learned how to hear the sorrow in stone, how to read the history of a place by the way the air moved through it. She even learned the ancient tongue of trees — slow, deep words that tasted like bark and thunder.

Each night, she slept by the pool and dreamed of the golden field. But now, the voice was clearer. "The garden is dying. You must become the seed."

Kael trained her in swordplay when Lys permitted it, though she was still clumsy, uncertain.

“Your power isn’t in your blade,” Kael said, breathing hard as they sparred among the stones. “But you still need one. Not all enemies speak in spells.”

She learned to dodge, to strike, to breathe through fear.

But it was her mark that grew stronger fastest.

One morning, as she bathed in the pool, it flared so brightly that the water around her rippled with light. Flowers bloomed instantly at the bank, and even the stones sang.

“You are waking,” Lys said, standing at the shore. “And so are they.”

Elira didn’t need to ask who they were.

---

That night, the Sanctuary shook.

A terrible sound echoed through the glade — like bones snapping in trees, like fire chewing on wood. Elira woke with a start, her heart already pounding.

Kael was already up, sword in hand. “They’ve found us.”

Lys appeared like mist from the trees, her expression unreadable. “They do not belong here. But something… has weakened the ward.”

The pool began to churn. The flowers curled inward.

Elira’s mark blazed like fire.

From the shadows at the edge of the glade, figures emerged.

Not hollowlings this time. These were taller — cloaked in ragged robes, with long, twisting antlers grown from skull-like heads. Their hands were claws, and where they stepped, the grass turned black.

“Hollow Lords,” Kael hissed. “Three of them.”

“They shouldn’t be able to enter,” Lys whispered. “Unless…”

“Elira,” Kael said urgently. “Your power. Something’s drawing them here.”

Elira stepped forward, trembling. “Then I’ll send them back.”

Her voice shocked even her.

Kael looked at her, startled. “You’re not ready—”

“I am,” she said. “I have to be.”

The Hollow Lords hissed and began to advance, smoke curling from their bodies. One raised a staff of bone — and the sky above the Sanctuary cracked.

Lys raised her arms, murmuring an ancient ward. A dome of silver light shimmered above them — but it flickered, strained.

Elira stepped to the center of the glade. Her feet sank into the soft moss, her hands spread wide. Her mark flared.

“Please,” she whispered. “Not for me. For the roots. For the trees. For the world.”

Something answered.

A great light erupted from her chest — gold and green, warm and wild. Vines shot from the earth, thick as pillars, wrapping around the Hollow Lords. Flowers bloomed in midair, each one pulsing with a memory.

Elira’s voice rose, a chant that came from somewhere deeper than her throat — something remembered.

The Hollow Lords screamed as the vines pulled them down, back into the soil, into forgetting. Their forms unraveled into ash, smoke, then silence.

The pool went still.

The sky uncracked.

And Elira collapsed.

---

She awoke hours later in the soft glow of dawn — or something like it. Lys sat beside her, humming.

“You saved the Sanctuary,” she said gently. “You remembered.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Elira murmured.

“Magic knows you, even when you don’t know yourself.”

Kael approached, kneeling beside her. “That power… it wasn’t just wild. It was ancient.”

“She called on the Deep Verd,” Lys said. “Few can. Even fewer survive it.”

Elira sat up slowly, her limbs heavy. “Is it always like that?”

“No,” Lys said. “But the first bloom always hurts.”

She placed something in Elira’s hand — a seed, bright as fire.

“What’s this?”

“Your heart,” Lys said simply. “Made manifest.”

Elira closed her fingers around it, and the warmth of it seeped into her bones.

“You’ll leave tomorrow,” Lys said. “There are other Rooted Places that must be awakened. The Hollow Court grows stronger. And now, they know you’re not just a myth.”

Elira stood slowly, looking around the glade — the pool, the trees, the still-singing stones.

“I’m not ready.”

“No,” Lys agreed. “But you’re willing.”

And that, in the end, was enough.