The village of Luthen was small enough to fit inside a single breath of the Wilderwood. Its cottages were strung together by dirt lanes and crooked fences, where goats often wandered freer than the children. At dawn, mist curled like pale ribbons between the thatched roofs, carrying the scent of wet soil and pine.

To most, it was a quiet place. Forgettable. A place where nothing of consequence could ever happen.

To Elara Veylen, it was a prison of silence.

She stood at the edge of the healer’s cottage (her home) listening to the rasping cough of the old miller inside. The sound scraped against her bones. Every wheeze reminded her that she should simply mix herbs, crush roots, and prepare poultices as her mother had taught her. That was the safe way. The ordinary way.

But the ordinary way was too slow.

“Elara.” Her mother’s voice was low, strained from hours without rest. Alenya Veylen knelt beside the miller’s straw bed, a damp cloth pressed to his forehead. Sweat soaked through his linen tunic, and his lips trembled as if he were whispering to ghosts.

Elara hesitated, fingers tightening around the satchel of herbs at her side. She knew what her mother meant without saying it: do not. Not again.

But the miller’s chest rattled, a sound like dying embers in a hearth. Elara’s pulse quickened, her gaze straying to the window where the moon still lingered pale against the early morning sky. Its light spilled faintly across the room. She could feel it, humming, stirring in her blood.

If she reached for it, if she dared—

“Elara,” her mother warned again, sharper now.

The girl’s throat tightened. She looked at the man’s ashen face, the purple shade beneath his eyes, and something inside her rebelled. To watch him die when she could save him—it was unbearable.

She drew a breath and whispered, “Forgive me, Mother.”

Her hands hovered over the miller’s chest. A heat that wasn’t heat flared beneath her skin, racing down her arms, and the faintest glow bloomed between her palms. Silver, soft, like moonlight caught in water. The room shifted, shadows curling away as though wary of what she summoned.

The miller jerked, gasping. His chest lifted under the shimmer, the rattling in his lungs fading as warmth spread into him. His breathing steadied, color returning slowly to his cheeks.

Elara exhaled shakily. Relief surged, but it was chased swiftly by dread.

Her mother’s hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her hard enough to sting. “What have you done?”

“I saved him!” Elara’s voice cracked. “He would’ve died. You saw—”

“You fool!” Alenya hissed. Her eyes darted toward the window, toward the village beyond. “Do you want the whole kingdom at our door? Do you want the Inquisitors to burn us alive?”

The glow faded from Elara’s hands, leaving only trembling fingers and a hollow ache in her chest. The miller stirred faintly, whispering his thanks before drifting into a peaceful sleep.

Alenya pressed her lips together, face pale with fear. “Moonfire,” she spat the word like poison. “The gift of the heretics. I told you to bury it. To never touch it again.”

Elara swallowed hard, guilt knotting in her stomach. She had promised—years ago, when the first sparks had appeared under the moonlight, when her mother had begged her to keep them hidden. But promises meant nothing when someone’s life was slipping away.

“They’ll never know,” Elara whispered, though even as the words left her lips, she felt the lie in them. Power never went unnoticed.

Her mother turned away, shoulders tense. “Pray you are right.”

By midmorning, the miller’s recovery had already stirred whispers. He walked through the square with color in his face, declaring the healer’s cottage had performed a miracle. Villagers paused at their work, curious and murmuring.

Elara kept her head down as she fetched water from the well, but she could feel the weight of their stares. Not suspicion—not yet. Only awe. But awe was a dangerous spark. In awe came questions, and questions traveled faster than fire.

As she pulled the bucket up, a voice cut through the bustle.

“Elara.”

She stiffened. The blacksmith’s son, Rowan, leaned against the well’s stone rim. His smile was crooked, his eyes curious in a way that made her uneasy. “Word is, your mother’s touch cured the miller. But folk are saying it was you.”

Her grip on the rope tightened. “They’re mistaken.”

“Are they?” Rowan tilted his head, watching her too closely. “Strange thing, though. That glow folk claimed to see through the shutter cracks. Like moonlight dancing.”

Fear prickled her spine. She forced a laugh, shaking her head. “Stories. You know how people love to make tales.”

Rowan studied her for a long moment before shrugging. “Maybe so. Still… if the Inquisitors heard such tales, I wonder what they’d think.”

He left with a careless wave, but his words lingered like a shadow.

That night, Elara sat awake by the fire, staring at her hands. Pale, ordinary. But she could feel it beneath the skin: the restless current of moonfire, aching to be called again.

She remembered the miller’s face, colorless and fading, and how it had changed under her touch. How right it had felt to use her gift.

And yet—her mother’s terror had been real. The stories of the Inquisitors were no myth. They scoured the kingdom for any sign of the old magics, branding those who wielded them as heretics. Most were never seen again.

Elara clenched her fists. She was no heretic. She was a healer.

A howl cut through the silence. Wolves in the Wilderwood. She crossed to the window, peering out into the silver-drenched forest. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw something move between the trees—not an animal, but a figure cloaked in shadow.

Her chest tightened.

She whispered a silent vow to herself: she would keep her power hidden. She would protect her mother. She would not draw attention again.

But deep down, she knew the vow was already broken. The spark had been lit. And sparks always found a way to become fire.

The morning after the miller’s recovery, the village of Luthen woke with a strange restlessness. Chickens clucked louder, hounds barked at shadows, and even the crows circled low, as though sensing the shift in air. Elara tried to ignore it, but unease gnawed at her chest with every step she took.

She carried a basket of dried herbs through the square, head down, but couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her. Whispers followed—half praise, half suspicion.

“Did you see him? Walking like he’d never been sick a day.”

“Alenya’s daughter, wasn’t it? The one with the strange hands.”

“No, no—don’t say such things aloud.”

Elara’s grip tightened around the basket handle. Her pulse quickened. She wanted to scream that she was no witch, that she had only done what any healer would do—but the memory of silver light spilling from her palms silenced her. That was not what any healer would do.

She hurried past the murmurs, eyes on the dirt, until she nearly collided with Rowan.

“Well, if it isn’t the miracle worker,” he said, smiling too easily.

Elara’s stomach knotted. “Move aside, Rowan.”

“Not even a thank you for keeping your secret safe?” His voice lowered, sly. “Folk will believe whatever tale I feed them. You might want to be… kinder to those who know the truth.”

Her jaw tightened. “There is no truth to tell.”

Rowan only chuckled, stepping aside with a mocking bow. “As you wish, Elara Veylen. For now.”

She walked quickly away, fighting the urge to run. Rowan’s words weren’t threats yet, but they carried weight. And weight, in a place like this, could drag her straight to the Inquisitors.

The first sign of them came at midday: the distant thunder of hooves. The villagers looked up from their work as four riders entered Luthen, cloaked in black, the silver insignia of the Crown stitched across their shoulders.

The Inquisitors.

Elara’s breath caught.

Their leader, a tall man with a hawk-like nose and cold, assessing eyes, dismounted in the square. He scanned the cottages, the market stalls, the faces of the people who shrank back from him. His voice carried, sharp and clipped.

“By decree of King Aldric Veyrion, this village will be searched for heresy. Any who conceal moonfire shall be punished by flame. Any who confess will be spared the pyre.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Mothers clutched children, men exchanged fearful glances.

Elara froze where she stood, every muscle screaming to run, but her mother’s voice cut through the haze of panic: Don’t draw attention. Don’t give them reason to look twice.

She forced herself to breathe, lowering her gaze to the basket of herbs. Just a healer’s daughter, nothing more.

The Inquisitors spread out, entering cottages, turning over baskets, demanding answers. The hawk-nosed leader spoke with villagers, his gaze sharp enough to peel secrets from their skin.

Rowan stood near the forge, arms crossed. His eyes flicked toward Elara once—long enough to make her blood run cold.

By nightfall, the Inquisitors had found nothing. They camped on the outskirts of the village, but their presence hung over Luthen like smoke. The villagers huddled in their homes, whispering fears into the dark.

Inside the healer’s cottage, Alenya paced by the fire. “It’s begun,” she muttered. “The rumors have reached the Crown. They wouldn’t come to a place like this otherwise.”

Elara sat rigid on the bench, hands clasped tight in her lap. “Maybe they’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Her mother’s eyes were shadowed, lips tight. “Or maybe they’ll burn us all until they’re satisfied.”

Silence stretched. Elara stared at the flames, remembering the miller’s ragged breaths, the way his life had steadied beneath her hands. She couldn’t regret saving him. But the cost (the danger) it was pressing at their door.

A soft knock startled them both. Alenya stiffened, but Elara rose cautiously and opened the door.

A cloaked figure stood there, face hidden in shadow. For a heartbeat, Elara thought it was another Inquisitor. But the voice that spoke was low, urgent.

“You should not have used it.”

Elara’s blood chilled. “Who are you?”

The figure stepped back, revealing a glimpse of silver-threaded hair beneath the hood. His eyes caught the moonlight—blue, piercing, and haunted.

“I am someone who knows what hunts you,” he said. “And if you value your life, you’ll flee before dawn.”

The door slammed shut before Elara could speak again. She pressed her back to it, heart racing. Her mother’s eyes narrowed.

“Who was it?”

“I… I don’t know.” Elara’s voice trembled. “But he knew.”

Alenya closed her eyes, whispering a prayer to gods long abandoned. “We’re out of time.”

Elara turned toward the window. Outside, the Inquisitors’ campfires burned like watchful eyes in the dark. Somewhere beyond them, the Wilderwood loomed, vast and unforgiving.

Her mother’s voice was barely a whisper. “If they search again tomorrow… you must run.”

Elara’s hands shook as she looked at her mother—the only family she had, the only home she knew. She wanted to argue, to refuse. But deep inside, she already knew the truth.

The village of Luthen would not remain her prison much longer.

It would become her grave—unless she stepped into the Wilderwood.

The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the crackle of the Inquisitors’ campfires beyond the village. Their watchful glow made Elara’s skin crawl. She lay awake on her straw mattress, staring at the low rafters of the healer’s cottage, her mother’s words pressing on her chest like a weight.

If they search again tomorrow… you must run.

Elara wanted to argue, to refuse, but in her heart she already knew her mother was right. The Inquisitors would not leave. They never left until they had blood or fire to appease them.

The image of Rowan’s sly smile haunted her. He had not spoken her name, not yet—but he would, if it suited him. The Crown rewarded informants well. All it would take was one whisper from him, and she and her mother would both burn.

Elara’s hands trembled as she sat up. Her satchel already lay packed—her mother had done it silently while Elara pretended to sleep. Dried herbs, a flask of water, a cloak, and the small knife her father had left before vanishing into war years ago.

Her mother knelt by the hearth, face lit by fading embers. “The Wilderwood is not kind,” she said softly, not looking up. “But it is freer than this village will ever be. Go before dawn. While they still sleep.”

Elara swallowed hard. “Come with me.”

Alenya’s head shook once. “If I go, they’ll hunt us both harder. I can mislead them here. Buy you time.”

“No” Elara’s throat burned. “I can’t leave you.”

Her mother finally looked at her, eyes glistening in the firelight. “You must. The gift you carry… it was never meant to rot in hiding. But if you stay, it will die with you.” She cupped Elara’s cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. “Live, Elara. That is the only way I can bear this.”

Elara pressed her face against her mother’s hand, committing the warmth to memory. She wanted to argue again, but there were no words left. Only the ache of leaving everything she had ever known.

When the first gray light touched the sky, Elara slipped into the mist-drenched streets. The village was still, the world holding its breath. She pulled her cloak tighter, hood low over her face, and hurried past shuttered windows. Beyond the last cottage, the Wilderwood waited.

The forest greeted her with silence. Its trees rose tall and twisted, their trunks gnarled like the fingers of ancient giants. Mist coiled around the roots, and faint glimmers of silver light darted between the branches as if the moon itself had scattered pieces of its glow here.

Elara paused at the edge, heart pounding. She had heard every story—the Wilderwood devoured men whole, filled with spirits, beasts, and roads that led nowhere but madness. To step inside was to gamble one’s soul.

But behind her lay fire. Ahead, at least, there was a chance of survival.

She stepped forward.

The forest swallowed her whole.

By midday, her legs ached and her satchel weighed heavy. She followed a faint deer trail, but the deeper she went, the more the forest seemed to twist. Trees leaned unnaturally close, and every path looked the same.

A howl broke the silence.

Elara froze.

It came again, closer this time—a deep, hungry sound that rolled through the mist. Wolves. She quickened her pace, clutching her knife, though she knew it was a poor defense.

The underbrush rustled behind her. She spun just as a shadow lunged from the mist—a massive wolf, its fur black as pitch, eyes glowing faintly red.

Elara’s breath caught. She stumbled back, knife trembling in her grip. The wolf snarled, lips curling over jagged teeth, and padded closer.

Her heart raced. She could run, but it would catch her. She could fight, but her knife was nothing against its bulk.

Her only chance was moonfire.

Elara’s hand shook as she raised it, silver light flickering faintly at her fingertips. The wolf growled, hackles rising at the glow. She drew a shaky breath, ready to release it.

Steel flashed.

A sword swept through the air, slamming into the wolf’s flank. The beast yelped, staggering back. Another figure emerged from the mist, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the precision of a predator.

“Stay down,” the man barked, not looking at her.

Elara dropped to the ground as the wolf lunged again. The man met it with his blade, striking clean across its throat. The beast collapsed, crimson spilling into the roots. Its glowing eyes flickered once before dimming to nothing.

Silence fell, heavy and abrupt.

Elara’s chest heaved. She clutched her knife with trembling hands, staring at the stranger. His cloak was dark, frayed at the edges, his hair falling in black strands streaked faintly with silver. His face was angular, marked by a scar along his jaw. And his eyes—blue, sharp as frost—fixed on her with unnerving intensity.

She knew him.

The figure from the night before. The one who had warned her.

“You,” she whispered.

He lowered his sword, but did not sheath it. “You’re reckless,” he said flatly. “Wolves hunt blood. And you bleed fear.”

Elara bristled, pushing herself to her feet. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I didn’t give it for you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then why?”

His gaze lingered on her hands, where faint traces of moonlight still glimmered before she clenched them shut. His expression tightened.

“You carry danger with you,” he said, voice low. “If the Inquisitors don’t kill you, the forest will.”

Elara’s pulse quickened. “Who are you?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then: “Kael.”

The name hung in the mist like a blade unsheathed.

Elara’s grip tightened on her knife, though she knew it was useless. “And why are you here?”

His jaw clenched. “Because fate is cruel. And it seems it has tethered me to yours.”

She blinked, startled by the bitterness in his tone. Before she could question him, the distant sound of hooves echoed faintly through the forest. The Inquisitors.

Kael’s eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to her. “If you want to live,” he said, voice sharp, “you’ll follow me.”

Elara hesitated. She didn’t trust him—not his cold eyes, not the way he seemed to know her secret. But behind them, the Inquisitors drew closer.

And in that moment, she realized she had no choice.