The morning mist curled around the farmhouse like a blanket.
Alyra moved through the kitchen with practiced grace, wrapping bundles of dried herbs in wax cloth and sealing jars of salves with twine. The scent of lavender, fever-root, and ash-bark filled the air--her medicine, her craft, her legacy.
Daman entered, arms full of empty crates. His tunic was half-buttoned, and his boots still bore the dust of yesterday's harvest.
"You're packing light," he teased, setting the crates down. "Planning to use my wonderful charm to help sell our wares and heal the townsfolk?"
Alyra smirked. "Your charm is but of one, of what help sells it. The other, is this." She held up a jar of golden balm. "And don't forget to ask for more on the crops. You'll need to haggle for every coin this time, because of the slow decline."
"Yes, dear." He stated after placing a kiss on her cheek, and the leaned against the counter, watching her work. "You always make it look easy."
"It definitely isn't," she said with a giggle "But with years of repetition. It comes second nature."
They shared a quiet moment, the kind that only comes after years of surviving together--through droughts, goblin raids, and the ache of the past that never quite leaves.
Alyra glanced toward the back door. "Have you seen Meisha?"
Daman nodded. "She was up before dawn. Said she wanted to gather fresh fever-root from the forest edge."
Alyra's brow furrowed. "Alone?"
"She insisted. Said she wanted to help prep the medicine. Said she needed to prove she could do it like you."
Alyra's heart skipped a beat as she halted from her task. "She's twelve."
"She's our daughter," Daman said gently. "And she watches you like you hung the moon."
Alyra smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "But the forest's been restless. I felt it in the air last night."
"I'll go after her."
"No," she said, already pulling on her cloak about to set out the door. "You need to get to town. If something's wrong, I'll need you to be the one who brings her home."
Daman hesitated, the nodded. "Be careful."
"I always am." Alyra smiled and sets off towards the forest.
---------------------------
Meisha crouched low, fingers brushing the fever-root's silvery leaves. The forest was still, but inside her, everything stirred.
She felt proud. Not just for finding the herb, but for doing it alone. For walking the same paths her mother walked. For proving—if only to herself—that she could be more than the girl who watched from the doorway.
The soil was cool beneath her nails. She inhaled the scent of crushed mint and damp bark, letting it settle in her chest like a balm. Her satchel was half full now. She imagined her mother smiling at the bundles, nodding in approval.
But beneath the pride, there was something else.
A quiet ache.
She missed her mother's voice. The way Alyra would hum while grinding herbs, or whisper stories about the forest's moods. Meisha had memorized every tale, every warning. "The woods are old," her mother had said. "They remember everything. Even us."
A rustle behind her.
She stiffened, heart skipping. But she didn't turn. She couldn't let fear undo her moment. It's nothing, she told herself. Just wind. Just a rabbit.
She stood, brushing dirt from her palms, and took a step deeper into the woods.
----------------------------
Back in the forest near farmhouse, Alyra paused mid-step. Her fingers tingled.
She closed her eyes.
The magic was faint, but familiar—like a whisper in the roots. Meisha's footsteps had left a trail, not visible to the eye, but woven into the land itself. Alyra reached down, pressing her palm to the earth.
A pulse.
Her daughter's essence—young, determined, afraid—had brushed the soil like a kiss. Alyra's magic, tied to the land and blood, responded. It showed her the path. Not in images, but in feeling: the direction of movement, the emotional residue, the echo of pride and hesitation.
"She went deeper," Alyra murmured. "Past the ridge."
Her heart clenched. That was where the forest changed—where the trees grew twisted and the air thickened with memory.
Alyra grabbed her satchel and whispered a protective charm under her breath. The wind stirred in response, as if the forest itself had heard her.
She followed the trail, each step guided by the magic her daughter didn't know she carried.
----------------------
Meisha stepped past the ridge, the fever-root tucked safely in her satchel. The trees here were older—gnarled and leaning, their bark etched with scars that pulsed faintly in the shade. The air was thicker, like it had weight. Her breath came slower, her heart faster.
She crouched to inspect a patch of ash-bark moss when a voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Meisha!"
She spun around.
Alyra stood at the edge of the clearing, cloak billowing, eyes blazing with fury and fear. Her boots were caked in mud, her hands glowing faintly with violet light.
"Mama! —"
"Are you out of your mind?" Alyra strode forward, grabbing Meisha's shoulders. "You went past the ridge. Alone. After everything I've taught you?"
"I just wanted to help," Meisha stammered. "You said fever-root sells best fresh, and I thought—"
"You thought you were ready," Alyra snapped. "But you don't know this forest. Not like I do."
Meisha's eyes welled with tears. "I wanted to be like you."
Alyra's expression softened for a heartbeat. "You are. But being like me means knowing when to run."
Then the wind shifted.
A low growl echoed through the trees.
Alyra's head snapped toward the sound. "Behind me," she said, voice dropping into command.
From the shadows, goblins emerged--dozens of them, eyes glowing green, blades glinting with rust and bone. They moved like a tide, snarling and clicking, surrounding the clearing.
Alyra raised her hands. Violet fire surged from her palms, forming a protective ring around Miesha.
"Stay inside the circle," she said. "No matter what."
The goblins broke through the underbrush like a flood of snarling teeth and rusted blades.
Alyra stepped in front of Meisha, her cloak swirling as she raised one hand to the sky. The air thickened. The forest seemed to lean in, listening.
"Do not leave from this circle," she said, voice low but firm.
Meisha nodded, eyes wide, clutching her satchel like a shield.
The first goblin lunged—short, hunched, its jagged dagger aimed for Alyra's throat. She sidestepped with practiced ease, her palm flashing violet as she struck its chest. The goblin convulsed, then crumpled, twitching in the moss.
Two more followed, flanking her with snarls and swinging crude axes. Alyra spun, her fingers tracing a sigil in the air. A burst of light erupted from the ground, sending them flying into a bramble thicket.
The forest hissed with energy.
Alyra's magic wasn't loud—it was precise. She didn't waste power. Each spell was a scalpel, not a hammer.
A goblin archer took position in the trees, stringing a bone-tipped arrow. Alyra flicked her wrist, and the branch beneath it snapped with unnatural force, sending the creature tumbling to the ground.
More came—six, maybe seven—circling like wolves. One slashed at her leg, grazing her thigh. She hissed, retaliating with a pulse of heat that scorched the goblin's blade and sent it screeching backward.
Meisha watched, frozen. Her mother was a storm contained—elegant, deadly, glowing with the kind of power that made the forest tremble.
But then the wind changed.
The goblins stopped.
A low rumble echoed through the trees, like stone grinding against bone.
From the shadows, a massive figure emerged—ten times the size of the others, crowned in jagged bone, eyes burning with cruel intelligence.
The Goblin King.
Alyra's stance shifted. Her magic flared brighter.
"Meisha," she said, without turning. "Run to back to the farmhouse. Now."
The Goblin King stepped forward, towering, forcing Meisha and her to look up at him. His voice was a rasp soaked in malice.
"Alyra Emberwyn. You burned my scouts. Now you burn."
Alyra didn't flinch. "You won't find me less flammable this time."
She unleashed a blast of magic that tore through the first wave of goblins, setting trees ablaze. The forest screamed. Meisha crouched inside the circle, trembling, watching her mother become a storm.
But the goblins kept coming.
The King raised his staff, summoning tendrils of shadow that lashed at Alyra's defenses. She staggered, blood blooming at her side.
"Mama!" Meisha cried.
Alyra turned, just once. Her eyes were fierce. Her voice was steady.
"Run to the farmhouse! Don't look back!"
"But—"
"Go!"
Meisha fled, heart pounding, the scent of ash and blood chasing her through the woods.
Behind her, the clearing erupted in fire
Meisha ran.
Branches clawed at her arms, roots snagged her boots, but she didn't stop. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest. The forest behind her roared—fire, screams, the crackle of magic. Her mother's voice echoed in her ears: "Run to the farmhouse. Don't look back."
But she had to look back.
Just once.
And what she saw would haunt her forever—Alyra, surrounded by goblins, violet light blazing from her hands, her cloak torn, her face set in fierce determination.
Meisha stumbled onto the dirt road, the forest spitting her out like a secret too heavy to hold. The sun was higher now, casting long shadows across the path. Dust clung to her sweat-drenched skin. Her satchel thudded against her hip, forgotten.
Then she saw them.
Three soldiers on horseback, crests of Duskmere glinting on their armor. They were mid-patrol, eyes scanning the tree line.
Meisha screamed.
"Please—help! My mother—she's fighting goblins! There's a king—he's huge—and she's alone!"
The lead soldier dismounted, his face hardening. "Where?"
She pointed, voice trembling. "Past the ridge. Widow's Halo."
The name made them flinch.
"Take us," he said. "Now."
She turned, legs aching, lungs burning, and led them back into the woods. The path she'd fled now felt like a graveyard trail. The forest was quieter now—too quiet. No birds. No wind. Just the distant scent of ash.
They reached the clearing.
Too late.
The trees were blackened, scorched into twisted silhouettes. The ground was littered with goblin corpses and the Goblin King; their bodies curled in death. At the center lay Alyra—arms outstretched, eyes closed, her magic still flickering faintly around her.
Meisha collapsed to her knees.
"No…"
The soldiers stood in stunned silence. One knelt beside Alyra, checking for breath. He shook his head.
"She held them off," he said quietly. "All of them. Even the Goblin King."
Meisha crawled forward, fingers trembling as she touched her mother's hand. It was warm. Still warm.
She pressed her forehead to Alyra's palm, sobbing.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to be like you."
The forest stirred.
A breeze passed through the clearing, lifting the ashes into a spiral. It danced around them, soft and strange, like a whisper of magic saying goodbye.
Then the truth hit her.
A sound tore from her throat—raw, primal, a scream that split the silence like lightning. Birds scattered from the trees. The soldiers flinched. One dropped his sword.
Then everything went black.
---------------------
Daman was unloading crates when the soldiers arrived. He looked up, confused, then alarmed as he saw Miesha—pale, silent, her eyes hollow.
"What happened?" he asked, voice rising.
The lead soldier dismounted. "It's Alyra."
Daman froze.
"She fought off a goblin ambush. Saved your daughter. But… she didn't survive."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, that's not—she's strong. She's always strong."
"She was," the soldier said gently. "But there were too many."
"I need to see her," Daman said, voice cracking. "Take me to her."
They did.
When he reached the clearing, he fell to his knees beside her body. He didn't speak. Didn't cry. Just stared.
Then he whispered, "You always said the forest would remember you."
And it had.
--------------------------------------------
Three years had passed since the death of Alyra Emberwyn.
The tale of her final stand—how she held off a horde of goblins and their monstrous king to protect her daughter—had spread through Duskmere like wildfire. Farmers spoke her name with reverence. Healers left bundles of herbs at the edge of the woods in tribute. And where her body had once lain, scorched earth now cradled a marble tombstone.
Etched into its surface were the words:
"Here rests Alyra Emberwyn—Witch of Flame, Mother of Mercy. She stood alone, and the forest remembers."
Meisha visited often, sometimes with herbs, sometimes with silence. She would sit beside the stone, fingers tracing the carved letters, her heart heavy with guilt and longing. She had screamed that day. Screamed until her voice broke. And when she woke in the arms of the town guard, her world had changed forever.
Her father, Daman Emberwyn, had not taken the news quietly.
At first, he refused to believe it. Demanded to see her body. Demanded answers. When he stood at her grave, he didn't cry. He simply knelt, touched the stone, and whispered, "You were supposed to come home."
After that, he changed.
The light in his eyes dimmed. He stopped tending the farm. Stopped going into the town. Stopped speaking, except in fragments. Meisha, now fifteen, had took on the weight of the household—harvesting, mixing salves, selling what little they had in town. But the debts grew. The land soured. And her father sank deeper into silence.
Some days, he would sit at the edge of the woods, staring into the trees as if waiting for Alyra to return. Other days, he wouldn't rise at all.
The Emberwyn farm, once vibrant with healing herbs and laughter, had grown quiet. Meisha worked the land alone—her hands calloused, her spirit worn thin. Her father, Daman, drifted through the days like a ghost, his grief a fog that never lifted.
One late afternoon, as Meisha knelt in the garden pulling weeds from the herb root patch, a shadow fell across the soil.
She looked up.
A man stood at the edge of the field—tall, cloaked in deep green, his boots polished, his smile pleasant… and wrong. Something in his eyes didn't match the warmth in his voice.
"You must be young Meisha," he said, stepping forward. "I've known of your mother's bravery. The town still speaks her name."
Meisha stood, brushing dirt from her hands. "Thank you, sir."
"Lord Varrick Hennis," he said with a bow. "I've come with an offer. One that could save your farm."
He explained: a loan, generous in appearance, to erase the family's growing debts. In exchange, Miesha would serve in his estate—just until the debt was repaid. He spoke gently, almost sweetly, but his eyes lingered too long. His smile never reached his eyes.
"Speak with your father," he said. "I'll return tomorrow for your answer."
Then he turned, mounted his horse, and trotted away, the wind stirring his cloak like a whisper of things to come.
That night, Miesha sat beside her father at the hearth, the fire low, the silence heavy.
She told him everything.
Daman didn't respond at first. He stared into the flames, his hands trembling slightly. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow.
"If it saves the farm…" he said. "Then… perhaps it's for the best."
But he didn't meet her eyes.
What Meisha or her father didn't know—what no one had known in the town—was that years ago, Lord Varrick had asked for Alyra's hand in marriage. She had declined, choosing Daman instead. Varrick had never forgiven the slight. And now, with Alyra gone and Daman broken, he returned not just to collect a debt—but to claim what he believed was owed.
The next day, just as the sun began to stretch across the fields, Lord Varrick returned.
This time, he arrived in a polished black carriage drawn by two silver-maned horses. The wheels rolled silently over the dirt road, as if the forest itself held its breath. He stepped out with the same pleasant smile as before—polished, practiced, and wrong.
--------------------------
Meisha was already in the garden, her hands stained with soil, her heart heavy with dread.
"Good morning, Miss Emberwyn," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Have you spoken with your father?"
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He said… yes. That I should go."
Lord Varrick's smile widened, just slightly. "Excellent. You'll find my estate quite accommodating."
He gestured to the carriage. "Take your time. Gather what you need."
Meisha turned and walked slowly back to the farmhouse. Inside, her father sat at the table, staring at a half-empty mug of tea that had long gone cold.
"I'm leaving," she said softly.
Daman didn't look up right away. When he did, his eyes were glassy, distant. "You'll visit?"
"As much as I can."
He nodded, then stood. His movements were slow, deliberate. From a small wooden box on the mantle, he retrieved a delicate amulet—silver, with a violet stone at its center. It shimmered faintly in the morning light.
"This was your mother's," he said. "She wore it every day. Said it kept her grounded."
Meisha reached out, but he shook his head gently. "Let me."
He tied the amulet around her neck, his fingers trembling. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders, bowed his head, and whispered something in a language she didn't understand—soft, melodic, ancient.
It was a prayer.
A protection spell Alyra used to murmur over Meisha as a baby, in the quiet hours before dawn.
Neither of them knew the amulet was more than a keepsake. That it pulsed with dormant magic—magic tied to Alyra's bloodline, waiting for grief and fire to awaken it.
When the prayer was finished, Daman pulled her into a hug. It was tight. Desperate. Final.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I'm sorry too," she said.
Then she stepped out the door, climbed into Lord Varrick's carriage, and didn't look back.
The wheels turned. The road stretched. And the forest watched.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the iron gates of Lord Varrick's estate—a towering structure of stone and shadow, wrapped in ivy that looked more like veins than vines. The air was colder here, as if the land itself recoiled from its master.
Meisha stepped out, her boots crunching against gravel. She clutched her satchel, the amulet her father had tied around her neck still warm against her skin.
Lord Varrick followed, his pleasant smile unchanged. But something in his posture shifted—less host, more warden.
"Before we proceed," he said, gesturing to one of his guards, "a precaution."
The guard approached with a slender cuff etched in runes—cold, metallic, humming faintly with suppression magic. He clasped it around Meisha's left wrist.
She flinched. "What is this?"
"A safeguard," Varrick said smoothly. "Your mother was… formidable. I'd rather not take chances."
Meisha's eyes narrowed. "My mother was a hero. Duskmere owes her everything."
Varrick's smile twitched. "Yes. And yet, she owed me."
He turned to the guards—the same ones who had carried her from the forest three years ago. "Take her to the basement."
They hesitated, just for a breath. But orders were orders.
"No!" Miesha cried, backing away. "You said I'd be serving! Not imprisoned!"
The guards moved forward. She struggled, shouting, demanding answers. Her voice echoed through the courtyard, but no one came.
Then Varrick's eyes fell on the amulet.
He had watched it glint in the carriage light, had felt its presence like a ghost. Now, up close, it shimmered with the same violet hue he remembered from Alyra's magic.
He reached out and snatched it from her neck.
Meisha gasped, fury igniting in her chest. "Give it back!"
She lunged, fists swinging, but she was fifteen—grief-stricken, exhausted, and outnumbered. The guards restrained her easily.
Varrick held the amulet to the light, his expression softening into something almost mournful.
"She wore this the day she refused me," he murmured. "Said her heart belonged to another. Foolish woman."
He turned to Meisha, eyes cold. "You wouldn't be here if she had chosen differently."
Miesha's breath caught. The words cut deeper than any blade.
Varrick waved his hand. "Take her below."
As the guards dragged her toward the estate's eastern rear entrance, the amulet pulsed faintly in his hand—just once. A flicker of dormant magic that he didn't notice.
The stone corridor leading to the basement was cold, damp, and dimly lit by flickering sconces. Meisha's footsteps echoed between the walls, her wrists bound, her heart pounding. The cuff on her arm still hummed faintly, suppressing any magic she might unknowingly carry.
The three guards flanked her—silent at first, until one broke the quiet.
"I'm sorry," said the first, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his brow. "We didn't know he'd do this. We thought you were coming to serve as well, not… this."
Meisha didn't respond. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes burning.
The second guard, younger, with a soft voice, spoke next. "Your mother… she helped my wife. When our son was born, things went wrong. Alyra came in the middle of the night. She saved them both."
Meisha's breath hitched.
The third guard, older, limping slightly, looked down at her with quiet sorrow. "I was mauled by a forest beast near the ridge. Everyone thought I'd lose the leg. Alyra came with her salves and spells. I still walk because of her."
They reached the basement door—a heavy slab of iron and oak. One of the guards hesitated before unlocking it.
Meisha turned to them, voice trembling but clear. "Please… watch over my father. He's not well. He hasn't been, not since she died. Just… make sure he's okay."
The guards exchanged glances, then nodded solemnly.
"We will," the first said. "You have our word."
The door creaked open.
Inside was a small, stone-walled room with a cot, a bucket, and a single barred window that let in slivers of moonlight. It smelled of mildew and old stone.
As she stepped inside, the door closed behind her with a final, echoing thud.
She was alone.
But not forgotten.
---------------------------------
The fire crackled softly in Lord Varrick's bedchamber, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. He sat in a high-backed chair, the amulet dangling from his fingers, its violet gem catching the firelight.
He stared into it, eyes distant.
"Alyra…" he murmured. "You could have had everything. You chose a farmer. A life of dirt and herbs. And now your daughter pays the price."
His voice was low, almost tender. But his grip on the amulet tightened.
He remembered her—how she moved through the market with quiet confidence, how her magic shimmered like evening light, how she looked at Daman with a love Varrick had never earned.
He stood, walked to the mantle above the fireplace, and opened a small keepsake box carved from obsidian and bone. Inside lay relics of his past—rings, letters, a lock of hair long faded.
He placed the amulet inside.
Click.
The lid closed.
And then, the violet gem pulsed.
Just once.
A soft glow, unseen by Varrick, but felt—deep below.
----------------------------------
In the basement, Miesha lay curled on the cot, the thin blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. The stone walls pressed in, damp and silent. Her wrists ached. Her heart throbbed.
She stared at the ceiling, eyes red, breath shallow.
Then she felt it.
A flicker.
A warmth in her chest—faint, like a memory of sunlight. She sat up, eyes scanning the room, but saw nothing. Just shadows.
She didn't know the amulet had pulsed. Didn't know it had reached for her.
But something inside her stirred.
She closed her eyes, whispering her mother's name, and let the tears come. Quiet. Relentless.
"I'll get out," she whispered. "I'll find a way."
Then she curled into herself, the blanket wrapped tight and cried herself to sleep.
Above her, the fire burned.
And the amulet waited.