The forest deepened with every step. Daylight bled to green dusk beneath the canopy and the sounds of the farms were gone as though they had never been. The air was cooler here, damp with leaf-mould and running water, the hush broken only by the occasional crack of a branch under Thorn’s tread or the flick of Vasha’s tail brushing ferns aside. Suraia walked close behind, clutching her bag, aware of how quickly the world had folded them back into shadow.
“Those animals we saw,” Vasha muttered, adjusting her quiver. “The deer, the boar… all wrong.”
Thorn’s expression was grim, his gaze fixed on the dimming path. “We are getting closer. There must be a cause for this madness. Nothing in the forest moves beyond itself without reason.”
They walked on and after a while Vasha snorted softly. “I can almost hear them from here—the grand hunt. Aelric at the front, yes? Sword on his hip, crossbow he cannot string, shouting at men who know less than the trees.”
Suraia hugged her bag closer. “If they fire into the dark… someone could be hurt.”
“Someone will be,” Thorn said. “Men who do not know the woods injure what they do not see. Wolves, deer, foxes—each other.”
“They will scare off anything worth tracking,” Vasha added. “And then blame the forest for being quiet.”
Thorn glanced at the canopy, at a jay flicking through the high leaves. “Noise drives sense from men his head as surely as from beasts.”
They fell silent again, but it was a listening silence now, pricked by distant shouts too faint to place. The undergrowth thickened; roots knuckled up under ferns, and the path dissolved into a suggestion of passage.
At last Suraia slowed, tugging lightly at the strap of her bag. “May I… may I look for more herbs, just a little?” she asked carefully.
Thorn’s light-green eyes flicked to her, unreadable. He gave one short nod. “Do not wander far.”
The ground softened beneath her boots, springy rather than bogged. She pushed aside a veil of reeds and the air changed—cooler, stiller, touched by the scent of damp stone. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of dark pools, their wings glassy in the half-light. Fireflies rose in slow sparks from the rushes, flickering like lanterns adrift on the air.
The place was beautiful, and dangerous. She felt it in the hush, in the way sound seemed to be swallowed. Then her breath caught: a cluster of white blossoms low to the ground, their golden hearts glimmering faintly as if they held the last light of the sun.
Relief washed through her. She crouched, steady hands plucking three of the flowers and slipping them into a battered vial from her kit. Sticky resin clung to her fingertips, tingling against her skin as though alive. Mireflower, the final ingredient she needed. She stoppered the vial tightly and held it to her chest. Antivenom, if brewed right. A healer’s tool.
“Thank you,” she whispered—to the plants, to the place, to the chance—and tucked the vial away. With a little smile she picked some flowers that were growing right next to the Mireflowers she just picked.
She had only just straightened when voices drifted through the reeds.
“Well now—what do we have here?”
Three men pushed through the rushes, crossbows slung, boots sucking softly at the peat. Their clothes marked them as hunters, though it was the swagger that gave them away. One spat into the mud, eyes narrowing—not on her flowers, but on Suraia herself.
“Pretty little blossoms for a pretty little lass,” he drawled, stepping closer. His gaze lingered far longer on the upper chest area than her hands.
Another chuckled low. “Share a sip of sweet nectar with us, sweetheart? We will make it worth your while.”
Suraia’s fingers whitened around the flowers. “I… I am only gathering. I will be gone in a moment.” Her voice came out small and careful.
“Lost, are you?” A third jeered. “Not the safest place for picking flowers. Best you let us see what you have, and we will walk you out.”
He reached, slow enough to make it seem a game, and then faster—catching her wrist with a practised hand. His grip was warm and greedy. Suraia flinched, breath locking in her throat. She let go of the flowers which fell to the ground. The other two laughed, stepping in to close the circle, bodies, smoke-breath and the stale tang of old ale. Five seconds more and the hollow would have swallowed her voice.
The reeds whispered again—heavier tread—and a tall shadow filled the gap between trunks.
Thorn stepped into the hollow without a sound. The men startled despite themselves. His presence altered the air; he seemed to bring the weight of the forest with him.
The hunters stopped short, trading uneasy glances. One, bolder than the rest, lifted his chin. “Move along, friend. No business of yours.”
Suraia felt the hunter’s grip falter as Thorn stepped closer until he was right behind her, those light-green eyes settling on the hunter. The Ee’dornil’s hand closed around the man’s forearm with calm certainty and removed the man’s hand from Suraia as one might pluck a burr from a cloak.
“If you mean to bother my ward,” Thorn said, voice like low thunder rolling under roots, “then it is very much my business.”
The first hunter tried to yank his arm back; Thorn did not appear to notice the effort. The second lifted his chin in a show of bravado already going thin. “Easy, friend. We were only talking.”
Thorn did not smile. “You will leave,” he said. It was not loud, but the words had the settled weight of a stone dropped into still water.
“Your—ward?” the third man scoffed, though he had already taken a half-step back. “Pet names now. What else do you keep in your den?”
Thorn’s eyes brightened, the faint natural glow quickening in the gloom. “Choose the next words you speak with care.”
They chose movement instead. The Ee’dornil released the arm; the man stumbled and swore, rubbing his wrist as though it had been caught in a trap. The three of them backed away through the reeds with mutters pitched just loud enough to hear.
“Enjoy your flowers, sweetheart,” the first called, but the edge in his voice had dulled. “We will see you again.”
Suraia only realised she was shaking when the men were gone. She pressed her freed wrist to her middle, breath shuddering out. Thorn’s hand lifted, unstrapping the black cloak from beneath his pelt; without a word he draped it around her shoulders. Smoke and pine and something like rain-wet bark—his scent made the world feel steadier.
“Come,” he said simply.
They slipped back through the reeds to the deer track. Vasha was a little way along it already, bow strung, blue eyes narrowed towards the east. Her ears twitched as they approached.
“I heard voices,” she said. “Three men. I would have come, but I didn’t wish to lead the rest to you. I saw torchlight as well—more than three.”
“Hunters,” Thorn said.
Vasha’s mouth bent, more anger than amusement this time. “I guessed. Aelric’s little parade is bleeding into the side gullies.” She took in Suraia’s pallor, the way the cloak swallowed her shoulders. “Are you alright?”
Suraia nodded, a small, tight thing. “Th-They were only… talking.”
“Mm,” Vasha said, in a voice that said she had heard the kind of talking before. Then, more gentle, “Did you get what you were looking for?”
“Yes.” Suraia touched the bag, as if to prove it. “Mireflower. I... I have everything I need for... for one anti-venom.” The human woman looked at the Ee’dornil. “I… I just need to… make it.”
Thorn looked at her. He gave a single nod. “That could be useful. What do you need?”
“A cauldron,” she softly mumbled, chewing her lip, then straightened with a bit of resolve. “A… a fire, a cup… and your… pan if possible… I’ll make do with… with the rest…”
Thorn nodded and started building a fire after handing over the tin pan.
Suraia laid out her battered kit: mortar, pestle, a scrap of lace, and a strip of clean cloth from her bag. “It will work,” she murmured.
First, she crushed the Mireflower petals, working the pulp with a splash of water until it thickened to a bitter, soft-yellow mash. She spooned it into the tin pan and boiled it, the mixture thickening and turning brownish. She spread a strip of lace across the rim of Thorn’s pan, poured the mixture through, and caught the slow drips in a folded broadleaf cup.
Next came the roots—Duskhollow and Bitterfern—chopped fine and boiled in a cleaned-out pan to a thin, sharp-smelling tea. She skimmed the froth, then poured the Mireflower extract into the same pan until only the dark, steaming liquor remained.
At last, she ground the last bundle of dried marigold and feverfew leaves to dust between stone and pestle, adding them to the softly boiling tea in careful pinches. She stirred for a couple of minutes. The liquid turned cloudy, sharp with the smell of resin and iron.
Her hands shook as she guided it into one of her small vials, pressing it through cloth to capture a dark yellow, otherwise clear liquid. She stoppered it with trembling fingers and held it close for a moment, blue eyes glinting with tired pride.
“Enough for one portion at least,” she said softly, more to herself than the others.
Vasha, who had been watching with wide-eyed fascination, breathed out a low whistle. “That was… incredible. Like weaving a potion out of scraps.”
Thorn studied the vial, then her. He inclined his head in quiet approval. “Not bad for no cauldron. Keep it safe.”
The praise lit Suraia’s cheeks as she carefully put the potion away. For once she didn’t hide the faint smile. She felt, just for a moment, like a healer again.
They doused the fire, scattering the ash and cleaning the pan before leaving no sign behind. Twilight had thickened into night; the forest breathed damp and close around them. Then, through the trees, came the unmistakable crash of men moving where men should not.
A shout carried, followed by the twang of a crossbow and a curse. Laughter chased after it, rough and too loud. The noise shifted, then rose again farther off—a string of calls, a holler, the snapping of branches. For a moment there was silence, then a sharp, pained cry—animal, not human—cut through the dark followed by whoops of triumph.
Suraia flinched, clutching the black cloak tighter. Vasha’s ears flattened, her tail lashing in irritation. “They’re not hunting. They’re blundering.”
“They hunt shadows,” Thorn said, voice low and hard. “And the shadows bleed.”
He scanned the dark canopy above them, jaw set. “We will not sleep on the ground tonight.”
Without waiting for agreement, he turned to Suraia. His arm slid around her waist and he lifted her as though she weighed nothing. “Arms around my neck.”
She blinked up at him, startled, cheeks burning, then obeyed, curling her hands against the rough line of his collarbone. Before she could protest, Thorn leapt for the nearest trunk. His long fingers caught bark and branch, and with the strength of one arm he climbed, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a satchel.
The ground fell swiftly away, the farm lights dwindling to fireflies in the dark. Suraia buried her face briefly against his shoulder, clutching tight until he found a broad fork high in the canopy.
With a murmured word, Thorn pressed his free hand to the bark. Living fibres stirred, thickening into a hollow cradle between the branches. He settled himself within it, then shifted Suraia into his lap, one arm steady around her as though daring gravity to try.
Vasha joined them moments later, agile as any fox, grinning faintly as she swung into a neighbouring cradle Thorn had coaxed into being. “Better than the ground,” she said wryly, settling with her bow across her knees.
From the safety of the branches, they ate the last of the bread with the cheese the farmer’s nephew had given. Suraia sliced it into neat portions, her hands trembling less now, while Thorn poured a trickle of the olive oil and crushed garlic over each piece. The fireless meal was simple, but together in the treetops it felt like plenty.
Below, the woods stirred with distant shouts and the crash of undergrowth. The hunting party, noisy and blundering, drove their quarry farther from reach. Above, in their living hollows, the three of them sat in watchful silence, the bread in their hands, the forest breathing around them.
When the bread and cheese were gone, Vasha stretched out in her cradle, tail draped lazily over the side. “I’ll keep first watch,” she murmured, her voice low but light. “I’ll wake you if I hear them coming too close.”
Thorn gave a single nod. “Stay sharp. Silence does not mean safety.”
Suraia shifted uneasily in his lap, glancing down at the dizzying drop below. The cloak was warm around her, Thorn’s arm firmer still, anchoring her as the branches creaked gently in the night breeze.
“I… I will not fall?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“You will not,” Thorn said simply. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim, steady as the stars above. “Rest now.”
Her breath slowed as the forest hummed around them—owls calling, leaves whispering in the dark. Vasha’s silhouette was a watchful outline against the faint shimmer of Denday, the blue moon rising in the distance. Thorn’s chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, solid and calm, a heartbeat that seemed to quiet her own.
For the first time that day, Suraia let her eyes drift shut.