Chapter 8
A crisp breeze nipped at Elara's cheeks as she stepped beyond the citadel and into the garden. The sensation felt distant; her awareness cocooned in a fog that even the sharp bite of the coming winter could not pierce.
One hour—that was all the freedom Edgar granted her before she was expected to retire for the night. At least he had allowed her that much.
After dinner, he calmly informed her that the freedom she once took for granted would now be a luxury, doled out sparingly, and under strict conditions—for her safety, he claimed. Her deeds at the capitol, he had reminded her, were not without their repercussions.
As she wandered, she found herself measuring each breath, each heartbeat, each second slipping away like grains of sand in an hourglass.
She sighed, trying to savor the gardens while she could, but everything around her seemed muted.
The flowers aren’t singing today, she thought, swaying with the breeze.
“Elara!”
Her name sliced through the quiet dusk, snapping her out of her thoughts. She turned, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of Avis.
“Come with me,” Avis whispered, taking her hand and leading her down a rocky path, their shadows merging in the fading light.
Everything around her seemed to blur, the lilac bushes speeding past as Avis guided her to a hidden glade.
Here, the only sounds were the occasional chirp of a bird and the soft flicker of fireflies.
In the center stood a weathered stone bench where Avis settled down, and Elara, with a trace of anxiety in her steps, sat beside her.
Warm hands cradled her face, and she closed her eyes, savoring the touch.
“That wicked man,” Avis murmured, her voice a blend of anger and concern.
Then, Avis began to sing—a song Elara had never heard, in a language she didn't recognize. She furrowed her brow, trying to decipher the words, but the rhythm of Avis's song, its haunting melody, gradually pulled her deeper into the comfort of the Druid's hands.
Before she knew it, Elara couldn't even remember what had seemed so strange about the song in the first place.
“Here, chew on this.”
The gentle command pulled her back. Her eyes blinked open to a small mushroom in her hand. Its cap was thick and densely layered, a cascade of soft, creamy white tendrils that gave it an almost fluffy appearance.
“What is it?”
“Lion's mane,” Avis said, her voice steady as she carefully brought Elara's hand to her lips. “Eat.”
She popped the mushroom into her mouth. A rich, nutty flavor spread across her tongue, with a hint of fresh, rain-soaked earth. Slowly, the fog clouding her mind began to lift. Wide-eyed, she looked to Avis.
“She's back,” Avis declared, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger.
“What—what happened to me?”
Avis offered a shrug that seemed to hold more weight than levity. “Knowing you, too much wine.”
Elara's frown deepened. “No, it wasn't that,” she murmured. Maybe it was a reaction to the eel...
“Well, you're all patched up now, thanks to that little mushroom,” Avis said with a light sigh, her voice soft as she moved toward the oíche blossoms at the garden's edge.
“I’ve talked your ear off about lion's mane mushrooms, haven't I?
You'd think some of it would stick, but I guess not. Sometimes I wonder why I bother, but then, talking to you is a bit like talking to the moon—lovely, but not much for answers.”
Elara watched as Avis massaged the oíche blossoms' delicate petals, each touch careful not to bruise. Avis was a passionate advocate for spreading these flowers, not only in the Sanct’s gardens but throughout Hartling Forest. Known as nightflowers because they only bloomed under the full moon, their silver stamens, valuable in many potions and poultices, could only be harvested once a month.
But Elmweavers like Avis knew the secret to making the petals open any time they wished.
She cupped the delicate pink blossom in her hands, her fingers brushing its petals with reverence.
“Druvakh.” The word didn’t match the softness in Avis’s tone or the tenderness with which she handled the flower, but it rippled with power—primal and ancient—weaving through the air like a song meant only for the blossom.
Elara rose from the bench and knelt beside the Druid, eyes fixed on the delicate petals trembling awake, catching faint glimmers of light along their silver stems. The moment Avis pulled her hands back, the oíche blossom’s petals curled inward, almost shyly.
“That was beautiful,” Elara murmured, a faint pang of jealousy twisting inside her.
Avis smiled, her eyes gleaming with quiet mischief. “Perhaps you’d like to try it.”
Her heart skipped. “It’s forbidden.”
Avis’s smile only widened. “And since when have you become a paragon of rule-following?"
Elara scoffed. “Well, given my impeccable track record, I’d hate to shock anyone with my sudden descent into lawlessness.”
The Druid raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it would be a shame to ruin such a sterling reputation. But… think of the flowers. They might never recover.”
She rolled her eyes. “Gods forbid I scandalize the floral community.”
Avis’s laughter rang out, her grin so infectious that Elara couldn’t help but smile back.
Being around Avis felt like stepping into a clearer, softer world.
She didn’t put on airs or pretend—Avis simply existed, purely and sincerely herself, and that honesty had a way of making everyone around her feel a little more real too.
Elara often wondered if the Druid had any idea how much she depended on that simplicity.
“You're thinking very loudly, you know. I can practically hear your whinging.”
Her mouth fell open in mock offense. “Can't a girl ponder in peace?” She was fairly certain Avis couldn't actually pluck thoughts from her mind...
Avis fiddled with her hair. “Should I raid Algernon’s whiskey stash to keep them quiet, then? Seems to work wonders on you.”
“That would be decidedly counterproductive.”
Avis raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Because last time, you swore you’d rather drink bog water than endure a sober evening. I can’t remember if that was before or after you tried to convince Dario and I that you spoke fluent squirrel.”
She groaned, cheeks burning as she hid her face in her hands. “I swear, Edgar was right—you’re a terrible influence.”
The moment the priest's name left her lips, Avis quieted, and Elara snuck a peek at the Druid, finding her expression sour. None of the other Druids would dare show such open disapproval.
Elara's mouth quirked as she thought back to the last time they had filched a bottle of whiskey. Naturally, Edgar caught them—hardly a surprise, given they’d wrapped up the evening belting out ballads atop the bailey's roof.
The ensuing punishment, harsh as it was, and the weeks they were barred from each other's company, somehow felt worth it.
A thoughtful expression shadowed Avis's face. “Just do it for me,” she said, motioning to the flower again.
She sighed, the sound laced with all the dramatic resignation she could muster. She wasn’t technically supposed to attempt casting ether—not that it made any difference. She’d tried once, back when she was naive enough to think it might actually work. Though, of course, it hadn’t.
Avis, ever the optimist, took her sigh as consent and grabbed her hands, placing them over the flower. “Connect without touching,” Avis instructed, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
Summoning ether felt… unnatural. Wrong. But there was something in the way Avis looked at her, so steady and earnest, like she truly believed Elara could do this, that stirred something stubborn inside her. As Avis’s voice rose again, chanting the ancient word, Elara took a breath and joined in.
Come on, little thing, she pleaded silently, a bit startled by just how much she wanted this to work.
Out of the corner of her eye, Elara saw the flower in Avis’s hand begin to bloom, its petals slowly unfurling as if lured by the first soft glow of starlight.
But the flower under her own watch remained infuriatingly closed, refusing to so much as twitch.
She’d told herself not to get her hopes up, but the sharp pang of disappointment cut deeper than she’d anticipated.
Avis’s chant faded into the stillness, her flower folding in on itself as silence settled around them. But then—a faint golden flicker in the distance caught her eye, a tiny glimmer against the darkness.
Her mouth dropped open.
Silk sprites.
Dozens of them emerged from the forest, gliding toward them as dusk laid its golden blanket on the world. Her heart pounded in her chest as their radiant, whisper-thin forms danced like strands of satin spun from moonlight.
Avis's laughter rang out. She extended her hand, and Elara watched, perplexed, as the sprites twined their tiny forms around her fingers.
“How did you coax them from the wilds?” Elara breathed, wonder filling her voice. As though drawn by her intrigue, the sprites drifted toward her, a few weaving softly through her hair.
“I didn't lure them out.”
Elara furrowed her brow, fingers brushing the sprite nestling just behind her ear—a soft, velvety whisper against her skin.
She’d only seen sprites once before, as a child, and even then, she’d convinced herself they were just a figment of her overactive imagination.
Sprites belonged to another age, back when Fae and humans roamed Latheria together, side by side.
Generations of stories said these wispy creatures were the chosen heralds of the Mothers.
The old tales claimed that once, long ago, the Mothers didn’t simply observe from some distant realm—they walked these very lands, their presence gracing every hill and grove, with sprites flitting in their wake.