CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The path to the cottage wound through thick underbrush and crooked trees, narrow and choked with weeds. My cloak snapped around my legs as the wind picked up.
Aran led the way, moving fast. His boots crushed wildflowers and snapped fallen branches, but he didn’t slow down or look back. Will’s footsteps were quieter behind me. He kept scanning the trees, eyes flicking over every shadow like he expected someone, or something, to jump out.
And honestly? So did I. We hadn’t seen the hooded men since the market, but I couldn’t shake the feeling they were still watching. That they’d be waiting somewhere just ahead.
Then the cottage came into view. It looked like it had grown from the earth itself.
Its walls weren’t stone or brick, but a patchwork of weathered wood, packed mud, and twisted branches, as if the forest had built it for her.
A crooked chimney leaned like it was listening to the trees, coughing thin wisps of blue smoke into the pale sky.
Mushrooms bloomed along the edges of the porch.
Clusters of them, all different sizes and colors, and wind chimes made of bones and keys hung from the awning, clinking gently.
Beside the cottage was a garden. It wasn’t a garden the way you’d picture one.
No neat rows. No blooming roses. It was wild.
Alive. Twisting vines curled around iron stakes and broken trellises.
Blooms opened and closed with the wind, like they were breathing, and petals shifted colors as we passed, some bruised purple, others slick red like they’d been dipped in blood.
One plant near the edge had teeth. Real ones.
It clicked its little mouth as we passed.
A sign hung at the edge of the garden, half-rotted and tilted.
Garden of Poison.
Will read it out loud, dry as ever. “Charming.”
Aran rolled his eyes. “Don’t start. Kera needs answers.”
“Agreed, yes,” Will muttered under his breath. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
I heard soft humming from somewhere inside the garden, so I stepped past the sign, ignoring the knot in my stomach, and followed the narrow path.
It twisted between rows of strange plants.
Some glowed faintly, their petals shifting color as we passed, almost like they were reacting to our presence.
Others looked half-dead, with curling leaves and stems that sagged toward the earth.
I kept my hands close to my sides, careful not to brush against anything.
The woman from the market moved slowly, watering a row of silver-veined stalks, her back to us, and in the middle of the garden was a white, round table and chairs.
It almost looked inviting, the kind of place you’d serve tea and biscuits to your friends.
She turned at last, and her eyes landed on me like she'd known I'd come.
“We meet again,” she said, voice soft. “I see the moon drops worked. You look rested.”
I nodded slowly, unsure why my throat had gone tight. “They did.”
Her smile widened, gaze flicking between Will and Aran, before settling on me again.
“I thought they might. But you have more to learn, child. That was only the beginning.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She turned back to her plants, brushing her fingers across the petals of one with curling, thorned edges.
“The moon drops help you rest,” she said. “But they won’t help you control what’s inside you.”
A lump rose in my throat.
“Show me,” she said.
“Show you what?”
“The real reason you came,” she said. “Your gift.”
My stomach dropped. Gift… that was an interesting choice of words. It had always felt more like a curse.
“Aran told you,” I gasped.
She started laughing like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
“No, dear. Aran didn’t need to. The gods told me. I saw it in my dreams. I saw you. I saw you burn your friend before healing him.”
She had seen me. She knew.
“I need to learn how to stop it from happening again.”
“Sit,” she said simply, gesturing to the chair across from her. “We have much to discuss.”
Her words slipped out with eerie calm, sending a chill through me. I moved toward the table, every step cautious, uncertain whether the floor might shift beneath me. Will was behind me in an instant, his eyes never left the woman.
“Your power,” she said, “isn’t something to fear. But it is something you need to learn to hold. Magic such as yours can destroy, but it can also heal. It can become a tool.”
My fingers curled tighter into my cloak. “It doesn’t feel like a gift.”
“That’s because it feeds on you, child. And you have not yet learned how to starve it,” she said. “The drops were but the opening. The real work calls to you now.”
I leaned forward slightly before I realized I was doing it. “You can teach me?”
“What kind of work are we talking about?” Will stepped closer, arms crossed. “No quick fixes. We’re not here for tricks.”
The woman’s eyes flicked to him, her smile deepening like he’d amused her.
“I wouldn’t insult you with either.” She turned back to me, reaching for a small metal kettle already warming beside a flame.
“I can’t teach you how to use your gift, but I can teach you how to teach yourself.
It won’t be easy and it won’t be fast. Your magic isn’t separate from you, Kera.
It’s tied to everything. To your body. Your memories. Your grief.”
“Magic?”
I’d never used that word. I called it a curse. A burden. Sometimes, on better days, a gift. Magic belonged in fairytales with exciting adventures.
My story was nothing like that.
“The more you push it down,” she murmured, lifting a tin lid and pinching dried petals from within, “the more violently it will rise.” She pressed them into a worn tea strainer, dark petals, almost black, then slipped it into the kettle. Steam rose as she set the lid back in place.
I looked at Will, but his expression gave nothing away. Aran stood stiff beside him, more serious than I’d seen him in weeks, and that unsettled me even more.
“How long would it take?” Aran asked, jaw tight.
The woman didn’t even glance at him. Her eyes stayed on me.
“That depends. On how willing Kera is to face what’s inside her.”
My pulse kicked up. Face it? I’d been doing everything I could not to. If I faced it, I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.
“What do I have to do?”
“It begins with a seed.” She stirred the petals gently with a spoon, the scent already filling the space—earthy, strange, almost sweet. “A breath. A spark. You must offer it your hand before it reaches for your throat.”
“That doesn’t sound safe.” Will’s mouth tightened.
“It’s not.” Her smile faded. “Power like hers is dangerous. I can only teach her to hold the flame without burning.”
A shiver slid down my spine.
“Your power is strong, Kera. But it’s wild. Tied to everything you fear. Everything you bury. If you keep running from it…” She lifted the kettle and poured the dark liquid into two small cups, her voice even. “…it will burn its way out.”
“I know.” The words scraped their way out, quiet but certain. “That’s why I need your help. I can’t live like this. I have to control it.”
“Control isn’t something you take by force.” She leaned in slightly, eyes never leaving mine. “It’s something you become. You learn to guide it. But first, you must stop running from the parts of yourself that scare you.”
Running. That’s all I had been doing. From the fire. From the past. From myself. The thought of turning to face it made me feel like I was standing on a cliff, toes already past the edge.
“Your magic is you, Kera.” Her voice dropped to something quieter, like she was saying it more to me than the others. “The chaos. The fear. The fire. It is not separate. It is trapped, and that is why it lashes out.” She reached for the second cup and offered it to me.
“What if I can’t control it?” My fingers tightened around the warm ceramic. “What if I hurt someone again?” I looked down at the dark liquid, still steaming.
Will stepped in, quiet and cautious, and laid his hand over mine, over the cup, stopping me without a word.
I met his eyes.
Then I pushed his hand aside.
“That’s the fear, isn’t it?” Her eyes didn’t waver. “That the fire will take over. That you’ll lose yourself to it.” She tipped her head slightly, studying me. “But what if the fire isn’t the problem? What if your fear of it is?”
“I don’t understand.”
Her eyes didn’t leave mine as I brought the cup to my lips.
“You have to let yourself feel it,” she said. “All of it.”
───── ????? ─────
I stared at the little bluebell in front of me like it owed me something. I’d been out there alone for hours, kneeling in the damp moss, whispering nonsense, trying everything the seer had told me.
Feel it, she said. Let it come. Don’t force it. Don’t bury it.
Easy for her to say.
My hands hovered over the flower, and nothing happened. There was no warmth. No flicker of anything. I don’t even know what I was trying to do. Anything, I guess. Anything at all, would have been good.
“It’s not working,” I muttered to myself, though the frustration carried through the trees. Footsteps crunched down the slope behind me. I didn’t need to look. I knew the sound of his steps...
“Wish I could help,” Aran said, stumbling into view and giving his muddy boot a dramatic shake. “Though I’m not sure I’d be much use. Flowers aren’t really my thing.”
He dropped down across from me, sweat at his temples. His presence was unwelcome, but I was too exhausted to chase him off.
“Why isn’t it working?” I snapped. “I’m doing everything right. I’m concentrating, I’m centering myself, and... nothing.
I gestured sharply toward the bluebell. It didn’t care about my grief, or fear, or any of it.
Aran leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.
“Well, what exactly are you trying to do?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know what I can do or what I can’t. It feels like... I’m trapped inside my own mind.”
“Maybe that’s your problem. You don’t know what you want. No clear goal.” He glanced over at me. “Why?”