The sun had risen, but the forest held its own time.
Light filtered through the canopy in fractured ribbons, dappling the mossy ground with gold and green. The air was thick with dew and the scent of damp bark, as if the trees had just finished whispering secrets to each other and gone still when Ivy and Tieran arrived.
They had been walking for hours.
"I thought the grief well was supposed to be near the old riverbend," Tieran muttered, brushing aside a curtain of vines.
"It was," Ivy said, squinting at the map Elin had drawn. "But the river's moved. Or the forest has."
They stood in a small clearing, surrounded by trees that leaned in too close, their trunks twisted like they were listening. The path behind them had already vanished—swallowed by undergrowth and shifting light.
Tieran exhaled sharply. "This place doesn't want to be found."
Ivy folded the map and shoved it into her satchel. "Maybe it doesn't want to be understood."
They pressed on, stepping over roots that pulsed faintly with old magic. The deeper they went, the more the forest changed. The birdsong grew quieter. The air thicker. The trees older.
Then Ivy stopped.
A soft sound—barely a whimper—threaded through the silence.
She turned, scanning the underbrush.
There, nestled in a patch of crushed ferns, was a rabbit.
Its fur was white, streaked with dirt and blood. One leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, and its breathing was shallow, ragged.
"Oh no," Ivy whispered, dropping to her knees.
Tieran stepped forward. "Ivy, we don't have time—"
"I know," she snapped, already pulling out her casting thread. "But I'm not leaving it like this."
She cupped her hands around the rabbit, her fingers trembling. The seal inside her pulsed—uncertain, untrained, but present.
"Okay," she muttered. "Healing cast. Right. I've seen Master do this. Sort of."
She closed her eyes.
Focused.
Threaded the memory of warmth, of comfort, of her mother's hands brushing her fevered forehead.
The thread sparked.
Then fizzled.
Then sparked again—wild, chaotic, too much and not enough.
A pulse of light burst from her palms, sending a ripple through the ferns. The rabbit squeaked, flailed, then went still.
"Ivy—" Tieran stepped forward, alarmed.
"I didn't kill it!" she said quickly. "I don't think I killed it."
The rabbit twitched.
Then shimmered.
Then—
shifted.
Its body stretched, elongated, limbs reshaping, fur receding into skin. Clothes appeared—tattered, moss-colored, stitched with leaves and threadbare silk.
Where the rabbit had been now stood a boy.
Or rather, something like a boy.
He looked about twelve—barefoot, wild-haired, with enormous ears that twitched at every sound. His eyes were too large, too old, glowing faintly violet.
"Whoa," Ivy breathed. "You're—"
"A rabbit fairy," the boy said, brushing dirt from his tunic. "Technically a grief grove spirit, but yes. Rabbit fairy works."
Tieran blinked. "You were a rabbit."
"I was injured," the boy said, as if that explained everything. "And I was hiding. You startled me. Then you healed me. Badly. But it worked."
Ivy flushed. "You're welcome."
The boy grinned, all teeth and mischief. "You're lucky I didn't explode. That cast was stitched like a soup recipe."
Tieran stepped forward, cautious. "What's your name?"
"Thimble," the boy said proudly. "Eighth-born of the Hollow Warren. Age: eight hundred and ninety. Spirits age slow, don't look so shocked."
Ivy stared. "You're older than the court."
"Probably," Thimble said, hopping onto a rock. "But I like you. You smell like trouble."
He tilted his head, ears twitching.
"You're looking for the grief well, aren't you?"
Tieran nodded. "Do you know where it is?"
Thimble grinned wider. "Of course. You're standing on it."
They both looked down.
The moss beneath their feet shimmered faintly—like a veil of memory stretched thin.
"But it's sealed," Thimble said, hopping down. "Hidden behind an illusion. Only opens to those who give something first."
"Give what?" Ivy asked.
"Memory. Regret. A thread of truth."
He reached out, took Ivy's hand in his small, warm fingers.
"You gave me healing. That counts."
Then he turned to the trees and whispered something in a language that sounded like wind through hollow bones.
The forest shifted.
The trees parted.
And behind them, a path appeared—narrow, glowing faintly, leading into a grove that pulsed with ancient sorrow.
Thimble looked over his shoulder.
"Well? You coming?"
Ivy and Tieran exchanged a glance.
They were still confused. Still scared.
But they weren't alone.
And the path had opened.
They stepped forward.
Before the light broke.
The attic was quiet.
Too quiet.
The hearth had gone cold, its embers faded into ash. The morning light filtered through the cracked windows in soft, golden beams, dust swirling like memory in the air.
Orie stirred first.
Her breath caught before her eyes even opened— a thread of unease tugging at her chest.
She sat up slowly, her casting threads flickering faintly around her wrists. The ache in her limbs was familiar, but something else was wrong.
"Ivy?" she called softly.
No answer.
"Nia?"
Nia stirred beside her, blinking slowly, her brow furrowed.
"Ivy's not here," she said, voice hoarse.
Orie stood, her heart thudding. She scanned the attic—no Ivy. No Tieran. No satchels. No boots. No sound.
Only silence.
"They're gone," Orie whispered.
Nia sat up fully now, panic rising in her throat.
"They wouldn't just leave. Not without—"
Then she saw it.
A folded piece of parchment, resting on the edge of the hearthstone. Held down by a small charm—Elin's old thread anchor, the one Ivy always kept near.
Orie reached for it with trembling fingers.
Unfolded it.
Read.
"We're going to save you.
Don't come looking.
Wait. Heal. We'll return.
—Ivy & Tieran"
The words were simple. But they pulsed with emotion—stitched with urgency, love, and quiet defiance.
Orie sank to the floor, the letter still in her hands.
Her breath shook.
"They went to the forest," she said. "To find the grief well."
Nia nodded slowly, her eyes glistening.
"They're trying to heal us."
Silence stretched between them.
Not empty. But full—of memory, of pain, of the weight of being mothers who had given everything and still felt like they hadn't given enough.
Orie looked at the letter again.
"Ivy used to be afraid of her seal. She used to flinch when it pulsed."
Nia smiled faintly. "And Tieran used to wait for permission to act."
They had grown.
In days.
In hours.
In choices.
"They're stronger than we were at their age," Orie whispered.
"They're stronger than we are now," Nia said.
The attic held them in its quiet embrace.
Outside, the wind stirred gently through the trees. The forest was awake. But Orie and Nia did not move toward it.
They sat together, side by side, the letter between them.
They did not chase.
They did not cast.
They did not command.
They chose to heal.
To wait.
To trust.
Orie reached for Nia's hand.
"We'll be here when they return."
Nia nodded.
"We'll be whole."
And as the morning light grew stronger, the attic warmed again— not from fire, but from hope.
The forest had changed.
Since Thimble whispered to the trees and the illusion parted, the air had grown heavier—thick with old magic and the scent of damp earth. The path they followed was narrow, winding, and lined with trees that leaned too close, their bark etched with symbols Ivy couldn't read.
The light had shifted too. It was past morning now, but the canopy above filtered the sun into strange hues—green-gold, then violet, then a pale, silvery blue that made everything look like it had been dipped in memory.
Thimble skipped ahead, barefoot and humming, his oversized ears twitching with every rustle.
"This way! Definitely this way!" he called, hopping over a root that looked suspiciously like a sleeping fox.
Tieran frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure!" Thimble grinned over his shoulder. "I've only lived here for eight hundred and ninety years. What could I possibly not know?"
Ivy exchanged a glance with Tieran.
"She's going to kill us," Tieran muttered.
"Which one?" Ivy asked.
"Your mother. Mine. The forest. Take your pick."
They followed anyway.
Because the path was open. Because Thimble had helped. Because they didn't know where else to go.
But the deeper they went, the stranger it became.
The trees grew taller, their trunks hollow and humming. The moss beneath their feet turned from green to a deep, bruised purple. And the air— the air began to pulse.
Like breath. Like something sleeping. Like something waiting.
"Thimble," Ivy said, slowing. "This doesn't feel right."
Thimble paused mid-hop. Turned. Scratched his head.
"Hmm. That's odd."
"What's odd?" Tieran asked, already tense.
"Well," Thimble said, spinning in a slow circle, "this isn't the grief well."
Ivy stopped. "What?"
"I mean, it was the grief well. A few decades ago. But the forest shifts, you see. It's very moody. I might've taken a wrong turn at the whispering stump."
Tieran stepped forward, voice low and sharp. "You brought us to the wrong place?"
Thimble held up his hands. "Accidentally! I swear! I got excited. You healed me. I wanted to help. Spirits aren't great with linear paths, okay?"
Ivy sighed, rubbing her temples. "Okay. Fine. Let's just turn around and—"
The forest went silent.
Utterly, unnaturally silent.
No birds. No wind. No breath.
Then—
A sound.
Low. Wet. Like something dragging itself across stone.
Tieran moved first, stepping in front of Ivy.
"Don't move," he said.
From the shadows between the trees, they emerged.
Not beasts. Not spirits.
Demons.
Twisted things, stitched from shadow and bone. Their eyes glowed like coals, and their mouths were too wide, filled with teeth that shimmered like broken glass.
There were three of them.
And they were hungry.
Thimble squeaked and dove behind a tree. "Oops."
Ivy reached for her casting thread, but her fingers shook. The seal pulsed, but the magic stuttered—too wild, too raw.
One of the demons lunged.
Tieran moved.
Fast.
Faster than Ivy had ever seen.
He ducked low, swept the demon's legs out from under it, then pivoted and drove his elbow into its throat. It shrieked—a sound like metal tearing—and crumpled.
Another came from the side.
Tieran turned, caught its wrist, twisted, and flipped it over his shoulder. It hit the ground with a sickening crunch.
The third demon lunged for Ivy.
She froze.
Then Tieran was there— grabbing the creature mid-air, slamming it into a tree so hard the bark cracked.
Silence.
Then—
The demons hissed. Flickered. And vanished into smoke.
Ivy stood frozen, her breath ragged.
Tieran turned to her, chest heaving.
"You okay?"
She nodded slowly. "You… you fought them."
"I trained," he said simply. "Before the seal. Before the court. My mother made sure I could survive without magic."
Thimble peeked out from behind the tree.
"Okay, ow. That was terrifying. But also awesome. You're like a walking spell with fists."
Tieran didn't smile.
He looked at Ivy.
"You need to learn to cast under pressure."
"I know," she whispered.
Thimble stepped forward, sheepish.
"I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to lead you into a demon nest. That part of the forest used to be safe."
Ivy exhaled slowly.
"It's okay. Just… no more shortcuts."
Thimble nodded solemnly. "No more shortcuts. Straight to the grief well. I swear on my left ear."
They moved again.
Slower now. Wiser. The forest watching.
And behind them, where the demons had vanished, the moss turned black.
Just for a moment.
Then green again.
As if nothing had happened.
The forest had grown quieter.
After the demon encounter, the trees seemed to lean back, watching. The path ahead shimmered faintly, lined with moss that pulsed like a heartbeat. Ivy walked beside Tieran, her steps slow, her thoughts tangled.
Thimble had stopped humming. Even he sensed the shift.
Then it happened.
A sudden throb in Ivy's chest—sharp, deep, and wrong.
She gasped, clutching her heart.
Tieran turned. "Ivy?"
But she was already shaking her head.
"No. It's not me."
She closed her eyes.
Focused.
The seal pulsed.
The bond stirred.
And she felt it.
Pain. Not hers. But his.
Tieran's heart was pounding—too fast, too hard. His breath was shallow. His casting threads flickered erratically, like a storm trapped in his veins.
"You're in pain," she whispered.
He blinked. "I'm fine."
"You're not," she snapped, stepping closer. "I can feel it."
He tried to brush her off, but his hand trembled.
Ivy didn't wait.
She dropped to her knees, pulled out her casting thread, and pressed her palm to his chest.
"Don't move," she said. "I'm going to fix this."
Tieran opened his mouth to protest—
But the seal pulsed.
And Ivy cast.
It wasn't graceful.
It wasn't trained.
It was chaotic.
The thread surged from her fingers like a storm—wild, shimmering, stitched with emotion instead of precision. It wrapped around Tieran's chest, his arms, his throat, glowing with a light that shifted from gold to violet to silver.
Thimble yelped and dove behind a tree. "Oh no. Not again."
Tieran gasped, his body arching as the cast took hold.
The pain ebbed.
The pulse steadied.
His breath returned.
And then—
His hair shimmered.
Shifted.
Turned silver.
Not pale blonde. Not grey.Silver.
Like moonlight. Like memory. Like the seal itself.
Ivy blinked.
"Oh no."
Tieran touched his hair, eyes wide.
"I look like a ghost prince."Thimble peeked out, squinting.
"Actually, you look fabulous. But also cursed. That cast was stitched like a fever dream."
Ivy flushed. "I was trying to help!"
"You did help," Tieran said, still staring at his reflection in a puddle. "I feel better. Just… sparkly."
Thimble hopped over, inspecting Tieran's head.
"Hmm. The silver thread is a side effect. Your bond amplified the cast. Happens when love gets involved."
Ivy choked. "What?"
Thimble grinned. "Oh, don't panic. I can fix it. Mostly."
He reached into his tunic, pulled out a tiny vial of dew, and sprinkled it over Tieran's head while muttering something that sounded like a lullaby sung by squirrels.
The silver faded slightly—now streaked with soft gold and ash brown.
"There," Thimble said proudly. "Now you look like a forest prince who's been kissed by moonlight. Very poetic."
Tieran raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to fix it, right?"
Thimble shrugged. "I'm a rabbit fairy. Not a stylist."
Ivy sat back, breath shaky.
She looked at Tieran.
"You scared me."
He met her gaze.
"I didn't mean to."
They sat in silence.
The forest pulsed around them.
And somewhere beneath the moss, the grief well stirred.
There are threads stitched by legacy— by court, by seal, by duty.
And then there are threads stitched by choice. By pain shared. By hearts that beat in tandem.
When Ivy cast, it wasn't perfect. It wasn't trained. But it was true.
And truth, in the forest, always leaves a mark.