Aria knew that better than most. At twenty-three, she had spent more nights under the canopy of the Eldergrove than under any roof. The trees here were older than the kingdom itself, their trunks thick enough that three men standing arm to arm could not encircle them. Moss hung in long green curtains. The air always smelled of damp earth and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun.
She moved carefully between the roots, leather satchel bouncing against her hip. Her boots made almost no sound. That was the first rule her grandmother had taught her: the forest listens. Speak only when necessary. Step only where the earth allows.
Tonight the rules felt heavier than usual.
A low mist clung to the ground, thicker than it should have been for late spring. The usual chorus of night insects had gone quiet half an hour ago. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.
