A Druid elder, hair braided in silver coils, cleared his throat as he approached.
“Members of the Light, let’s not worry the townspeople or surrounding communities with talk of creatures or odd plants. I’ve read the reports, and I hear your concern. Keep up with your finding and send them directly to us. We will decide what needs attention and what is necessary for our people to know.”
Rhosyn’s honey-gold eyes met the Elder’s. Her voice was soft but confident. “If there aren’t any issues, I’ll gather samples. We’ll know soon enough if what’s happening.”
She stepped forward slightly; the sun caught the black waves of her hair. A few strands had slipped free from her braid, brushing against skin that was rich, thewarm brown of a polished garnet. Her freckles stretched across her nose and cheeks like flecks of gold dust. She moved with quiet certainty, unhurried, but purposeful.
Sorcha watched her for a moment, then checked her gear again. The elder took a final bow and, one by one, the Circle turned and moved out, their steps quiet on the stone.
Sorcha lingered. Above, the runic ward flickered faintly, pulsing once before settling back into stillness. She turned to face the waterfall. Droplets shimmered in the sunlight, veiling the falls like threads of glass. For a moment, the roar of water seemed to dull everything else when she saw a pair of iridescent sparkling eyes peeking through the falls. Sorcha moved closer to see what it was when a faint giggle echoed, followed by the delicate splash of water. A beautiful, luminous face appeared from inside the waterfall. Somehow it remained within the falls, its body shimmering like millions of scattered diamonds on water. Curiosity pulled her a step closer; the cold mistbrushing her toes as she leaned toward that glimmering face.
The creature tilted its head, watching her with a mischievous smile as it lifted one hand to its lips and blew a kiss.
A burst of water arced toward Sorcha, like a handful of rain tossed through the air. She flinched, blinking against the spray. When she looked again, the creature was gone. Only ripples remained, dissolving into the rush of the falls. It had to be the Undines. Elemental water spirits, like nymphs, but they blessed their waters with healing powers. Sorcha had never seen one before; no one had that she knew. She had a rising sense that the realm was shifting. She would keep this to herself for now because Lumora still felt safe.
She adjusted the straps of her quiver and headed for the center of town. There was still a patrol ahead and a growing sense she’d need to be more vigilant than ever.
Chapter 4
Look to the Forest
Morning light spilled over the rooftops, the sky was still waking as beams of pale-gold threaded through the clouds. Sorcha crossed the town’s edge, her boots clicking on the worn paths. Her task was simple: check in with townsfolk, gather word from the nearby farms, keep her eyes open.
Just a routine patrol, but the tension in her steps hadn’t eased since the meeting at Skyfall. A cool breeze carried the scents of cinnamon sugar that kissed her nose, and her stomach grumbled in response.
“I suppose the bakery is the first stop this morning.” Looking towards the stone and wood buildings, smoke puffed from one peculiar chimney. It was as though it was trying to create stairs to the heavens but strayed too far right, sat her favorite bakery. Loaves of bread, biscuits, honeyed buns and other sweets lined the shelves in thewindow. “Milis Bakery” gold lettering hung over the open door as a tall, stocky older gentleman walked out, clapping flour into the air from his hands. Milo. He had a strong yet gentle face with the most joyful smile. He dusted flour from his arms, his sea-foam eyes crinkling as he waved Sorcha inside.
“Here,” he said, pressing a honeyed roll into her hand. The pastry was still warm, the glaze sticky on her fingertips. “Those damn deer will be the death of me. I’ll be out of business, and you’ll be out of honey rolls. Wee devils need to be controlled.”
The buttery sweetness melted across her tongue, and she nearly choked trying to hold in her laugh. Soon she was snorting, and Milo doubled over too, shaking his head.
“I’m serious, Sorcha!” he said, wagging a flour-dusted finger at her. “Stop laughing. They’re conspiring against me.”
“Milo,” she said between chuckles, “I highly doubt the deer are holding secret gatherings to discuss your downfall.”
“You just wait, missy. You’ll see.” His grin lingered, though his tone softened. “In the meantime, could you do something about it?”
Sorcha licked a smear of honey from her thumb and nodded. “I’ll help reinforce your cellar door and leave food out to draw them off.”
“Good girl,” Milo muttered, already stuffing extra rolls into a paper bag. He shoved it into her hands, the warmth of the bread seeping through the paper. “Take these before the deer do.”
Sorcha shook her head, smiling as she stepped back into the morning light, the comfort of sugar and laughter clinging to her even as she turned toward the rest of town. By the gossip well, where the older women always gathered to talk, two muttered about squirrels tearing through dried herbs and the forest feeling “off.” Sorcha made a note of it as she thanked them and kept moving. Since her last encounter had nearly ended with her throwing herself into the well to escape their questions, she had learned to keep conversations short. She knew that ifshe lingered too long, they would corner her about whether she was seeing anyone or planning to marry, which was the last thing she wanted to discuss. She’d rather face wolves than the village gossips.
By midmorning, she had made her way through most of the inner paths, looping out now toward the distant fields.
One last stop before circling back was a small farm on the outermost edge, where crops thinned and the woods crept closer with every season. She knew the place; the apple trees were her favorite. The sweet smell of apples carried on the breeze when they ripened. They were a quiet and lovely family. They had sheep, a few chickens, a sweet dog who would bark happily, and they were always generous with apples in the fall.
But the moment she stepped past the gate, she felt it. The quiet that welcomed her was anything but normal, the absence of the barking dogs or clucking from the coop. A heavy, sour sweet stench drifted on the breeze, strong enough to sting the back of her throat. The house ahead wasquiet, but as she stepped closer, she saw blood trailed along the ground to the barn.
The barn door was ajar, its edge splintered as if it had been forced open. She drew her blade before stepping inside. The smell of blood and decay crashed into her.
Three sheep torn open in brutal, careless slashes. A small pile of decapitated chickens lay nearby, sliced up and gutted. Entrails spewed across the barn floor as flies buzzed in lazy spirals above the carnage. Dried drag marks streaked the floorboards, leading toward the back pasture.
A man stood in the shadows, shoulders hunched, his face pale. He stood over a mound as tears streamed down his face as he turned to her.
“We didn’t hear it come,” he said, voice rasping like he’d swallowed gravel.
She knelt down, studying the ground. Wide claw marks scored the floor, deep and uneven gouges. Claws that had broken off were submerged in the blood. Next to it, almost lost in the gore, were boot prints.
