“Bah.” The sylvan tossed its limbs into the air. “I care not for your wants. If you don’t obey, I’ll cast a spell that keeps you lost for all eternity.”
“Then, no music and no sun,” said Trisha cheekily, turning Dapple around. Her knuckles blanched as she clenched the reins. Would her gamble pay off?
“W-Where are you going?” cried the sylvan. “I’ll summon the earth to swallow you both. I’ll command the trees to block your path.”
Trisha didn’t answer, guiding Dapple away from the spirit.
Are you sure?the horse asked, somewhat smugly.In case you didn’t know, I’m hungry,
“Hush now, Dapple,” Trisha murmured, ears strained for any sound. As Dapple trod onward, she willed the magic toobey and released a soft chord. It fell like a raindrop, merging with shimmering light. A rainbow bowed overhead.
“Stop! Stop!” The sylvan appeared in front of them. It creaked like a bending tree; its lake-blue eyes shimmering like an upset child’s. “It’s been so long, mortal,” it whispered, twisting its knotted twig-hands. “I miss it. I miss the sun and the rain. The rot from which life returns. Magic sustains, but it’s never quite the same.” The leaves atop its head suddenly drooped like they hadn’t been watered in months. “Show them to me, and you shall get to your path.”
“Only when I stand on it,” Trisha insisted.
The sylvan grumbled. “You’re no fun.” It pointed its knotted hand to the side. There, beyond the tree line, grew a row of morrowflowers. They swayed gently with the iridescent petals of changing hues. Behind them, a path built of black obsidian gleamed under the twilight.
“Thank you,” said Trisha with a polite nod, tugging at Dapple’s reins. Once they reached the obsidian surface, she turned the horse around.
“Well…?” asked the forest spirit, crossing its gnarled, snarled arms.
Trisha set the lyre firmly on her lap. She sucked in a deep breath, praying for stamina. It had been over a day since she last slept. Her nerves were a confused knot of pain and sorrow. Channeling magic might be the very thing to unravel her fully. It hadn’t been very helpful, chiding her for abandoning Blainor. And yet, she had no other choice.
She tested the strings, her inner strength. Then, when she had no more excuses, she started playing.Please, obey, she entreated as the music spiraled out of her lyre. It vibrated faintly, as though exhausted.
The notes summoned a memory of pale, plastered houses: a village high in the mountains where priests in black habitsblessed the olive groves with a song as old as the earth’s bones. Rooted in the arid land where rain was sparse, the men tended their trees with love and care, regarding a plow with more reverence than a sword. A melody rose and fell. Built steadily into the sacred hymn to bless their yield. She didn’t bother with the lyrics, instead lacing each chord with impressions of the hot sun, the weathered men in their linen toiling in the soil, the peace their action brought, the promise of harvest.
Her magic hummed, softening. She’d found a moment of happiness there, before the road had called her again. Back when it still promised the illusion of freedom, before a pair of pearly eyes saw inside her stuttering heart, before she longed to burn under Blainor’s touch.
The image summoned an ache for simpler times. But the magic seemed to revel in the feelings that hurt her most. As it latched on to the memory, the air brightened. The visions became more solid, almost real.
The sylvan’s face slackened, its twig-fingers twitched, limbs reaching to touch the light. The twilight ebbed like the tide before the golden sphere of that distant place, near the clouds, far south in the mortal world. The forest around them heaved, dappled light dancing on the leaves. A flutter of butterflies crowded the air, their kaleidoscopic wings catching the music’s shine.
And with a final strum, Trisha closed the song; the melody died, and with it, the light. Bone-tired and drained, she released an exhausted breath. She swayed in the saddle. Her hands trembled as the power receded into her bones, warmth dissipating. Tears burned in her eyes again. Why had she left, abandoning the world that had offered her more than illusions or games? Had she made a mistake? Was it too late to turn around?
But no, she was here, on the Morrow Path, and at its end,Tilia awaited. Whether Trisha would be welcomed or rejected, she couldn’t know. But she wouldn’t be a coward twice.
When she looked up, the sylvan stood still. The spirit’s face glistened with dewdrops. Amidst its fronds and leaves, flowers bloomed all over its body—exotic and bright—from that distant and familiar place Trisha had played.
“It… shines,” the spirit whispered, plucking one of the blooming red flowers from its torso, drawing a deep breath. The sylvan’s expression teetered between reverence and sorrow. Then, it hobbled closer and raised its palm with a gentle blow. The flower floated through the air and landed in Trisha’s hand.
“Thank you. Take care, mortal.” It hopped back, its limbs creaking softly. A sharp smile of needles and razor-edged sticks spread across its face, the sylvan’s gaze gleaming like a sunlight-drenched lake. “Next time, I might keep you playing forever.”
Before Trisha could get a word out, the spirit let out a cackle and disappeared. Only the silent trees remained, the quiet pulse of lights afloat between their shadowy trunks. Trisha sat astride, the flower gleaming against her skin, red like blood. Slowly, she tucked it into her hair. Its smell lingered in her nose long after she had turned Dapple around and started down the path. Her eyes drooped, the song’s echo weighing her limbs as she fought exhaustion with each clop of Dapple’s hoofs. Hunger dug at them both. Iridescent flowers lining the way swayed when distant music drifted with the wind. Their petals changed hues from silver to gold to red.
Then, beyond the curve, the sound of flowing water reached her ears. Behind the drooping willows, the dark surface of a river glimmered under the moonlight. She pulled Dapple to a halt, her heart hammering in her chest.
A rich note of linden flowers brushed her nose. Anancient tree stood just next to the riverbank, bark twisting over the thick trunk, its branches spreading wide to support a lush canopy of green. Her throat tightened as she flicked the reins.
“Let’s go, Dapple. We’re here.”
Trisha guided the horse from the road, riding through the narrow willows and ashes before reaching a clearing where the linden tree rose. A pulse thundered in her ears as Dapple stopped to let her slide off the saddle. A few hesitant steps brought her closer to the tree. It hadn’t changed. The bird’s nest still rested on its lower branch. And that hollow in the trunk, her old bed. The same boughs she’d climbed as a child. Everything remained just as she’d left it.
“Mother,” she whispered, pressing a hand to the rough bark. “I’m back.”
The tree shivered.
She appeared—a woman Trisha knew like her soul. A kind face with skin resembling linden rind and eyes of verdant emeralds. They watched each other in silence while the wind moved through the leaves. Moss covered Tilia’s tall body, swathing her belly and chest. Her thighs were strong, and her arms, shaped like sturdy branches, rested by her side. Tiny moths nestled in her leaf-like hair, their wings moving slowly as Tilia tilted her head.
