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“I’m ready.”
The Glade stretched deeper ahead. The forest wasn’t quiet; it was listening, watching. Sounds faded one by one until only the soft rhythm of their hooves in the leaves remained. The message was clear: They were approaching something sacred. Leora slowed at a curtain of ivy. It parted before them as if drawn by unseen fingers. Wren’s skin prickled when they stepped inside.
The grotto was small—an alcove of cushioned moss lit by mushrooms taller than Wren. Their caps pulsed in gentle greens and blues, golds and purples—a slow heartbeat of color that reflected through the space.
A small pool glimmered at the grotto’s center. Its surface was still as glass but silvered like liquid moonlight. It was the same radiance as the seed pool—shimmering with a resonance that stirred the mark on her skin. A recognition, as if something deep in the forest’s threads acknowledged her in return.
Something rustled to their right. Wren startled as two small creatures peeked out from behind a cluster of blooms.
“Sprig and Cap.” Leora smiled softly. “Her rootkin guides. They tend the sanctuary.”
Neither creature stood higher than her knee. Sprig was a leafy creature, swaying on vine-like legs that dipped beneath the weight of a bright green body dotted with tiny blossoms. It bounced forward at once, inclining its foliage-covered head in a tiny bow. Cap followed at a slower, steadier pace.
He was a mushroom creature—a sporeling like Crumb but older and the size of a small feline—his wide red cap mottled with white spots. Beneath the wide brim of the cap, its small face was wise and calm. It clambered onto a moss-covered stone and regarded Wren with deep, unblinking curiosity.
Waving a frond-like hand as if calling her forward, Sprig bounced toward the pool. Wren reminded herself to breathe as she followed. A figure knelt at the pool’s edge. Moss-soft hair of green and brown trailed down her back, brushing a sage-colored dress woven of leaves and grasses so fine it could’ve passed for cloth.
A circlet of twined branches rested at her brow, accentuating the shimmering seams of golden sap inlaid along her skin. At her waist hung a belt of tokens—bone, feather, metal, vial, stone—one for each type of weaving. She did not turn. Did not speak. She simply waited, listening, as if in meditation.
Sprig knelt. Leora bowed deeply and said in a low voice, “Velhya? They have arrived.”
Velhya exhaled—a sound like leaves rustling over stone. She rose and turned, lifting her hand for Leora to rise. Her golden eyes met Wren’s—smooth as a Duskwane sunset, ancient and unbearably knowing.
Wren’s breath vanished. Something in Velhya’s gaze cut straight through her, laying bare all she’d struggled through to get here. She dropped to one knee and bowed her head.
“My lady…it is an honor to be here in your Glade.”
“Child. You need not bow to me.” Velhya knelt with her. She gently raised Wren’s chin, drawing their eyes together again. “You have endured enough on your journey.” A soft, solemn grace filled her words. “Come. There is much to discuss.”
Chapter 40
Marked by the Cycle
Wren lowered herself beside the pool. The moss was cool and damp beneath her fingers. Even seated on the ground, the arboradin carried an effortless elegance—steady as an ancient tree, yet strangely otherworldly.
Wren glanced down at herself, painfully aware of the tattered performance outfit itching against her skin, the lingering grime her single Stillglen wash could never have fixed. She hugged her knees, mind buzzing louder than Old Man Tarl’s grimbees.
There was so much to say, so many answers she needed, but the words tangled in her throat like briars. She’d dragged the others here because she felt called, but even now she wasn’t sure what that meant. Velhya reached out and brushed a strand of Wren’s tangled hair from her cheek. It eased the fear inside of her, and somehow the words began to tumble out.
“There’s something wrong with the Cycle,” Wren murmured. “And you called me here to…help? But I’ve got no idea how to do that. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“You know more than you think.” Velhya nodded, her soft, mossy hair shifting around her shoulders. “First, tell me, what have you noticed?”
Wren thought back to the strangeness she’d felt within her magic, within the plants. So much time had passed, so much had changed, and sifting through it all was like wading through muddy water. Still, she tried her best to explain it.
“The plants. Their threads are corrupted, like they’re struggling against themselves.”
Velhya nodded gravely. “I have felt this too. The Cycle is no longer in balance. Even here, the barrier strains.” Her golden eyes narrowed in concern. “If it is not contained, weaving itself will begin to falter.”
A shiver flickered up Wren’s spine. “You can’t really think I’ll be much help with something this big. I’m just…me.”
Velhya’s lips curled into a soft smile. “You are a Spirit Weaver, the only one in Thistlehold. That is no small thing.” She brushed a gentle thumb over the silver crescent mark on Wren’s forearm.
The stinging on her burned palm flared beneath the touch. Wren had ignored it in the chaos of reaching the Glade, in the noise and color and relief of finally being safe.
“Your friend with the sword,” Velhya murmured, turning Wren’s palm to inspect the wound. “You have all suffered much on your journey here.”
Velhya reached for her belt. A row of tokens hung from twine along it. She grasped two of the tokens—a bit of bone for Spirit and a shell for Water. The other hand hovered over Wren’s palm. A soft golden light threaded from Velhya’s fingers, cool as river water.
