The shadows of Mirewood Forest grew longer as Elara Ashvine walked beneath the moss-draped boughs, her boots crunching over the tangled roots and soft loam. Beside her, Fig fluttered in slow, lazy circles, his tiny wings shimmering like dew-dusted glass.
"We're nearly there," he chirped, then made a face. "Though why you'd want to visit her, I'll never understand."
"She might have answers," Elara said. "Or at least a clue about what's happening to me."
"Or she'll feed you to her garden."
But as they broke through the last line of trees, the scene before them was…unexpected.
A sprawling garden bloomed wild and lovely before a crooked little house. Vines curled along wrought-iron trellises, bursting with pale blue morning glories. Strange herbs danced in the breeze, their scents heady and unfamiliar. Bees the size of Elara's thumb hummed through the air, and silver butterflies flitted across patches of lavender and moonbloom.
Elara blinked, taken aback. "It's beautiful."
Fig snorted, drifting down to hover beside her ear. "Yeah, sure. Just watch out for the crows. They steal. Little feathered bandits."
A chorus of low caws echoed as if on cue, and Elara spotted a handful of glossy black crows perched on the thatched roof, watching her with shiny, beady eyes.
The house itself leaned slightly to one side, as if it had grown tired of standing straight. The wood was weathered, the paint long faded to a soft, dusty gray. Ivy crept up the stone chimney, and windchimes made of bones and spoons clinked lazily on the porch.
"It's got charm," Elara said, stepping forward. "Old world charm."
"More like 'old world hazard.'" Fig pointed to the sagging front steps with a tiny claw. "Don't step there. You'll fall right through. Broke my wing once."
Elara raised a brow. "I'll risk it."
"You're impossible."
She climbed the creaking steps anyway—carefully—and though they groaned beneath her weight, they held.
A sudden hiss broke the quiet. A long, narrow-eyed cat arched its back on the porch rail, fur bristling. It glared at Fig like he was a particularly offensive moth.
Fig squeaked and ducked behind Elara's shoulder. "It hates me."
He hissed back over her shoulder in retaliation, but his voice cracked, which ruined the effect.
Before Elara could laugh, the front door burst open with a bang.
A girl with tangled honey-brown curls and a patchwork dress nearly tripped over herself in her excitement. "You made it! Finally!"
Elara opened her mouth, but the girl had already launched forward and scooped Fig out of the air in a crushing hug.
"Fig! Oh, I missed your squishy little face!"
Fig wheezed. "She's—she's killing me—can't breathe—send help—"
The girl released him with a delighted laugh, spinning once on her bare feet before turning to Elara with wide, shining eyes.
"I'm Moa. You're even prettier than I dreamed," she said, then winked. "And you've got trouble written all over you."
"Come in, come in!" Moa beckoned, already halfway through the door. "Don't mind the cat. His soul's older than yours."
Fig muttered something rude in response, still peeking over Elara's shoulder as they stepped inside.
Elara hesitated on the threshold—but the moment she crossed it, warmth bloomed in her chest. The inside of the house was nothing like the outside. Where the porch had been creaky and weatherworn, the interior was cozy, golden, and softly lit. Shelves of books leaned against the walls like old friends. Dried herbs dangled from the ceiling beams. The air smelled like honey, cinnamon, and something just a little wild.
A large velvet couch, sun-faded and worn at the corners, sat near the hearth, and Elara collapsed into it with a grateful sigh. The cushions cradled her like arms. Sleep tugged at the corners of her mind almost instantly.
"This… is dangerous," she murmured, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam. "I could sleep for days."
Moa hummed from the tiny kitchen nook, pulling jars and mismatched mugs from open shelves. "That's how you know it's good magic. Rest is sacred."
She set a kettle on the stove and turned to Fig, her eyes twinkling. "So? How've you been, little stormcloud?"
Fig, now perched on the back of the couch, crossed his tiny arms. "Grumbly. But alive."
Moa laughed—a lovely, bell-like sound that filled the space with warmth. "Same as ever, then."
When the tea was ready, she brought over a tray with three cups—one far smaller than the others—and handed them around. Elara accepted hers with both hands, the porcelain warm against her skin. She took a cautious sip and blinked in surprise.
The tea was like no flavor she'd ever tasted—sweet and herbal, earthy and soothing all at once. The more she drank, the more her body relaxed, her breath deepening, her thoughts slowing but not dulling. It was like her soul was finally exhaling.
Moa settled across from her, curling her legs beneath her on a tufted chair. The fire popped softly behind her, casting golden shadows on the wall.
"You're wondering why fate dropped you into my lap," she said gently.
Elara blinked, her fingers tightening around the cup.
Moa's expression softened. "It wasn't to cause you trouble, Elara Ashvine. It was to save you—from a curse."
Fig stiffened.
Moa's eyes glowed faintly now, like moonlight filtered through leaves. "A very old, very bad wizard wanted to snuff you out. But fate—oh, she's a tricksy thing—she spun the thread a different way."
Elara opened her mouth, but Moa held up a finger and began to speak—not in explanation, but in verse, her voice lilting with otherworldly rhythm:
"When truth is buried, fate still weaves,Through thorns and ash, through tangled leaves.The path unclear will soon reveal,If heart stays firm and soul can heal.The road is yours, if you believe—With faith in self, you shall be free."
Silence settled in the room, the kind that felt holy.
Elara stared into her cup, heart beating slow and deep.
"So… I'm cursed," she whispered.
"You were," Moa corrected. "But not all chains are made of iron. Some are woven from doubt and silence. The good news?" She smiled. "Those are easier to break—if you trust your instincts."
Fig let out a low whistle. "Well. That's cryptic."
Moa winked. "I am a witch."
Moa stood and stretched, her arms lifting like branches swaying in wind. "You'll stay the night, of course," she said, not so much offering as deciding. "You'll need your strength come morning."
Elara blinked sleepily from the couch. "Gladly."
Fig groaned audibly. "Great. Can't wait to be strangled in my sleep by that feral beast you call a cat."
"Oh, come on," Elara teased. "You're probably just afraid it's one of your toxic exes in disguise."
Fig narrowed his eyes. "Toxic exes never forget, Elara."
She laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what felt like weeks. The weight in her chest had eased, even if just for a moment.
Later, after a warm meal and a bit more tea, Elara was curled under a patchwork quilt in the little guest nook Moa had magicked into shape. The fire crackled low nearby. Fig had claimed a shelf above the hearth as his sleeping perch, muttering threats at the cat still watching from the windowsill like a smug gargoyle.
Sleep came quickly.
And with it, the dream.