5 — Highsun 20 / 1 — Ash Moon 12
The first thing I noticed was the sound. A faint, rhythmic crackle of firewood burning close by. For a moment, I thought I was back home—that I'd fallen asleep in my garden again, too tired to drag myself indoors after tending the herbs until the stars came out. I could almost smell the rosemary and mint if I tried hard enough.
But then I blinked and saw not the familiar outline of my rafters but the shimmer of constellations through a canopy of trees. The air was colder. The scent was pine and smoke instead of herbs and dirt.
I rubbed my eyes and sat up, disoriented. My body ached from sleep, and my neck complained when I started to move it. For a strange, sweet second, I almost didn't remember why I was here.
Then a low voice broke the quiet. "Finally awake?"
I jumped at the voice. Rowan didn't look at me—he was still seated a few paces away against the tree where I'd last seen him, a knee bent, his arm draped loosely over it, eyes tipped up toward the stars. His silver hair caught their light, a muted halo.
"I—" My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. "How long was I asleep?"
"Long enough to snore through 'till evening."
I froze mid-stretch, mortified. "…I don't snore."
Rowan finally turned his head, the barest tilt of amusement ghosting across his face. "You do. Loudly. There were birds that moved nests."
Heat flushed up my cheeks. "You're exaggerating."
"Only slightly."
I busied myself with brushing at my dress. "Well, you could've woken me."
"I considered it," he replied. "But you seemed… peaceful."
Something in his tone made me pause. I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or just an observation, and I decided not to ask. Instead, I busied myself with the basket, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how flustered I was. The bread was noticeably staler than before, the edges hard as stone. "Great. Another thing I've ruined by sleeping too much…"
"Sleep is not a ruin," he said. "It is the body's way of healing itself."
His tone was thoughtful enough that I paused, glancing at him. "You sound like my grandmother."
"She was a wise woman, then."
"She was… odd," I said under my breath with a fond smile at the memory of her. "But… yes. Wise too."
The silence between us stretched, not uncomfortable but heavy in its own way — the kind of silence that made me aware of my own breathing. I reached for the bread, cheese, and berries again. "You must've been bored while I was sleeping," I said lightly. "What've you been doing all this time?" I asked, spreading the cheese on the bread with my thumb.
"Watching."
"Watching what?"
He tilted his chin toward the sky. "The sky change; the stars come out. They're clearer here than I remember. I've… never stayed long enough in one place to see them come and go."
That made me look up too. Through the trees, the sky stretched like black silk stitched with light. It was so still, it almost felt wrong to speak.
"You never stayed in a forest before?" I asked softly.
"Not as I am now." His eyes reflected the faint glow of the fire. "Once, perhaps. But this… I've seen the heavens," he said, his voice soft, almost reverent, "but not like this. Not as something that moves, or hums, or hides between the leaves. When you are above the world long enough, you forget that stars are meant to be looked at from below."
Something about the way he spoke —like a confession, or a memory of loss— made my throat ache.
I chewed quietly for a while, thinking about what "once" meant for someone like him. Angels probably didn't mark time the way we did.
I swallowed and reached for my bag. "Well, since I've apparently wasted half the day sleeping—"
"Again, you 'wasted' nothing," he corrected.
"—then I suppose I should make up for it by being productive now." I pulled out my grandmother's spellbook, its leather cover worn soft at the corners. The pages smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. "Since I don't have my cauldron anymore, I thought I might focus on… spellwork. The word kind. I can't just sit around doing nothing."
Rowan's gaze flicked to the book, and then back to the flames. "You think reading incantations deep in a woods is wise?"
"It's either that or chew bark for entertainment," I said, flipping it open. "I could use your opinion, though."
He made a low sound that might have been amusement. "You value an angel's opinion on witchcraft?"
"You showed up in my house uninvited; you owe me at least a little help."
His lips quirked faintly, but he didn't argue. So I pointed to a page inked in curling handwriting. "This one says it can summon light without flame. Useful, right?"
Rowan leaned slightly closer to read. His expression was unreadable, but his tone wasn't. "Useful, yes. But you're not ready."
"Not ready?"
He gestured lightly. "It requires controlled intent. You still let your power wander. Until you learn to focus it, you risk burning the forest down—or yourself."
I frowned. "That's a little dramatic."
"Experience makes me cautious."
I sighed and turned the page. "Fine. What about this one? 'Spell of Gentle Binding'—it says it can keep small creatures calm."
Rowan's eyes softened, if only a little. "That one you might manage."
I grinned, triumphant, and glanced around. "Now, if only there were a small creature—ah!" A frog had hopped onto the edge of the blanket, perfectly timed.
"Don't," Rowan warned, but I was already muttering the words under my breath, trying to match the rhythm of the spell.
There was a small pop. The frog sneezed—and a cloud of glitter exploded from its nose before it leapt into the stream with a loud plop.
I stared, blinking. "That's… not what the book said would happen."
Rowan exhaled slowly through his nose. "Your pronunciation was wrong."
"I said it exactly like it's written!"
He gave me a long look. "Intentional magic should be your goal. Power without true purpose breaks itself. You said the words, but you didn't believe them."
"That sounds unnecessarily poetic."
He arched an eyebrow. "It's also true."
I huffed and snapped the book shut, trying not to smile. "You're an impossible teacher."
"I'm not your teacher."
"Well, you should be," I said before I could stop myself. His expression made my pulse stutter, but I pushed on. "You keep saying what I'm doing wrong, so you might as well show me how to do it right."
"I'm not here to train you."
"Then why are you here?"
The question hung there. He looked away, toward the forest, his jaw tightening slightly. "That," he said after a long pause, "is still unclear."
Something about his tone made me quieter. There was weight in those words — something like frustration, or regret. I almost asked more, but before I could, movement caught my eye.
Tiny lights shimmered through the trees. At first, I thought they were fireflies. But they were too large, too steady.
"Rowan," I whispered, "what's that?"
He followed my gaze and frowned. "Stay by the fire."
I stood anyway, squinting, and whispered. "Are those… rabbits? Glowing rabbits?"
"They're not."
The glowing shapes hopped closer, then farther, their outlines bending in ways that didn't quite make sense. They looked soft and luminous, like something half-dreamed.
"They're beautiful…" I took a step forward.
Rowan's voice sharpened. "Ami. Stop."
I froze, but the lights seemed to beckon, shifting like laughter in the air. My heart thumped. "What are they?"
"Forest elves," he said, his tone sharp now. "And they are not harmless."
"Forest elves don't exist."
He gave me a flat look. "And yet you summoned an angel."
"…Fair point." I swallowed.
"They lure wanderers into the woods," he continued, voice low, "until they can't find their way back. If you had kept walking, you would have followed them into the hollows."
My stomach twisted. "Why can I see them?"
"Isn't that what you wanted?" His gaze caught mine, cool and steady. "You meddled with a boundary not meant to be crossed. Even failed magic leaves a mark. You invited what lies beyond the veil. The ritual you performed was powerful enough to open your sight. You tore a hole, even if you didn't finish the spell."
"I didn't mean to," I whispered.
"And yet you did."
For a moment, I could only stare at him, feeling the night press close. Then, quietly, I asked, "So… I'm just supposed to live like this now? Seeing strange things? Being hunted?"
His expression softened, barely. "Not if you learn control."
"Then you'll help me?"
Rowan's silence stretched, long and unreadable. The fire popped softly. Finally, he said, "I can guide you away from danger. But you must learn from your own mistakes."
My eyes drifted to the water, its surface silvered by moonlight. "Do you think," I asked quietly, "that I'll ever be enough? To fix what I broke?"
He didn't answer right away. Then, softly, "Enough for what?"
"For… me," I said, and immediately regretted it. "For my mistakes. For everything."
He studied me for a long moment. "You already are," he said finally. "You simply do not see it yet."
The words hit deeper than I expected. I looked down quickly, pretending to examine the next spell in my book. "Well," I said after a breath, forcing brightness into my voice, "then maybe I'll start with this one."
He leaned closer to look.
"It's an appearance-altering spell," I explained. "If I can manage it, I could sneak into town, drop off the counter-potion for the Duke's daughter, and no one would even know it was me. It's perfect."
His expression said otherwise. "The spell is advanced. You risk unmaking your sense of self if you mispronounce even a syllable."
I smiled. "So you'll help me, then."
"I said—"
"You're already here," I interrupted, "and I feel I can't exactly practice on my own without turning myself into a toad again. Please, Rowan. I'll be careful."
He looked torn between refusal and resignation. Then, with a low exhale, "You are relentless."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
"I'll take it as one."
He gave up then, shaking his head. "Tomorrow," he said. "Not tonight. You need rest."
I nodded, though sleep felt distant again. "Tomorrow, then."
As the fire burned lower, I watched the shadows stretch along the grass, the stars turning faint above the horizon. The air smelled of pine and ash. Somewhere beside me, Rowan's presence felt solid, anchoring — even if he pretended not to care.
I drew the blanket closer around my shoulders and whispered to the dark, mostly to myself, "Goldfield starts tomorrow. The first harvest month."
Rowan's voice came quietly. "A fitting time for beginnings."
I smiled faintly, the ache in my chest easing just enough to breathe again.