She walked ahead, barefoot and calm, black hair flowing like ink under the green-tinted sunlight. The path wound tighter, trees pressing in like silent watchers. Behind her, Kael’s hand never strayed far from his sword. Lirael, fan folded at her side, kept her eyes on the shadows. Ezryn’s sharp mind calculated patterns in the vines, the birdsong, the shifting roots—anything that might offer a clue or a trap.
Then, the forest broke.
A clearing opened like a held breath, and at its heart stood a small wooden cabin—charming, untouched by time. Its shutters were closed, its chimney dark, its presence impossible.
They all stopped in unison.
Even Liz froze, her gaze locking on the cabin.
Ezryn stepped forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Everyone stop.” His voice was crisp, warning. “I was joking about the forest being the end of us, but this—” he pointed at the cabin, “—this is something else. Of all the legends I’ve read, none mention a house in the heart of the magic forest.”
“Maybe because no one’s ever come this deep,” Lirael replied, her voice quiet but sharp.
Kael’s eyes didn’t leave the cabin. His grip on the hilt tightened slightly. “Or maybe the ones who did… never came out to tell the tale.”
A silence settled. The air grew colder, heavier.
Liz—who had already reached the porch—rested her hand on the door latch. She paused, then turned her head back toward the others. Her expression was unreadable—half amused, half unimpressed. She tilted her head.
“You all sound like the cowards,” she said flatly.
he words struck like thrown stones.
Ezryn blinked. Lirael stiffened. Kael looked like he’d just been smacked in the face with a wet rag.
This was the same girl who had looked at the world with wonder the night before, who had stumbled through her first conversation, who had shivered when wrapped in Kael’s cloak like a lost bird.
And now, she stood there—dark hair rippling, eyes lit with something bold and ancient—and called them weak?
The silence that followed was almost comic, if it weren’t so dense.
Ezryn cleared his throat, expression unreadable. “Well… that escalated.”
Kael gave Liz a narrow-eyed look, lips twitching into a grin he didn’t quite mean to show. “You’re getting real mouthy for someone who still doesn’t know which way is north.”
Liz shrugged. “And yet, I got us this far.”
Lirael folded her arms. “I’m starting to think letting you lead might’ve been the actual downfall.”
But even she couldn’t hide the ghost of a smirk.
Ezryn stepped forward, the caution not leaving his face. “I still say we don’t go in blind. Let me scan it first.”
“No,” Liz said, softly but firmly.
They were still exchanging barbed remarks when Liz suddenly stiffened.
Her head tilted slightly. Her fingers—still resting on the door latch—tightened, not from fear, but from something else. A sensation.
The door… moved.
Not from her pull.
But from the inside.
With a low, ancient creak, the cabin door began to open on its own.
Kael’s hand flew to his sword. Lirael stepped back with her fan half-unfolded. Ezryn’s eyes sharpened like blades.
Only Liz didn’t move.
The door opened wider, revealing the last thing any of them expected.
An elderly woman stood there—bent but upright, wrapped in layers of soft robes the color of dried leaves and warm tea. Her face was a garden of wrinkles, the kind grown from smiling too often. Silver hair, neatly pinned. Eyes that glimmered not with magic, but gentle recognition.
“Oh my,” she said with a voice as soft as steamed milk. “You children look like you need a roof… and a hot cup of tea.”
She stepped aside, revealing the interior of the cabin.
Warm light pooled inside like honey. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth. A wooden table, round and inviting, was already set with mismatched cups and a steaming kettle. Cushions ringed the floor like petals. The scent of herbs—lemon balm, chamomile, and a trace of something older—floated in the air.
It was the most comforting sight they’d seen in days.
Liz blurted, “And also a hot shower.”
She took a step toward the door without hesitation.
Lirael grabbed her wrist. “Wait—how can you not have even a sliver of caution?”
“But she’s clearly harmless,” Liz said, blinking innocently.
“So was the girl who nearly led us off a cliff yesterday,” Kael muttered under his breath.
Ezryn, calm but firm, stepped forward. His eyes never left the old woman. “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you here? This forest is supposed to be uninhabited. Nothing exists here but trees, vines… and old bones.”
The old woman tilted her head, smiling kindly—as if he had just asked the name of the wind.
“What do you mean?” she replied. “I’ve been living here for as long as I can remember. Maybe you simply couldn’t find me.”
Her voice was light, almost amused, as if their concern was misplaced. Or foolish.
Liz stepped forward, studying the woman with an expression caught between recognition and puzzlement. “Have we met before?”
Before the woman could answer, Kael—arms crossed in the back—interrupted with a half-grumble. “Yes. Do you know her? I mean… she’s apparently lived here as long as you have. Long enough to be turned into stone and wrapped in ivy.”
The old woman laughed. Not a cackle, not mysterious—just soft and unbothered. “Well, maybe fate connects us in ways we’ve yet to understand. Come in now, and let me serve you something to warm your stomach.”
She stepped aside again, gesturing warmly into the fire-lit room.
“I’ve got two spare rooms,” she added. “You’re welcome to divide them among yourselves. Rest a little. The forest always takes more than it gives.”
This time, there was no pause.
Liz walked in.
Just like that.
As if it was her home.
As if she’d been here before.
As if the woman wasn’t a stranger who somehow existed in an impossible place.
The other three stared in disbelief.
Gaping. Silent.
Kael rubbed his temple. “What is wrong with her…”
Ezryn sighed. “We don’t have a choice now, do we?”
Lirael muttered, “She’s going to be the death of us.”
And one by one, unwilling but left with little option, they followed Liz across the threshold.
The door closed behind them with a quiet thud.
Inside, the fire danced, and the air seemed thicker. Not ominous—but full. With warmth, with age, with secrets.
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