The last ingredient I needed for my masterpiece of culinary sabotage was elusive, rare, and annoyingly specific: silverthorn mushrooms.
These little fungi were as temperamental as they were hard to find, only growing in damp, shadowy groves where the moonlight filtered through just so.
They were finicky and picky, much like Maeve, though thankfully less likely to throw magical attacks my way.
I tightened the strap on my pouch and set out deeper into the forest, the morning sun climbing higher and casting a golden glow on the greenery.
Alicia was still fast asleep back in the cave—good. She'd only slow me down with her endless questions and "helpful" suggestions, which, if history was any indication, usually involved more chaos than productivity.
The forest thickened as I ventured farther, the canopy above blotting out most of the sunlight. It was cooler here, the air damp with the scent of moss and rich earth.
