Scene 1: Scars of Storm
Autumn's first frost crisped the cottage's repaired roof, the new thatch still smelling of green reeds. Arnav traced the claw marks gouged into the doorframe—three parallel grooves darker than the surrounding oak.
"Stop dawdling, stormling," Doran grunted, hefting a sack of iron nails. His breath fogged in the dawn air. "The squirrels'll steal winter stores if we don't patch the cellar vents."
Arnav peered at the forest. Birch leaves clung copper-bright to branches, but the undergrowth had turned skeletal. Where the tainted wolf died, he thought, spotting a patch of soil where nothing grew. Not even moss.
Veyra emerged with steaming mugs, her sleeves rolled to reveal fresh bandages. "Drink. Emberroot and honey." The syrup's sweetness couldn't mask the bitterness beneath—a prophylactic against "fever dreams," she claimed. Arnav knew better.
Scene 2: Lessons in Layers
"Focus on the texture," Veyra instructed, guiding Arnav's hand over a bundle of dried sage. Their cottage's loft smelled of aging parchment and thyme. "Brittle means potency faded. Supple lies."
Outside, Doran's axe thudded rhythmically. Chop. Split. Stack. Firewood for the coming snows.
Arnav sneezed. Sage pollen swirled in a sunbeam. "Why can't I learn tracking instead?"
Veyra's smile tightened. "Herbs don't bite." She opened her grimoire to a page marked with a fox-shaped pressed flower. "Now—what neutralizes shadowcap toxin?"
Chopping stopped. A distant twig snapped. Arnav glanced out the window. Yellow eyes flashed between pines. Lira.
Scene 3: The Fall
Afternoon sun glazed the creek silver. Arnav balanced on the moss-slick footbridge, arms outstretched like Doran taught him. Below, minnows darted between pebbles.
Don't think about Mumbai's traffic bridges. Don't think about—
"Arnav! Lunch!" Veyra's call startled him. His heel slipped.
Time fractured. The creek roared upward. Priya's scream. Brakes screeching. His chest seized—
Vines erupted from the bridge's rot-softened planks. They coiled around his waist, thorns biting through woolen tunic. The creek froze mid-ripple.
"By the Bleeding Star!" Doran's arms yanked him free. The vines crumbled to ash.
Scene 4: Fractured Trust
Elder Kael's clinic reeked of vinegar and dread. The healer's gnarled fingers probed Arnav's scratched side. "Most curious," he murmured, adjusting spectacles that magnified milky eyes. "These thorn marks… almost deliberate."
Veyra hovered near the door, clutching Doran's arm. "A blessed accident. The old bridge—"
"—was oak," Kael interrupted. He opened a cabinet of pickled organs. "Oak doesn't sprout moonlace." He held up a thorn fragment glowing faintly blue.
Doran stepped forward, hand on hunting knife. "Meaning?"
Kael smiled, toothless and sharp. "Meaning your boy attracts miracles." His gaze lingered on Arnav's wrist. "The Guild pays well for miracles."
Scene 5: Uprooted
They fled at dusk. Arnav watched from the cart as their cottage shrunk to a speck, Lira's silhouette watching from the roof.
"Where?" he asked, clutching the grimoire Veyra had shoved into his hands.
"South," Doran said, cracking a whip. "Where stone drowns magic."
Veyra stroked Arnav's hair, her pendant cold against his scalp. "Sleep, stormling. Dream of—"
A howl pierced the night. Not wolf. Not bear. Something with too many joints.
The cart lurched. Arnav's palm slapped the wooden rail. Roots burst from the road, tangling the wheels. Unconscious. Unintended.
Chop. Split. Stack. Doran's axe flashed in moonlight.