Page 7
The wooden feathers at the end of the ribbon clink softly as I tie it to the tree. I pause, bowing my head in prayer to Dagny, Dame Nature—ground my roots; I am yours to guide.
It’s then that I notice the white rot scoring the tree’s thick trunk.
I frown and inspect it.
It’s wet and spongy with mushroom-like growths.
My brow furrows as I place my palm against the rot, and a sharp pang spears through my chest.
The tree is dying.
But I can save it.
Deep within every witch is a well of magic. It’s nearly bottomless, only refilled by prayers and gifts or sacrifices made to Dagny.
Most witches have elemental control—power over fire, water, earth or air—though they prefer to cast spells and curses or perform rituals, allowing Dame Nature to maintain total control over her domain. Some witches, however, have powers that extend beyond what is found in nature: they can manipulate objects, harm others directly, or enchant items with magical properties. Last I heard, one witch had a steady business in Aeviternal, crafting rings for vampires to help them survive more like mortals.
Among all witches, the most blessed—those favored by fortune or fate—cannot enchant objects. Instead, they are gifted the ability to compel mortals to do their bidding. My coven matron favors such witches, even if that particular magic is forbidden by the Seven—the council of creatures who keep peace among creaturekind in the Wyldelands.
And then there’s me.
Not a blessed witch.
A cursed one.
Once revered as the most powerful witch in the Wyldelands, and my coven despised me for it.
Because I’m a floramancer.
I can summon spirits with flower petals and reawaken the dead through sacrifice.
I can also use my floramancy to reverse pervasive rot like this.
Thunder rumbles far in the distance, and Achlys shrieks his outrage at the sound, swooping down. In a flash of white, he shifts into a sleek black dog with a kissable square head, and races into the cottage through the open door. I count the seconds between each rumble to determine how many miles separate us from the storm—a trick I learned from an elemental witch before I fled into self-exile.
At least five.
Plenty of time to save the tree.
I rush over to the section of my garden I’ve dedicated to a wide array of flowers, from deadly nightshade (for any unwelcome visitors) to peppermint (for unruly migraines) and chamomile (for when I can’t sleep), and yes, I’ve even grown excess heath heather (for broom making, considering Achlys loves to nip my brooms to death).
But to heal and restore, I’ll need a bit of pinkweed to act as a conduit.
Gently maneuvering through the flowers and fragrant herbs, I crouch before the tiny pink seeds. With haste, I snap a stem free and race back to the tree, falling to my knees in front of it. At its base, I dig into the earth, feeling the rich, dark soil beneath my fingers. When the hole is deep enough, I carefully nestle the pinkweed into place and bury it.
Closing my eyes, I call forth my magic. Eager to do my bidding, it surges forward in a warm, tingling rush, thrumming in my pulse, buzzing beneath my fingertips as I press them against the ground and will my magic to dance and merge with the pinkweed’s innate magical properties.
“Heal,” I command. “Restore.”
The world around me bursts into vibrancy, with colors sharper, bolder, and brighter than ever. I grin as my magic takes hold. Prolonging life feels utterly different from reawakening it, and I let myself melt into the sensations burning through me—hope, joy, pure exhilaration.
Silver sparks pour from my fingertips as the white rot slowly peels away, leaving nothing but unmarred brown bark. Deep underground, the pinkweed has gone black with death, trading its life for the tree’s.
I fall forward against the trunk, panting, a giddy laugh bubbling out of me. The pain I once felt when touching the oak fades, replaced by a surge of vitality flowing through the tree—and through me.
The tree will live.
Thunder claps as if it’s proud of the service I’ve committed, and a whisper carries across the thickening breeze.
