"Celeste! Are you out here?”

  “I am!” I called back, my head down, eyes transfixed on my hands as they worked. My fingers had long since grown to ache, though it was but a faint buzz, one that kept my attention sharp instead of wandering. As I carefully plucked a petal from the witherlily and deposited it into my mortar, I adjusted the magnifying lenses of my glasses and leaned in for a closer look. The blackened tips of the petal were, as I suspected, not mere pigmentation, but an effect of the fellblood. Threads of writhing black, thinner than spider’s silk, formed intricate, shifting patterns beneath the pale white surface.

  “No. Not an effect,” I said beneath my held breath, taking care to not blow away my specimen. “It is the fellblood…”

  “You’ve not changed a bit since I’ve been gone, have you?” Vasco’s footsteps came to a halt nearby. I listened to him draw ?a deep breath. “Ah, how I’ve missed this.”

  “The air at the Forge is not to your liking?”

  “Hardly,” he laughed. “I’ve no love for the fragrance of sweat and blood and fire. But this? Surely in all the valley, there’s no place closer to Elysium than this garden.”

  My tongue poked at my lips, caught between my teeth as I turned the petal with my tweezers and inspected the other side. “Different here, are you? You’re quite the tricky one, good lady.” I took a moment to jot down my notes, then reached for a syringe. “While I’d never deny you a moment’s reprieve — and I certainly agree with your assessment, and acknowledge and appreciate your curiously unspoken insinuation — I find it difficult to imagine you’re here to merely smell the roses.”

  Vasco chuckled and shuffled his feet.

  “You never mince words, do you, Sister?”

  “I find honesty to be a virtue, V. I only ask that others humor this quirk of mine.” The tip of the needle grazed the petal, just above one of the squirming veins. My teeth gripped my tongue firm as I drew out one strand. I set it aside on a glass dish, removed my glasses, and at last surrendered my attention to my brother, lest his awkward shuffling grow any more maddening. “What troubles you, Brother?”

  Freed from his heroic attire, he once again resembled the boy from my memory, though his shirt was too small and his pants too short. He seemed unbothered by the realization he’d outgrown his old clothes, hands resting on his hips as he stood in the soil and gazed into the orange-violet evening sky.

  The troubled scowl that painted his face disappeared into a smile on the verge of laughter, marred only by the scar on his face. A single glance at the accursed brand stoked the embers of the anger I felt when first I saw it, a shift in my demeanor that did not go unnoticed to him.

  Vasco joined me on the bench and touched his face.

  “I’d have written you had I not been certain you’d scare our poor mother gray in your haste to reach my side.” He flashed me a smile that reduced my boiling fury to a simmer. “I’m doing quite well, Sister. The one who gave me this was not so fortunate.”

  “I should hope not. If you felt the need to put your face in a blade’s path, it surely must have been for good reason.” Despite myself, I could not help but join him in laughter. But too soon, the silence returned, bringing with it the unanswered question from before. “What is it, Vasco?”

  He clasped his hands between his knees and turned his eyes toward them. Tension knotted in his shoulders; his teeth played with his bottom lip as mine did in times of focus.

  “We hadn’t a chance to speak alone yet.” Vasco shook his head. “The fault lies with neither of us, but our circumstances. Mother dotes on me as though I were still a boy, and you,” he chuckled, “you hurried home in a whirlwind to inspect your new prize.”

  He sat upright and glanced back at the mortar. “Is it truly so amazing, this witherlily? I can’t recall ever seeing such a need in you.”

  I laughed and craned my eyebrow. “A rare bloom thought lost for nigh six centuries, and you’re asking why an apothecary might take an interest in it? Perhaps you’ve spent too long engaged in conversation with Lucien.”

  “Be kind to him, Celeste. You know well that Lucien is dear to me. As you are to him.” Vasco added with emphasis. “He’d cross the Dreadlands alone if it were for you.”

  “A task I would never entrust to him.”

  “Why must you be so cruel, Sister?”

  “I am no such thing, Brother. As we’ve already established, I am merely honest.” I sighed and pulled my gloves from my hands one finger at a time. My hands freed, I tossed the gloves onto the table and massaged my joints. “You know Lucien is dear to me, V. Just not in the way he so wishes.”

  “I know.” Vasco leaned back and turned his gaze skyward. After a pause, he sighed. “As I’ve known for some time. I long ago made peace with the knowledge that he’d always remain my brother by oath, never by law.”

  Though Mother often teased me about Lucien’s advances, it was no secret to me that it was Vasco who truly longed for me to return his affection. The three of us had grown up together, too few children in the hamlet with too large a gap in years between them for us to have anyone else. I still recalled the day, on the celebration of my tenth year, that Lucien stood upon the tavern bar and proclaimed to everyone present — all of Spring Hill — that one day he’d be my husband.

  And my answer was the same then as it would ever be. A polite smile and a firm rejection. It was not that I had no love for Lucien. Quite the opposite. He was as dear to me as my brother, but it was that love that denied me returning his. Try as I might — and I do believe I tried as much as one could — I could never see him as anything more.

  When I looked upon him, it was as if I were looking upon Vasco. Had Lucien been the one maimed by a Fellbeast’s claws, I’d have hastened to his side swift as the fairy flies. But I would never be his bride.

  Shaking my head to clear my rumination, I peered over at my brother’s face. His eyes were skyward, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.

  “You’ve not come to propose to me on Lucien’s behalf. Speak, Vasco, or let me return to my work before Mother calls us to dinner.”

  At last he released his breath and nodded. “It is your work I’ve come to speak of, Sister.” He turned to look at me with a fierceness in his gaze utterly foreign to me. For the very first time in my life, it was as though I were facing down my brother on the field of battle and felt the terror of his enemies before being struck down. “Mother tells me you meddle with fellblood.”

  There was no kindness in his voice, none of the fondness he shared only with me. A lie danced on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it and nodded my head.

  “I do.”

  “I see. Is that, then, why you were so eager to claim the witherlily?”

  “It was.”

  “Do you know of the power the fellblood holds; how its presence alone corrupts? How it awakens a violent heart within even kindly beasts and men alike?”

  With every scathing inquiry, I felt my confidence withering as a flower in scorching heat. My shoulders sank. My heart reached into my throat. But when my skirting eyes gazed upon Vasco’s scar once more, a new feeling blossomed within the shame. My hands clenched into fists; my jaw tightened, forcing down the lump in my throat and relieving my lips of their restraint.

  “I do. I feel it burn Mother’s hands every day, watched it drive a teacher to murder Hannah’s father. But, I have also seen the unheavenly strength it grants to the Fellbeasts. How it drives them forward, even on the brink of death. I have seen its power, Vasco, and instead of cowering in fear of it, I have asked if it could be turned to our cause.”

  “What?”

  But I ignored his disbelief and continued, snatching the witherlily pot from the table. I placed it in my lap and turned to him. “Look, Vasco! This is the proof that I am in the right! That this is not madness speaking!”

  “A flower, Celeste?” He asked with a voice choked with incredulity.

  “Yes, a flower! Just as I’ve soothed burns and cured sickness, staunched bleeding and mended flesh. Just as I’ve brought the fading back from Oblivion’s embrace, I might also find the answer within the leaves of a flower! This flower — one thought dead, but born anew through the power of the fellblood!” As my voice cracked. My vision blurred with hot tears. I returned the pot to the table and then rose to my feet.

  “I want — I have to find the answer, Vasco. One that brings you home for good so Mother doesn’t drag her feet through the rest of her years, worried that she might never again look upon your face. One that takes the pain forever from her hands, that ensures the tragedy that befell Hannah never happens again!”

  “The answer isn’t in something so vile, Celeste.” Vasco rose to meet me, gripping my shoulders with gentle hands. His forehead touched mine, but I refused to look at him. “The wicked cannot be stopped through wicked deeds. You risk everything on a means with no good end.”

  “How long must we wait? Until Spring Hill meets the same fate as Northswain? Until all of Willowhaven is reduced to ruin and waste?” I beat my fists against his chest, but they fared no better in moving him than my words.

  “That won’t happen. One day, the Promised Healer will come. And when they do, I will ride into the Dreadlands by their side to ensure that the Fiend Lord falls. Then this wretched chapter in our history can at last draw to a close.”

  My expression screwed into a snarl, my eyes grew wide with rage. I shrugged free from his grip and brushed aside my bitter tears with the palm of my hand.

  “Do not treat me like a child, Vasco! If your answer is nothing more than a promise unfulfilled, then be honest and admit you haven’t an answer at all!” I felt the sting inflicted by my words reflected in my heart. But I persisted, standing steadfast in my indignation.

  “It is no mere story, Sister. It is our hope.” His hands fell to his sides, and he shook his head. “A story you once cherished, as I do.”

  “Yes! When I was young and clung to childish fantasy, I would sit through my dreams, listening as Mother told it again and again. And then, as soon as I could make sense of the letters on the page, I spent those nights reading it in every form it has taken, committing them all to my memory.” The pain in his breast grew; I rubbed my arms and refused to look at him to spare me the ache of his saddened gaze. “But I am a child no longer, Vasco. And I have seen what our hope has wrought.”

  “You can’t mean that. That hope has held fast through a thousand years of suffering, Celeste. It has given us the strength to keep fighting back against the dark!”

  “So, too, does ale dull the pain of an open wound, but it neither staunches the blood nor mends the flesh! Willowhaven lies dying, bleeding sons and daughters with every nightfall, but at least she dies dreaming a beautiful fantasy!”

  My words hung in the air as the last stretch of twilight faded into night. Neither the breeze dared to whisper, nor the crickets dare to sing for a moment that stretched longer with my every gasping, furious breath.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  But as I peered into my brother’s eyes, seeking some kind of rebuttal, it was not disbelief or wrath that stared back at me. His gaze softened, and his frown grew small. With short, careful steps, he closed the distance I’d created between us. Then, cupping my face with firm, yet gentle hands, he brushed aside my tears and smiled.

  “And if there is a wound yet untreated, it should be you that mends it?”

  My teeth sank into my quivering lip, and at once, my fury departed. When words failed me, I forced down the swelling emotion that held them back and nodded.

  “Someone must stop the bleeding and give the world something more than pretty hope, V. Just as you left with the Valeguard to ensure that not even one person is lost by your inaction, if I can mend the wound, even if it means committing blasphemous acts that blacken my soul to save the souls of countless others, then I must!”

  He leaned close, pressing his forehead to mine once again. His hands left my cheeks to draw me into his embrace. This time I did not refuse him.

  “There’s no stopping you.”

  “There is not.”

  “Then my only request is that you take care to not underestimate the powers with which you meddle. You are brilliant, Sister, as the brightest star in the night sky. But reckless pride is what cast Eve down from Elysium. Do not be so quick to cast your light into the dark.”

  My arms snaked around him and held him with all my strength.

  “I promise,” I lied.

  ***

  In the days that followed, I toiled away in my garden and in the Dream, unraveling the secrets held within the witherlily. Though at first glance, it appeared frail; it proved to be remarkably hardy, neither thirsting for water, nor fearing the flame. Birds and insects that might feast on it avoided it entirely. It produced no pollen, but my observations confirmed it should be able to receive that of another, though I was not yet ready to test that theory.

  I soon realized the fellblood that coursed through them had a most promising effect. Petals and leaves that had been clipped the day before grew anew in seconds. My blood raced at the possibilities, my mind frequently returning to the blood resting in my satchel.

  I knew without a doubt that I was closing in on something truly miraculous.

  ***

  “Come now, dear, tell me what’s been troubling you.” Mother leaned forward, the legs of her rocker squeaking with age as she placed a tender hand on the child’s mop of brown hair.

  From where I kneeled beside her, I nodded and offered him a disarming smile.

  “I’m certain we’ve a remedy for you, Chaucer.” As the shaken little thing recounted the nightmares that had plagued him as of late — visions of fire and blood and smoke in the wake of some great, hideous shadow — I fought the frown tugging at my lips.

  His was the third case of the same affliction we’d seen within the week.

  It started with our nearest neighbor, Lucien’s kindly mother. I’d known the woman my whole life, and not once had “Auntie Janie,” as I yet called her, been one to fuss over something as frivolous as an unsettling dream. But as the dreams continued, growing more vivid with each night, she came seeking relief we were happy to offer her.

  Next came poor Eldwin. He was a man loath to complain, but when he beat on our door in the early hours of the morning, an unsettling unease rolled into the hamlet like a fog.

  It could not be a coincidence, nor did I think it some kind of mass hysteria. We’d told no one of Auntie Janie’s dreams, nor would she or Eldwin have troubled poor Chaucer with them. How, then, did three people come under the hold of the same terror? Every detail — the scent of blood and smoke, the heat of the flames, and the shape of the shadow — were identical in every retelling.

  By the end of his tale, the young boy lay across my mother’s lap, his stubby body wracked with sobs.

  “There, there, dear. All will be well, you’ll see.” She turned to me with a raised hand. “Celeste, would you fetch the tonic? The —”

  “The Stillroot Extract. Of course.” I gave Chaucer a gentle pat on his back and slid to my feet. After two visits, we’d chosen to gather what bottles that remained, lined up along a side table near the entrance. I frowned as I took one in hand, lamenting that we were starting to run short and stillroot was not a common find.

  ‘Stillroot…’ My eyes widened and darted to my satchel, where the fellblood phial lay yet untouched.

  “Celeste? Is there trouble, dear?”

  “No, Mother. None at all.” I licked my dried lips and returned to the front of the cottage. I stooped down and showed the bottle to the whimpering little boy. “This, my good sir, is the answer to your plight. Just a sip before bed, and you needn’t fear any longer. When your eyes close, you’ll drift into a blissful, dreamless slumber.”

  He blinked back his tears and sat up. Taking our gift into his trembling hands, he allowed himself to smile as he peered up at me with big, hopeful brown eyes.

  “You promise?”

  With a nod and a smile, I tapped his nose. “I promise! You simply must come back tomorrow and let me know if it worked. If not, I’ll scurry off to the garden and make good on my promise with something new. And,” I added, raising my voice to ensure that the approaching man could hear me, “I’ll see to it that Lucien fetches you some sour drops from Jade Hollow.”

  Chaucer gasped and squealed. “Oh thank you, Miss Celeste! Thank you so much!” He bounded to his mother’s side, aglow once more with youthful enthusiasm.

  “Thank you both, so very much. Spring Hill continues to be blessed by your kindness and wisdom.” Louise said with a grateful bow of her head. We waved as the two of them made their way back down, hand-in-hand, Chaucer chattering at full speed.

  Once they were gone, I turned to Lucien, who stood by watching with a smirk, one I soon matched with my own. Crossing my arms, I tilted my head and said, “You’re quite lucky I’m confident in our brew, else I’d be forced to ensure you hold up your end of my promise.”

  “Is that so?” He asked with a laugh. “So, I'm bound by oaths you make in my name, now?”

  “You are, dear Lucien. Not by me, but by that tender heart of yours. You’d not see the poor boy disappointed, would you?” He laughed again, and I couldn’t help but join in. Nor did I flinch away when he placed his hand upon my head.

  “Never! A Hero’s job is to turn frowns into smiles!” He leaned closer and pointed to my face, his crooked smile on full display. “Ah, and it would seem I’ve claimed yet another victory, haven’t I?”

  I shook myself free from him and turned away. I crossed my arms, but could not rid myself of this accursed mirth. “A victory hard fought, I’m sure.”

  “For you? Always, Little Star.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Mother watching with delight. When she caught me peeking, she cleared her throat. “Lucien, dear. How fares your patrol?”

  “Mmm, fruitless thus far, Auntie Dem.” The playfulness fled from Lucien’s voice. He stood upright and looked down into the hamlet. “Though, I suppose I should be grateful. The fight that awaits us at the end of this hunt will not be an easy one. My only comfort is knowing the Fellbeast is unlikely to stray too close to Spring Hill.”

  “Why might that be?” I asked, my curiosity piqued by the quiet confidence in his voice.

  Instead of answering, Lucien walked down the cobblestone path from our cottage to the nearest Serpent oak tree. He plucked a plum from its branches and returned to our doorstep, taking a wet, messy bite from it.

  “Fellbeasts are repulsed by the scent of Snakebite plums.” He said, its bright purple juices trickling down his chin. “It’s rare that they come this far south to begin with, but Spring Hill may as well be shrouded in a veil by these tart little treats,” he explained with another loud crunch. “Tis a shame really. The beasts know not what they’re missing.”

  “Is that so?” I asked, my fingers gripping my chin as I inspected the juice on his face. “How was that discovered? I thought the plums only grew here?”

  He nodded and swallowed his mouthful before taking another. “True as always, Little Star. V and I have been hither and thither and not seen even a sapling. Twas a happy little accident we discovered with your assistance, Auntie Dem.” He finished the last bite, leaving nothing but a stem he flung into the distance. Lucien turned to Mother with a beaming grin. “The gracious gift you sent us last Spring arrived just as one of the beasts stormed the camp where we’d been stationed.”

  Mother’s face lit up. “Did it now?”

  “That it did! While we wrestled with the vile creature, V took note of the way it kept its distance from him. He’d just eaten one of your delicious little cakes, its taste and scent lingering on his breath and fingertips. Nought but a faint whiff was enough to keep our quarry in a state of confusion. And then, with a flash of insight, he tore open a bottle of snakebite ale and cast it into the beast’s eyes!”

  My hand flew to my chest, startled when Lucien tossed his head back in a shrill mockery of a dreadtusk’s screech.

  “The beast loosed a hellish cry, gnashing its teeth and clawing its own eyes, desperate to be free of the pain. Seizing the opportunity my quick-witted companion afforded me, I charged the beast with spear in hand and struck it down with a war cry of my own!” He suddenly crossed the distance between us before I could blink. A broken stick held overhead, he brought it down with torrential force, splitting the air and kicking up a gale that knocked the bonnet from my head, my hair from its braids, and set my dress flapping as though I were caught up in a storm.

  “Slaying the dreadtusk in one perfect, final strike.” He finished with a grin, his voice low, his face close enough that our noses were touching. His story done, he blinked his sky-blue eyes and stood upright, laughing. “My apologies, Little Star! I fear my enthusiasm may have gotten the best of me, again. Are you unharmed?”

  My eyes damp and hair tangled from the kickback of the biting wind, I forced a breath into my lungs, then let it out with a frustrated sigh. “I am.” I answered in a low, dangerous voice. And I was. Lucien was overeager, but not careless. Yet my heart pounded in my chest, and my breath remained short as I recalled the single instant where my primal mind took control in an effort to process my inevitable end.

  His sharp eyes gleaming like a razor’s edge; his grinning face mere inches from mine in the exact moment that could have been my end. A flush of shame and humiliation came to my cheeks, and my hand flew before I had a chance to stop it. The slap echoed in the silence that followed.

  Lucien flinched, wearing a sad, sorry smile. He reached out with a tender touch, brushing the loose hair from my cheek. His fingers grazed the base of my ear.

  “Do not be mistaken.” I said, flinching away from his touch. “I may not be harmed, but that does not mean you’ve done no damage.” I stormed away, pausing only briefly at the door to sigh and say, “I’m fine, Lucien.”

  For once, he thought before speaking. After a pause, he asked, “You’re certain?”

  I’d yet to catch my breath, or smother the fire in my cheeks. Still, my heart beat as if trying to escape from my chest; my brow furrowed, damp with sweat, and my pulse raced as though my veins ran red with fire.

  But I nodded and replied in a quiet voice, “I am” and it was mostly true.

  ***

  It was several nights later when at last my diligence bore fruit.

  As nightmares spread to the rest of the hamlet, my Dream remained an ever faithful workshop. Sequestered away in the garden’s reflection, my focus was such that I’d gone numb to the way in which the haze blackened and the cricket song had gone silent. I saw, but ignored, how the other flowers glared at me with malformed faces, whispering behind my back in voices speaking my brother’s concerns.

  Just as expected, the witherlilies proved to be the answer. Drawing out their nectar and mixing it with some Stillroot extract, a spritz of Wildekin berry juice, and Sunspire daisy oil — ingredients used for sleep aid, healing tonics, and revitalization — I’d at last found a combination that could resist the blood without being corrupted.

  Holding a phial of the mixture, I gently swished it and watched as the dark threads dissolved within. To my delight, the substance turned clear, almost glowing.

  “My good lady, I do believe it may finally be time to introduce you to your other half.” I grinned and reached for the phial of fellblood. It appeared in my hand with a dull screech, the haze around it growing sharper when it appeared. A third phial appeared in the middle grip of a three-part ring stand between my hovering hands. I placed the mixture on the right and the black blood on the left.

  “Say hello for us, my good sir.” I uncorked the fellblood, and its putrid stench filled the garden. By now, my nose had grown used to its savagery and was unperturbed. Taking a dropper, I moved one part of the mixture into the middle phial. Then, my hands trembling, I took one part of the fellblood.

  As the tip of the dropper neared the middle phial, I heard the flowers’ murmurs grow to a low roar. The night air grew hot enough to scorch my flesh and sting my eyes with sweat. A stiffness gripped my arm, as if my brother stood behind me attempting to hold me at bay. I considered giving into his demand, but then the memory of my brush with death — Lucien appearing before me so abruptly that my very soul knew I’d been allowed to see my death coming only because he allowed it — set my cheeks and heart ablaze.

  With a slight pinch, a single drop of black darker than black fell into the phial. It met the mixture with a savage hiss and a high-pitched squeal that echoed its dying cry. Thin, writhing threads of darkness erupted at the center of the mixture, like dark roots trying to take hold. But within seconds, they too dissolved as the threads had.

  My pulse quickened.

  A second drop. The same result.

  My mouth turned dry; my cheeks ached as my smile grew.

  A third. Then a fourth. Again, until finally, the dropper was empty. The once faint shimmer had grown into a visible radiance. As I held the phial up to my eye with shaking hands, I could see through the colorless, glowing liquid as though it were polished glass.

  No. Clearer than glass.

  Were it not for the glow and the ripples, one might have believed the phial to be empty.

  “I did it…” The words came tumbling out in breathless, gasping joy as pent-up tears spilled down my cheeks. A powerful urgency came over me, and I threw my hands back and kicked my feet, laughing and crying aloud. “I did it!”

  I had to tell someone, had to make it real. Still giggling and squirming like a child on their birthday, I hunched over and wrote the last of my notes, double-triple-checking every detail to ensure they were flawless. Then, I corked the phial, snatched my writings, and raced from the garden back to the house.

  But when my hand gripped the knob and flung open the door, the scales dropped from my eyes and my once burning veins ran cold as ice. Through the open front door, I could hear screams and see smoke rising from the hamlet. With only a second of consideration to set down my work, I ran from the cottage and stood at the crest of Spring Hill.

  Below, the hamlet was engulfed in flames. The people I’d known for my entire life, those with whom I’d laughed and cried, cowered in the streets, many of them already wounded.

  And at the heart of the chaos was a towering, malevolent shadow.

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