The clearing revealed itself on a passing breath of wind. Moonlight pooled in a perfect ring on the ground, a pale wood table set neatly at its center.

  A woman sat at its head—broad-shouldered, silver threaded through her hair, her presence warm in a way that made the air feel heavier. I knew her name before she spoke; the forest all but murmured it against my skin.

  Ysel. The Matron.

  She regarded us with a smile that felt both welcoming and appraising, the way a mother watches children she has not yet decided to adopt.

  "Come in, dears," she said. "Make yourselves at home. The tea is just about done brewing."

  Seraphine's breath hitched. "You were expecting us?"

  Ysel answered before I could. "The Forest sees all, my dear."

  Only then did I see the second woman behind her.

  Velka. The Dream Eater.

  She was almost part of the chair she occupied—soft, heavy-limbed, slumped as if sleep had poured her into pce. Her eyes half-opened as we stepped closer, slow and unfocused, and something in the air bent towards her.

  She inhaled once, deeply, as though tasting us.

  A faint tremble passed through her, too subtle to be excitement and too instinctive not to be hunger.

  Ysel's tone sharpened. "Velka."

  Velka settled again. Contained, but not pacified.

  We sat because not sitting felt like a mistake.

  Something rustled behind us—soft, deliberate.

  "Ah, Nyxara," Ysel said. "You took your time."

  A tiny figure padded into the moonlight, barefoot, drowning in a robe far too rge for her. Her sleeves dragged leaves in their wake.

  Nyxara—the Crone, though her body was no older than a child's—clicked her tongue at the sight of us.

  "The girl from the Tower," she muttered, giving Seraphine a gnce like an autopsy. "I half expected you to be dead by now."

  Seraphine stiffened, but Nyxara ignored her, already moving toward the table with the confidence of someone who was old enough to remember when the Forest was a single tree.

  Before anyone could respond, branches above us shook violently. Something tore through them, hit the ground with a thud, and rose from a crouch in a single smooth motion.

  The st to arrive moved like a duelist and grinned like a wolf.

  Ferric, the Warlock. Elves had a certain ethereal grace, but he carried his female body with such masculine swagger. A long braid swung over his shoulder, armor fastened carelessly. His mouth was covered in blood.

  "Hope I'm not too te," Ferric said, dusting off a splinter of bark. "A beast tried to take a bite out of me on the way here. I simply had to return the favor."

  Nyxara wrinkled her nose. "You smell like murder."

  Ferric grinned, slow and wicked. "Nothing quite like it to soften the pate for tea."

  Ysel didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

  "Sit," she said.

  The forest itself seemed to tighten on the word.

  Ferric obeyed without hesitation. He dropped into the chair with a zy sprawl.

  Velka's nostrils fred again—this time directed at Seraphine's chest. Something about the corruption drew her attention like a scent trail; she leaned forward by a hair's breadth before Ysel's hand touched her shoulder, more leash than comfort.

  Silence settled. The clearing waited.

  Ysel folded her hands. When she looked at Seraphine, everything softened except her judgment.

  "Now then," she said. "Introductions are in order."

  Ysel poured tea with the unhurried grace of someone who had centuries to spare. The motion was so calm it made the air feel tighter.

  As I reached for my cup, I noticed a fifth pce setting at the table—untouched, the tea before it still steaming.

  The Pneswalker's seat. Empty, though her absence didn't seem to surprise anyone here. We'd already taken her hut for shelter. Maybe that's why no one commented.

  Despite it, the table still felt cramped. Among the storied figures gathered here, I was little more than an unlit candle.

  Seraphine gave her introduction st; Nyxara frowned at the sound of her name.

  "That's the one the Tower gave you. What was your birth name, child?"

  Seraphine hesitated, as if drawing out words she'd long forgotten to pronounce. "...Ysoraleth Serafina."

  Nyxara nodded. "Ah yes. Over the centuries, I've met one or two of your cn."

  "That's... more than I've ever known," she replied. "For as long as I can remember, I've been in the Tower—" A bck vein pulsed at her throat, choking her next word.

  That was enough for me. I leaned forward before I could stop myself.

  "We need your help—Seraphine's condition is getting worse. She won't st much longer without a cure..."

  Nyxara cut me off without looking up, swirling her tea with slow, ritual precision.

  "Yes, yes," she said. "We can all smell her rot. It's not exactly subtle."

  Seraphine bristled.

  Ferric gave a low whistle, delighted. "So, Matron? What's the pn? The Tower brat's soul is getting chewed like old rope."

  He fshed a grin at Seraphine.

  Ysel took a sip before answering.

  "Your coming here could not have been more timely," Ysel said pinly. "Young Seraphine wouldn't have sted another night."

  Her eyes traced the patterns on Seraphine's neck. A chill came over us.

  "There is a cure," she continued. "But it requires sacrifice."

  She didn't look at Seraphine. She looked at me.

  Nyxara noticed. She set her cup down with a soft clink, gaze sharpening like a knife being honed. "...The traditional method."

  Seraphine perked up in anticipation. I braced.

  "You find a suitable host body," Nyxara continued, voice light as ash. "Take it over. And leave the rot behind."

  The words settled into the air like falling soot.

  Seraphine recoiled, disgusted. "That's—to a stranger, I would never—"

  Nyxara made a soft, ancient sound. Something like pity, but drier.

  "Oh, spare me your moralizing," she said. "It's admirable, but irrelevant here. A new host body is the simplest path. In fact—"

  Her eyes flicked to me.

  "—who ever said anything about a stranger?"

  My heart lurched. It took Seraphine a moment to realize—her chair scraped the ground as she half-stood, one hand coming instinctively between me and Nyxara.

  "I would never hurt Cire," she snapped. Her voice cracked on the st sylble.

  Nyxara tilted her head. "Was it not why you brought her?"

  Ferric leaned back, kicking one leg over the other with theatrical ease. His gaze slid over me, slow and appraising.

  "A fine vessel indeed. Young. Supple." His grin widened. "Pity about the arm, but we've all worked with worse before."

  A jolt went up my spine. It wasn't simply stealing bodies; they inherited whatever spark had once lived inside their victims.

  The scale of it turned my stomach. I wondered how many women they'd butchered over the centuries. How many minds chewed through? How many talents absorbed, how many lives folded into someone else's arrogance?

  By ancient pact, witches only ever took female vessels. It prevented them from siring children—children who would inherit the fractures the demonic process drove through the soul, yer after yer. Lore had it that every such birth ended in disaster.

  The process itself was like a duel. Two egos battled for one body, and whoever's was rger won. And witches had the biggest egos of all.

  And if ego alone wasn't enough, witches had a method to guarantee victory—

  A soft sound stirred behind Nyxara.

  Velka.

  She had been still as stone, half-asleep in her chair, but now she rose from her slouch, spine unfolding vertebra by vertebra. Her eyes opened fully, dark and bottomless, and the hairs on my arms stood on end.

  She inhaled once—slow, deliberate, hungry.

  And then her tongue swept across her lips.

  "Mmm..." Velka crooned, voice thick and dreamy. "Fresh, fertile mind... sweet thoughts..."

  A bead of drool shone at the corner of her mouth as she leaned forward, the chair creaking.

  "I can hollow her out for you."

  The words weren't a suggestion. They weren't even cruel.

  They were instinct.

  Velka's breath hitched in pleasure. I shuddered.

  "Let me eat her memories..." she whispered, almost singing it. "Leave her soft and empty... so you can crawl right in..."

  Seraphine jolted as though shot. "Don't you dare touch her!"

  Velka blinked, puzzled—hurt, even—as though she truly couldn't fathom why her offer was unwelcome.

  "Mmm... but she'd be so quiet inside..." Velka murmured. "So warm... so open..."

  Even Ferric looked thrown. His back straightened in his seat, armed.

  Ysel's hand settled firmly on Velka's shoulder—gentle in motion, absolute in authority.

  "That's enough, love."

  Velka trembled, the hunger sliding back like a tide pulled by the moon. Her eyelids drooped. She slumped again, already half-asleep, dream-drunk and docile.

  Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

  I lifted my hand slightly, unsure if I was allowed to speak but needing to anyway.

  "Is there not another way?" I said quietly. "The Forest Guardian's trial."

  It was a different kind of duel. The one the Mage and the Hero had faced together in the game. If you survived, you came back carrying a sliver of the Guardian's vitality, its natural resistance to corruption.

  Nyxara's brows shot up. Ferric's mouth curved slow and sharp.

  Ysel... simply smiled. A dangerous, deeply impressed smile.

  "Well," she murmured, "that is not a name mortals utter lightly. Nor one outsiders should know at all."

  Her words hung on the st sylble. Seraphine steadied herself beside me, breathing hard.

  Ferric tapped the table with a single knuckle. "Oh, let's entertain it, why not. I've never seen anyone foolish enough to take the trial."

  Ysel's gaze softened—dangerously, beautifully. "It demands a different kind of sacrifice," she murmured. "To face it is to face oneself."

  "The witch has too much to lose," Nyxara said, crossing her tiny arms. "Those who fail it never wake. We do not gamble our souls when flesh is so easily repced."

  Seraphine gritted her teeth, determined. "Better that than killing an innocent. I accept the risk."

  "Then we should begin soon," Ysel said. "Time is short for you, my dear."

  The bck veins crawled up Seraphine's neck, as if punctuating the statement.

  The Great Tree loomed at the far edge of the clearing—a monolith of bark and shadow, older than any kingdom, older than any witch. Its roots rose like ribs from the earth, curving inward to create a natural hollow where the moonlight dared not touch.

  By the time Seraphine rose, Nyxara and Ferric had already scattered, slipping back into the forest with the ease of birds leaving a roost.

  Neither of them said goodbye. Witches rarely did.

  Only Velka followed us, lumbering.

  The Matron guided Seraphine only to the threshold. No farther. Even she would not step inside the roots.

  Cold air spilled out from the hollow.

  "Sit," she instructed, as if telling a child to mind her posture.

  Seraphine obeyed, lowering herself cross-legged into the cradle of the roots.

  The moment she closed her eyes, the air changed.

  A slow pulse of dark magic radiated from her core—faint at first, then gathering strength like a storm inhaling. Bck threads seeped across her skin, curling around her shoulders, dissolving into the tree's bark as though being absorbed.

  Ysel pced a hand on the outer trunk.

  "The Guardian hears and receives her," the Matron murmured.

  I knelt beside Seraphine's body—not too close, not within the hollow, but near enough to see her trembling hands nestled in her p. Her breathing slowed, then deepened, then... stopped following natural rhythm. Her chest rose and fell in patterns that weren't hers anymore.

  I swallowed hard. "Seraphine?"

  No answer.

  Ysel gnced down at me. "Her physical vessel will remain here. Weak. Unprotected. Exhausted when she returns, if she returns."

  My fingers curled into my skirt. "What do I do?"

  Ysel gave me a patient, dangerous smile. "You keep her alive."

  The simplicity of the instruction made it worse.

  I found a stool—carved from a tangle of roots—and pulled it beside Seraphine. Her skin had gone cmmy. Sweat pearled at her temples. Every few moments a flicker of bck vine-light pulsed beneath her colrbone.

  Her nightmares were rising to meet her.

  I dampened a cloth and dabbed her forehead. I steadied her head when it lolled. I whispered her name even though she couldn't hear me.

  Ysel watched me work, unreadable.

  "You care for her," she said.

  "I do."

  Her expression softened. "Then pray, young priestling," she said, almost with respect. "She faces herself now. Not many make it out."

  Magic gathered around Seraphine's spine, curling in tendrils that writhed like ink blooming through water.

  Another shudder rolled through her frame. I squeezed her cold hands between mine.

  "Rocher," I prayed, so softly I barely heard it myself. "Please get here soon."

  I kept gncing toward the treeline, half-expecting him to burst through it at any moment.

  I'd left another message for him. Written on bark, pinned to the old campsite where we shared that meal together.

  I could only hope he'd understood the meaning—that Seraphine needed his immediate support.

  The trial demanded strength of heart. And hers would not st the night.

  Her body jerked once—a small, sharp seizure. I reached for her instantly, supporting her shoulder, wiping her mouth, adjusting her posture so she wouldn't fall.

  "Hang on," I whispered. "Just a little longer."

  In the cradle of the Great Tree, Seraphine's trial had begun.

  There was no turning back.