The dawn broke softly over the village, painting the sky in muted hues of orange and pink. Nimrielle stood outside her hut, clutching a small, worn spade in her porcelain hands. The patch of earth in front of her was uneven and littered with weeds, but it was full of potential.

‘A healer’s garden should always reflect their care for the community,’ Yeva’s words echoed in her mind. Nim took a deep breath, grounding herself in the memory before kneeling to begin her work.

The earth was cool and damp beneath her touch, resisting her efforts at first. Her movements were methodical, pulling stubborn weeds and loosening the soil with care. The task was harder than she expected; her construct frame, though steady, lacked the raw strength for prolonged digging. Still, she persevered, taking short pauses to brush dirt from her knees and adjust her focus.

By mid-morning, she had cleared a modest patch. A faint breeze rustled the trees, carrying with it the faint murmur of the village waking up. Nim glanced up and noticed a few villagers watching from a distance—two women speaking in hushed tones near a well, a man leaning on his hoe in a nearby field. Their expressions ranged from cautious curiosity to thinly veiled skepticism.

Nim chose to wave, her movements measured. One of the women returned a brief nod before turning away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Back inside her hut, Nim retrieved a small wooden box from a high shelf. Inside were bundles of seeds, each wrapped in parchment and labeled in Yeva’s familiar handwriting. She smiled faintly as she read the names: lavender, chamomile, yarrow, valerian. These would do well here, she thought, setting them aside carefully.

Returning to the garden, she began planting the seeds in neat rows, her mind calming with the rhythm of the work. As she planted, she spoke softly, as if addressing the seeds themselves.

“Lavender for calm,” she murmured, patting the soil over the tiny seeds. “Chamomile for restless nights. Yarrow for wounds that won’t close.”

She hesitated before planting the valerian. “And valerian for peace,” she added, her voice quieter.

The sun was high when she heard the faint crunch of footsteps behind her. Nim turned to see a young boy, no older than seven or eight, standing a few paces away. He clutched a small cloth bundle in his hands and looked at her with wide, curious eyes.

“Hello,” Nim said gently, straightening from her work.

The boy shuffled his feet but didn’t retreat. “Mama said you’re making a garden,” he said, his voice timid.

“I am,” Nim replied. “It’s important for a healer to have one. It helps us care for others.”

The boy’s grip on the cloth bundle tightened. “Mama told me to give you these,” he said, stepping forward and holding it out to her.

Nim knelt to accept the gift, unfolding the cloth to reveal a small handful of wildflower seeds. She blinked, touched by the gesture.

“These will make the garden beautiful,” she said with a soft smile. “Thank you...?”

“Ilric,” the boy mumbled, his cheeks flushing.

“Well, thank you, Ilric,” Nim said. “Would you like to help me plant them?”

His eyes lit up, and he nodded eagerly. Together, they worked in quiet companionship, scattering the wildflower seeds along the edges of the garden. Ilric chattered softly about his family’s sheep and the village, his initial shyness melting away.

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When the last seed was planted, he stood back to admire their work. “Mama said flowers make people feel better,” he said.

“They do,” Nim agreed, standing beside him. “And these will brighten the whole village.”

Later in the day, Nim decided to visit the market for more supplies. The village was livelier now, with the chatter of merchants and the clink of coins filling the air. Nim kept her movements deliberate and unassuming, offering small smiles to those she passed.

At one of the stalls, she spotted Tressa, the elderly herbalist she’d met the previous day. The older woman eyed her as she approached, her sharp gaze assessing.

“Back for more, are you?” Tressa asked, folding her arms.

“I’m starting a garden,” Nim explained, gesturing to the herbs on display. “I need seeds for marshmallow and comfrey, if you have any.”

Tressa raised an eyebrow. “Good choices. Practical and versatile.” She handed over two small pouches, her tone brusque but not unfriendly. “Yeva had good sense about plants. Let’s see if you’ve inherited any of it.”

Nim met her gaze calmly. “I’ll do my best to live up to her example.”

The older woman grunted but didn’t press further.

As evening fell, Nim returned to her hut and knelt by the garden once more. She carefully watered the soil, her hands lingering over the rows she had planted earlier. The wildflower seeds Ilric had brought her were scattered throughout, their placement haphazard but endearing.

The soft rustle of leaves drew her attention. She looked up to see Varan Desirik standing at the edge of her garden, his figure partially obscured by shadow.

“You’ve been busy,” he remarked, his tone as inscrutable as ever.

“A garden is the first step,” Nim replied, straightening to face him.

Varan tilted his head, his dark eyes flicking to the newly planted rows. “A healer’s garden speaks of patience,” he said. “But don’t forget—roots grow in more than just soil. They need connection.”

Nim frowned slightly, unsure of his meaning. “The villagers are wary,” she said after a pause. “It will take time.”

“Time is a luxury,” he said cryptically, before turning to leave. “But you seem to know that already.”

His words lingered long after he disappeared into the growing dusk.

As the first stars appeared in the sky, Nim sat by the edge of her garden, gazing at the soft lines of the freshly turned earth. Her shoulders ached pleasantly from the day’s work, and a small smile played at her lips.

The evening settled over Cedorin with a serene hush, the last rays of sunlight filtering through the trees and casting long shadows across the village. Nim stood at the edge of her garden, her gaze drawn beyond the neat rows of freshly planted herbs and flowers to the dark expanse of the Forest of Astram.

The forest loomed like a silent sentinel, its ancient trees swaying gently in the breeze. From this distance, it looked like a world apart, untouched and indifferent to the village’s bustle. But Nim knew better.

Astram was alive, not just with flora and fauna but with magic—its essence pulsing through the very ground, seeping into every root and leaf. It had always been a place of mystery and comfort for her, a sanctuary where she had never felt out of place. But now, as she stared into its depths, unease curled in the back of her mind.

‘You belong to the forest, Nimrielle.’ Yeva’s voice rose in her thoughts, soft but certain. Nim let out a slow breath, clutching her arms as if to hold onto the warmth of that memory.

The flicker of Lumimoths drew her attention. The glowing creatures flitted among the outer trees, their pale light dancing in the growing twilight. Once, they would have flown to her, landing on her outstretched hand, sensing the magic Yeva had infused into her creation. Now, they kept their distance, their movements erratic and uncertain.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered, though the words were meant more for herself.

The forest gave no reply, but Nim could feel its quiet tension, like a taut string ready to snap. The usual hum of life—the subtle whispers of trees, the gentle rustling of underbrush—was subdued, muffled by something unseen.

She stepped closer to the edge, her bare feet brushing the cool grass. From here, she could see the faint silver glow of the Astram Stream cutting through the undergrowth. It had always been a source of balance, its waters rich with magic that nurtured the land. But now, it seemed dimmer, as though its light had been stolen bit by bit.

‘It’s not your burden to carry alone,’ Yeva’s voice came again, but Nim shook her head.

“It is now,” she murmured aloud.

Her fingers itched with the urge to step into the forest, to press her hand to its roots and listen to its heartbeat. To find the source of its unease and ease it. But she hesitated, glancing back toward the village.

The faint glow of lanterns dotted the narrow streets, accompanied by the distant murmur of voices. Somewhere, children laughed, their joy light and unrestrained. The contrast was sharp—Cedorin, full of life and warmth, and Astram, a shadowed mystery begging for her attention.

A soft rustle behind her broke her thoughts. Nim turned to see a fox with fur like flickering flames—one of the Flickerfoxes she’d often encountered in Astram. Its sharp, glowing eyes regarded her for a long moment before it darted into the underbrush.

“Why are you here?” Nim asked softly, though she knew it wouldn’t answer. Flickerfoxes rarely left the forest’s boundaries unless they were pushed to do so.

Her worry deepened, but she forced herself to step back from the edge of the forest. Her garden, her hut, her budding role in the village—they were her responsibilities now. She couldn’t abandon them, not so soon.

Still, she turned back to the dark expanse one last time. “I’ll come soon,” she whispered. “I promise.”

The wind stirred the leaves as though in response, but whether it was agreement or warning, Nim couldn’t tell.

That night, as she lay in her small cot, sleep came fitfully. Images of twisted roots and dimmed starlight haunted her dreams, and she woke several times to the faint sound of whispers carried on the wind.

The Forest of Astram was waiting for her, its silent call growing louder with every passing moment. And deep down, Nim knew she wouldn’t be able to ignore it for long.