The morning sunlight filtered through the small window of Nimrielle’s hut, painting golden streaks across the simple wooden walls. She had barely slept, her thoughts tangled with memories of Varan’s cryptic warnings and the haunting dream of the Astram Stream dimming into obscurity. The dream clung to her mind like a cobweb, subtle yet unshakable. Yet, there was no time to linger. Today, she had resolved to step into the heart of the village and offer her healing skills.

‘If I wait for them to come to me, nothing will ever change,’ she thought, glancing at the shelves where Yeva’s carefully labeled vials and jars stood like silent sentinels.

Nim packed her satchel with essentials: a vial of Soulbinding Salve, a small pouch of Skybud powder, and a handful of Silverleaf bundles. As she worked, the faint glow of Lumimoths caught her eye through the window, their erratic, darting movements a troubling reminder of the forest’s unrest. She hesitated, her porcelain fingers brushing the edges of the satchel.

‘The forest can wait a little longer,’ she told herself, though doubt lingered at the edges of her mind.

The village square buzzed with the sounds of morning—merchants calling out their wares, children darting between stalls, and the rhythmic clatter of a blacksmith’s hammer in the distance. Nim set up her stall near a shaded corner, spreading a simple cloth across the table and arranging her tools in neat rows. Her presence drew stares, some curious, others wary.

It wasn’t long before Garrin, the farmer, approached with his young daughter, Nessa, limping beside him. Garrin’s expression was tight, his unease plain as he glanced between Nim and the small crowd gathering at a distance.

“She fell in the fields yesterday,” Garrin said, his tone curt. “Twisted her ankle, I think. Can you... do something about it?”

Nessa, unfazed by her father’s discomfort, peered up at Nim with wide eyes. “Are you a doll?” she asked, her voice tinged with wonder.

Nim knelt to her level, offering a soft smile. “Something like that,” she replied, gently examining the swollen ankle. “Let’s see what we can do.”

She uncorked the vial of Soulbinding Salve, her hands steady despite the murmurs from the watching villagers. Applying the salve required precision, and as she spread it over Nessa’s skin, she focused her thoughts on the magic within.

A faint warmth spread beneath her fingertips as the spell activated.

(Dice Roll: 12 – Success)

The swelling visibly receded, and Nessa flexed her foot experimentally, her face lighting up with relief.

“Thank you!” she chirped, wrapping Nim in an unexpected hug.

Garrin hesitated before nodding, his gratitude reluctant but genuine. “You did good,” he muttered before leading Nessa away.

Nim exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting to the villagers still watching her. Their expressions were a mix of suspicion and cautious curiosity. It wasn’t trust, but it was a start.

Later in the morning, Feyria arrived, her toddler, Rian, nestled against her hip. The baker’s sharp gaze swept over Nim’s stall before she spoke.

“He’s had this cough for weeks,” Feyria said brusquely. “The priest’s blessings didn’t work, and I won’t have him drinking anything... unnatural.”

Nim nodded, understanding Feyria’s unspoken fear. “I’ll prepare a tonic from herbs. No magic.”

She selected a bundle of Silverleaf and a pinch of Marrowthistle, explaining the properties of each as she worked. Feyria said little, though her piercing eyes never left Nim’s hands.

When the tonic was ready, Nim offered it to Rian with a kind smile. The boy sipped hesitantly, then coughed, the sound softer and less strained than before. Feyria’s lips thinned, her skepticism unwavering, but she gave a terse nod.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice begrudging.

“It’s my purpose to help,” Nim replied softly, watching as Feyria walked away. The baker’s back was stiff, but there was a hint of hesitation in her step, as though she wanted to look back but refused to do so.

As the day wore on, Nim began packing her tools when Isira, the apprentice healer, burst into the square, breathless.

“Thom’s been hurt!” she cried. “A woodcutting accident—he’s bleeding badly!”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Nim didn’t hesitate. Grabbing her satchel, she followed Isira to the woodcutter’s cottage, her mind already running through the remedies she carried.

Thom lay on a crude bed, his leg wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. His wife hovered nearby, her face pale with worry. Nim examined the wound—a deep gash that would need more than salves to heal.

“This will require magic,” Nim said, glancing at Isira. “I’ll need your help.”

The younger woman nodded eagerly, her admiration for Nim clear. Together, they prepared the area, clearing away debris and placing soothing herbs nearby to counteract potential side effects.

Nim placed her hands over the wound, summoning the spell Whispering Roots. She felt the magic flow through her, reaching into the injured flesh to coax it toward healing.

(Dice Roll: 9 – Partial Success)

The gash began to close, but tendrils of green shot from the wound, small roots twisting and curling around Thom’s leg. Nim gasped, immediately using a poultice to suppress the unintended growth. The healing was incomplete but stable, and Thom’s wife murmured her thanks, though her eyes lingered uneasily on the remaining roots.

“You did what you could,” Isira said, her voice warm with encouragement. “He’s alive because of you.”

Nim nodded, though her heart felt heavy. ‘Even when I help, I’m a reminder of what they fear,’ she thought.

Back in her hut that evening, Nim stared out at the darkening forest. The glow of the Astram Stream was faint, its light barely piercing the gloom. The Lumimoths fluttered erratically, their movements more frantic than before.

Her success with the villagers had been small but significant. Yet, the forest called to her with a quiet urgency she could no longer ignore.

Tomorrow, she resolved, she would venture deeper into Astram’s embrace.

The moon hung low over Cedorin, its pale light casting long shadows across Nimrielle’s hut. Inside, Nim sat at her worktable, Yeva’s old journal open before her. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but the wisdom within still resonated. She traced a slender finger along the words, her porcelain face unreadable.

"The Forest of Astram is alive. It heals, it grows, and it protects its own. Yet, when its balance is disturbed, the ripples echo far and wide. To mend what is broken, one must tread carefully. The Hollow Glade is where these echoes often gather."

The Hollow Glade. Yeva had spoken of it sparingly, describing it as a place of profound magic and danger. Nim closed the journal, its faint scent of herbs and time bringing a pang of longing for her creator’s steady guidance.

‘I’ll have to face this alone,’ she thought, glancing at the satchel she had packed earlier. It held a Luckroot Amulet, Glowspore Mushrooms, Whisperstem, and a few basic provisions. Her gaze shifted to the window, where the forest loomed, its edges shrouded in mist.

The forest called to her. Its whispers were faint, but they carried urgency.

At dawn, just as Nim was securing the straps of her satchel, a soft knock came at her door. She opened it to find Isira standing there, her cheeks flushed from the morning chill.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Isira asked, her eyes alight with determination.

Nim hesitated. “Yes. The forest... it needs me.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Isira declared, stepping inside before Nim could protest.

“Isira, this isn’t a simple stroll through the woods. The forest is...” Nim paused, searching for the right words. “Unpredictable. Dangerous.”

“I know,” Isira said firmly. “But I want to learn. You’ve shown me things I never imagined, and if I’m going to be a healer, I need to understand the forest too.”

For a moment, Nim considered refusing. But she saw the resolve in Isira’s eyes, a spark that reminded her of herself—eager to prove her worth, even when doubt loomed.

“Very well,” Nim said softly. “But you must follow my lead. No wandering off, no taking risks.”

Isira nodded eagerly, her grin breaking through the morning’s tension.

The two set off just as the village began to stir. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and earth. As they approached the forest’s edge, a figure stepped into their path. Kalis, the priest, stood with his arms crossed, his sharp features set in disapproval.

“And where are you going?” he asked, his tone accusatory.

“To tend to the forest,” Nim replied evenly.

Kalis’s eyes narrowed. “The forest’s magic is dangerous. You’ll bring its curse closer to the village.”

Isira bristled, but Nim placed a calming hand on her arm. “I mean no harm to the village. But the forest’s balance affects us all. If it falters, so will our crops, our weather, our lives.”

The priest’s gaze swept over her, skeptical and cold. “See that you don’t forget your place, Nimrielle. The village’s safety comes first.”

He stepped aside, but his warning lingered in the air as Nim and Isira continued into the forest.

The Forest of Astram enveloped them like a living entity. The vibrant hues of its flora were muted, and the usual symphony of rustling leaves and bird calls was subdued. Isira’s awe was evident as her eyes darted to every flickering shadow and glimmering leaf.

“Stay close,” Nim reminded her.

They passed a group of Lumimoths, their bioluminescence dim and sporadic. The creatures fluttered in erratic patterns, their light flickering like dying embers. Nim frowned.

“They shouldn’t behave like this,” she murmured.

“Why not?” Isira asked, her curiosity overriding her caution.

“The forest’s magic usually keeps them calm. Something is disrupting it,” Nim replied, her voice heavy with concern.

Further along, they encountered a Thornback Golem—a massive construct of bark and stone. It stood motionless, its thorny exterior glistening with morning dew. Isira stared in awe, but Nim felt its gaze, though it made no move to stop them.

Deeper in the forest, they came upon a Flickerfox. Its flame-like fur flickered chaotically, and its movements were erratic, as though it were struggling to control itself. It turned its fiery eyes toward them, growling low in its throat.

“Don’t provoke it,” Nim whispered, stepping protectively in front of Isira.

But the fox lunged, flames flaring wildly. Nim raised her hands, summoning Astram’s Embrace to create a barrier.

(Dice Roll: 8 – Partial Success)

The barrier shimmered to life, but its edges wavered, barely holding. The Flickerfox clawed at it, and cracks began to form.

“Isira, stay back!” Nim called, but the younger woman grabbed a fallen branch and swung it at the fox through a gap in the barrier. The strike landed, sending the creature retreating into the shadows.

Isira’s chest heaved as she dropped the branch. “That was close.”

Nim knelt beside her, inspecting her for injuries. “You were reckless,” she said, her tone sharp with worry. “But... thank you.”

When they finally reached the Hollow Glade, the atmosphere shifted. The clearing was bathed in an ethereal glow, the ancient trees surrounding it gleaming with silver bark. In the center stood a cracked stone monolith, coiled by a Moonveil Serpent. Its silver scales shimmered faintly, and its eyes were unnaturally dull.

“This place...” Isira whispered, her voice hushed.

“It’s wounded,” Nim replied, feeling the pulse of magic in the air—weak and uneven. She knelt, placing her hands on the ground and using Whisperstem to connect with the forest’s energy.

(Dice Roll: 15 – Success)

A wave of insight flooded her mind. Beneath the Hollow Glade, the forest’s magic clashed with something foreign—an unnatural force that disrupted its flow.

The Moonveil Serpent stirred, its body shifting restlessly. At the edge of the glade, wraith-like forms began to coalesce—Etherlings, their presence oppressive and cold.

“Etherlings,” Nim said, her voice tight. “We need to leave. Now.”

Isira nodded, fear flashing in her eyes as they retreated.

As they neared the village, the weight of the forest lifted, but Nim’s mind was heavy. The Hollow Glade’s disturbance was only the beginning. The forest was fighting against something it couldn’t fully repel, and Nim knew she couldn’t ignore it any longer.

That night, her dreams returned to the Astram Stream. This time, the waters were stagnant, their glow extinguished. A shadowed figure whispered her name, its voice both familiar and foreign.

She woke with a start, the whisper echoing in her mind.

Something is coming.