The morning began in silence, the kind that clung to the air like a damp mist. Nim stirred in her small hut, the frost-covered window letting in pale streaks of dawn. She rose with care, her porcelain-like limbs creaking softly as she stretched. The villagers would already be awake, bustling about their tasks, but none of their noise reached her anymore. They stayed away, even their whispers muted when she was nearby.

She brushed a hand across the smooth surface of her table, where Yeva’s journal sat open. The pages were weathered, filled with scrawling notes and diagrams of plants, rituals, and warnings. Nim traced the edge of a sketch absently, her thoughts drifting back to Yeva’s voice: firm yet patient, always reminding her to listen to the forest’s whispers.

'The forest speaks before it shouts,' Yeva had said once, handing Nim a freshly pressed vial of salve. 'You must hear its murmurs before the screams come.'

Nim sighed and closed the journal, slipping it into her satchel. She wouldn’t hear screams today—not if she paid attention.

The forest greeted her with its usual array of scents and sounds. Fallen leaves crackled underfoot as she stepped into its embrace, her bag slung over one shoulder. The chill of the air didn’t bother her as it might have a human, though she noted the frost creeping farther than usual along the edges of the path.

She crouched by a patch of Marrowthistle, inspecting the spiny leaves for signs of rot. The plant seemed healthy enough, but the soil beneath it was loose, as though the roots had struggled to anchor. Nim frowned, brushing dirt aside to check for grubs or disease but found nothing unusual.

The breeze stirred the branches above, carrying with it a faint metallic tang. She paused, inhaling deeply. It wasn’t uncommon for the forest’s magic to alter the air after a storm or a particularly strong ritual, but there had been no storms lately, and her own spells had been weak and scattered.

'Perhaps it’s just the season,' she thought, though her fingers clenched around the leaf she was plucking.

Deeper into the woods, the signs became harder to dismiss. A tree she relied on for bark resin stood stark and sickly, its trunk marked with blackened veins that pulsed faintly when touched. She recoiled, wiping her hand on her cloak, though no residue remained.

Farther along, she found tracks—small, delicate hoofprints circling wildly before disappearing into the underbrush. A deer, most likely, though the erratic pattern suggested fear. She crouched to examine the trail more closely. The leaves nearby were undisturbed, and no predators’ marks accompanied the tracks. Whatever the animal had fled from, it had done so alone.

Her thoughts wandered to the Etherlings she had seen before. Their presence had grown stronger since the Heartstone fractured, but they rarely ventured this far into the forest’s outer reaches. Still, the subtle traces—scorched marks on bark, claw-like grooves in the soil—were unmistakable.

By midday, Nim’s bag was only half-filled. She stared at the last of the Silverleaf she had picked, its edges curled slightly as though it had withered before being harvested. Whisperstem, a plant she often used for focus potions, was nearly impossible to find today, and the small patch she did discover was dim and stunted.

When she reached for Astram Ivy near an ancient oak, its tendrils moved unnaturally, curling toward her hand as if alive. She yanked her fingers back, her chest tightening. The ivy’s faint luminescence flickered, and she took another step away, unwilling to disturb it further.

She stood there for a long moment, staring at the forest around her. The shadows between the trees seemed darker, as though the light struggled to penetrate the canopy. The usual sounds of birds and rustling leaves were distant, muted.

'The forest isn’t well,' she thought, her chest heavy with unease. 'And neither am I, if I ignore this.'

The village came into view as the sun began its descent, its warm glow dimmed by the thickening clouds. Nim stayed near the tree line, watching as the villagers moved about their routines. Mira and Elsen, the twin shepherds, argued over a broken fence. Garrin hauled firewood, his son trailing behind him. None of them glanced her way.

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Her gaze lingered on Isira’s window for a moment before turning away. Isira had been the only one to try mending the bridge between them, but Nim hadn’t seen her since the Etherling attack. Perhaps it was better this way—less risk for everyone involved.

She slipped back to her hut without being noticed, her steps soft and deliberate. Inside, the air was stale and cool. She set her satchel down, pulling out the day’s meager haul. As she sorted the plants, the weight of her isolation pressed against her.

The forest needed her, but the village would never see that. To them, she was an outsider, a threat, a burden.

“I’ll prove them wrong,” she whispered to herself, her voice steady despite the hollow ache in her chest. “I’ll fix this, no matter what it takes.”

She turned to the window, her eyes settling on the darkened outline of the forest. For a moment, it felt as though the trees were staring back, waiting.

The next morning came shrouded in a pale fog, clinging to the ground and muting the colors of the world outside Nim’s hut. The frost from the previous day had deepened, coating the brittle grass and edges of her roof with a crystalline sheen. Nim stood by the window, her fingers idly tracing the frost's patterns as she mulled over her plan. The forest's subtle signs of distress lingered in her thoughts, each fragment a puzzle piece she needed to fit together.

Her satchel sat on the table, its meager contents neatly arranged. The Whisperstem was already steeping in a pot, releasing a faint, sharp aroma that cut through the cold. Beside it, a carefully separated handful of Silverleaf soaked in a shallow dish of water, its essence drawn out for salve-making. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

'I need more,' she thought, turning away from the window. 'If the forest is going to heal, I need to be ready for worse than withered leaves and frightened animals.'

She reached for Yeva’s journal, flipping through the pages with practiced care. The entries on magical disturbances were sparse but pointed.

“Where there is decay, look for strength. Nature balances itself if you know where to look.”

The words felt like a gentle nudge from Yeva, urging her forward. She paused on a sketch of Glowspore Mushrooms, the page annotated with notes about their unusual growth patterns. They thrived in decaying wood but drew on the remnants of life to create powerful healing properties. If decay was spreading, Glowspores might already be growing where the forest was weakest.

Nim’s gaze settled on her gathering tools near the door. It was decided—today, she’d search for Glowspores.

The fog clung to the forest as she ventured deeper than usual, her steps muffled by the damp earth. The trees here were older, their trunks gnarled and twisted as if shaped by unseen hands. Nim’s breath misted in the air, a reminder of the chill that lingered despite her lack of warmth.

She scanned the area, looking for the telltale glow of the mushrooms in shaded hollows or beneath fallen logs. Instead, she found something else.

A patch of Veilbloom vines—rare, mythic even—curled along a dying tree. Their pale white petals seemed to pulse faintly, their light almost imperceptible in the fog. Nim knelt to examine them, her porcelain fingers brushing the edge of a petal. The vines were thin and fragile, more so than Yeva’s journal suggested.

Veilbloom’s presence meant the forest was desperate. It only grew where the balance of life and death was in flux. A shiver ran through her, though not from the cold.

'This isn’t a good sign,' she thought, carefully plucking a single bloom and storing it in a small vial. 'But it’s a start.'

As the morning wore on, Nim found more signs of decay. A patch of moss she once used for poultices had turned black, crumbling to ash at her touch. The frost reached deeper into the woods than it should have, clinging to roots and leaves in places the sunlight barely reached.

Still, the Glowspores eluded her. She pressed onward, moving with quiet determination.

Her search led her to a clearing where the air felt heavy, almost oppressive. The ground was soft beneath her feet, littered with fallen branches and rotting leaves. In the center, a large, ancient stump stood, its surface dotted with faintly glowing mushrooms.

Glowspores.

Relief coursed through Nim as she approached the stump. She crouched low, examining the cluster. Their light was dim, weaker than it should have been, but they were intact. She reached into her satchel for a small knife, carefully harvesting a few caps and stems.

As she worked, the air shifted. A faint, familiar hum reached her ears—a sound that sent a chill through her. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like the distant echo of a song.

She froze, her hand hovering over the last mushroom. Her gaze darted around the clearing, searching for the source of the sound. The fog seemed to thicken, the edges of the clearing blurring as if the forest itself was closing in.

'Etherlings,' she thought, her chest tightening.

Nim didn’t move, her senses straining as she tried to pinpoint the disturbance. The hum grew louder, a low, resonant vibration that prickled along her skin. It wasn’t like the Etherling she’d faced with Isira—this one felt different, more subdued.

She slowly rose to her feet, clutching the mushrooms in one hand and her satchel in the other. The forest around her remained still, yet the feeling of being watched was unmistakable.

'Not today,' she told herself, steeling her resolve. 'I’m not ready for another fight.'

With careful, measured steps, she backed away from the clearing. The hum persisted, but the presence didn’t follow. By the time she reached the safety of the main path, the sound had faded, leaving only the rustle of leaves in its wake.

When she returned to her hut, the weight of the day pressed down on her. She set the Glowspores on the table, their faint light flickering weakly. The Veilbloom vial sat beside them, its petals slightly wilted.

Nim sat down heavily, her head in her hands. The forest’s sickness was spreading faster than she’d feared, and the signs were becoming harder to ignore.

Still, she couldn’t turn to the villagers for help. They wouldn’t believe her, and even if they did, they’d see it as her fault.

“I’ll fix this,” she whispered into the quiet of her home, her voice firm despite the doubt gnawing at her.

She glanced at the Glowspores, their faint light a small comfort in the growing darkness.