The Vhengal Forest was not merely a backdrop to Amriel''s life; it was a living thread intricately woven into the tapestry of her very existence, a constant presence she could scarcely remember living without. Here, she was not just a wanderer; she was part of a vast, breathing entity, deeply entwined with the world around her.


    In her childhood, Amriel had roamed these winding paths with her mother, their footsteps echoing softly beneath the lush, dense canopy. Hours would slip away as they explored the forest’s hidden wonders, a realm alive with possibilities. They would pack sleeping rolls and meager rations, for her mother believed in the forest’s abundance, encouraging Amriel to embrace its gifts. They would venture deep into the heart of Vhengal, losing themselves in it for days at a time.


    Now, as she walked the familiar path, the towering trees loomed over her like wise old guardians. Their noble branches swayed gently in the breeze, whispering secrets as she passed, the rustle of leaves composing a soft symphony of age-old wisdom. These sentinels of history stood as silent witnesses to the invaluable lessons imparted by Amriel''s mother—lessons woven into her very essence.


    Amriel’s memories of the forest with her mother tugged at the edges of her thoughts as she paused to kneel by a stream cutting a silver ribbon through the landscape. The water’s gentle murmur spoke of an endless journey, carrying with it secrets from the far reaches of the Valley.


    Her mother’s voice echoed faintly in her mind as if carried on the breeze: "Listen to the forest, Amriel. It will always guide you if you let it."


    High above, the afternoon sun poured through the spring canopy, weaving a vibrant tapestry of light and shadow across the well-trodden dirt path beneath Amriel’s feet. She let her gaze wander for a moment, taking in the landscape with a quiet reverence. The forest stretched endlessly before her, an intricate tapestry of greens and browns punctuated by the vibrant colors of blooming wildflowers.


    In the distance, the faint hum of life continued unabated: the rustle of small creatures darting through the underbrush, the low groan of ancient branches swaying with the wind, the distant trickle of a hidden stream. It was a symphony she had grown up with, each note a reminder of the forest’s cyclical nature.


    As Amriel walked, ferns and shrubs playfully brushed against her shoulders and hips, their gentle caress welcoming her into the forest''s loving embrace.


    With a serene smile, Amriel closed her eyes and tilted her head back, inhaling deeply, savoring the cool, fresh air of spring. The rich medley of scents enveloped her—damp earth mingling with the pungent aroma of decay, a fragrance that spoke of life’s relentless cycle. To some, it was a smell to endure; to her, it was a testament to renewal, a promise that the fallen leaves and plants, once cloaked beneath winter’s shroud, would soon return to nourish the land, feeding the vibrant life that would follow.


    Some days, she would come to the forest just to lose herself in the awe-inspiring beauty around her, marveling at the dance of both new and ancient flora. She cherished the symphony of sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant calls of creatures—each note a reminder of the vibrant life that thrived in this sacred place. However, today''s walk had a purpose behind it.


    Attached to her thick leather belt, a pouch dangled at her hip, secured snugly by a slender braided twine. It swung gently with her movement, but as she neared an hour into her walk, it remained frustratingly empty. With each step, the pouch bumped against her leg, an irritating reminder of her unfulfilled intentions and the herbs she sought to gather.


    With each step, Amriel ventured deeper into the forest. Her large cobalt eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes, scanned the undergrowth, keenly searching for any signs of life hidden among the shadows.


    Each rustle of leaves and whisper of the wind heightened her senses, yet the mounting frustration was undeniable as her herb pouch remained uncomfortably light against her hip. She could almost hear her mother’s voice echoing in her mind—sharp and unforgiving, scolding her for allowing the stocks to dwindle so dangerously low. That inner admonition helped to fuel her determination, propelling her forward, each step a silent promise to herself to rectify her oversight. The weight of her mother’s expectations hung in the air.


    Her frustrations were only made worse by the shadow lingering in her thoughts, stubborn and persistent. The events of the day—the tome, the words that had burned themselves into her memory—loomed large in her mind, making her feel small and unsteady. The forest offered solace, but even its vastness could not wholly quiet the storm within her.


    The cryptic words of the tome surfaced once more, unbidden:


    "When the last of the Starlight Witches falls, the door to Eternity will open."The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Amriel still didn’t understand why she could now read the contents of the tome, when only just yesterday they appeared only as symbols. And what did it mean? Was it a warning? Or was it just a portion of a story being told? Like the ones in the books that lined the shelf above her bed.


    Unfortunately, the only one with access to the complete tome was the Head Archivist, Master Gilrand. And no doubt he would be more than a little curious as to how she, out of all the hundreds if not thousands, who had tried to decode it, was the one to be able to read its contents. If he believed her at all, that is.


    There was a pretty good chance he would think she was absolutely crazy and have her thrown in the Dreadfort with all the others gone mad.


    Maybe I should ask Mara about it? Amriel thought. The other girl was studying to become an archivist, after all. She might know more about the tome than the others, and Amriel trusted her friend more than the Head Master.


    Amriel shook her head, as though to dislodge the thought. For now, she was content to lose herself in the rhythm of the forest and the quiet, familiar work of her hands.


    As Amriel approached a fork in the path, she paused to weigh her options, her heart fluttering with uncertainty. To her right, the trail wound eastward, promising familiarity as it would eventually loop back to a route she had traversed just the days before—one that had already yielded no signs of the herbs she desperately sought. On the left, however, the path veered north, teasing her with the tantalizing possibility of undiscovered flora.


    However, therein lay the dilemma: the northern path would lead her closer to the mountains, a region she preferred to avoid. This was precisely why it remained largely untraveled. Amriel found herself anxiously gnawing on her lower lip, torn between the allure of fresh herbs and the unsettling unease coiling in her stomach like a snake ready to strike.


    Her mother had never indulged in fanciful tales, but when it came to the mountains, her words were laced with cautionary wisdom. Stories of those who had ventured too far and too long echoed in Amriel’s mind—none of them ended well for those who lingered among the peaks and shadows.


    Around her, she felt the breeze picked up slightly, gently rustling the newborn leaves of the awakening trees that towered above her. Tendrils of dark auburn hair, having escaped her thick braid, danced in the wind, brushing against her cheeks, flushed with the spring chill. Taking a deep breath, Amriel filled her lungs with the cool, crisp air, and immediately sensed the telltale scent of impending rain. Glancing upward through the breaks in the canopy, she noticed the dark clouds gathering in the sky above, a slate of gray creeping in from the horizon.


    “Well, shit,” Amriel sighed, frustration creeping into her voice. Today, it seemed, time was not on her side. “Alright, Amriel, you need to make a choice, and fast. You don’t have all day,” she chided herself, casting a wary glance down the narrow northern path. “You can either play it safe, take the path you know, and head home empty-handed, or you can brave the unknown and see what the north has to offer.”


    Talking to herself felt utterly strange. On most days, Meeko, her loyal forest cat companion, would be there to at least flick an ear in her direction, offering silent support. But today, he had opted to remain curled up on the edge of their bed, likely sensing the storm brewing on the horizon. She couldn’t blame him; it was hard to argue with a cat’s instincts.


    “Tales be damned,” she finally decided, a flicker of defiance igniting within her. “They were just stories, right? Scary tales to keep a young child in line, nothing more.”


    Yet, the weight of the possibility that those stories might hold a grain of truth lingered in her mind, though she refused to dwell on it any longer. Amriel hurried northward, her footsteps quickening as a sense of urgency pulsed through her. Rain was imminent, and the valley was notorious for its unpredictable weather this time of year. Bright blue skies could turn ominous in the blink of an eye as storms swept down from the mountains, and those spring storms could be ferocious. The last thing she needed was to get caught in one—especially this close to the mountains.


    But she had come too far to turn back now; the need for herbs propelled her onward. With each step, her determination surged, the looming threat of the storm only fueling her resolve.


    Amriel’s pace quickened. She kept her eyes on the forest floor, scanning for the precious herbs that could turn this gamble into a worthwhile endeavor. The knowledge that time was running out pushed her forward, her boots crunching over leaves and twigs.


    When her gaze fell on the delicate blue-green heart-shaped leaves of the plant she sought, relief flooded her chest.


    “Finally,” she whispered. “Horissa Vharia.”


    The Horissa Vharia thrived in the dappled light of the forest floor. This one was tucked away among the underbrush near a fallen tree and she had almost missed the plant with its striking blue-green, heart-shaped leaves.


    Carefully, she navigated alongside the moss-covered trunk of the tree, which had cracked and toppled during a fierce storm years ago. Its decaying body now served as a feast for the creatures of the forest floor. Soon, once nature had worked its magic, it would return to the earth, nourishing the young sapling that was beginning to take root in its place.


    As she bent to pluck the Horissa Vharia, another plant emerged like a dark omen from the shadow beneath the tree. Its unmistakable pointed black leaves, veined with crimson, stood out starkly against the earthy backdrop.


    Amriel’s heart raced, and her hand recoiled instinctively. Her long fingers curled into a tight fist, driven by an urge to distance themselves from the dangerous flora. She licked her lips nervously; even without two decades of herbal study, she would have recognized this plant instantly. Almost any child in the realm would know it.


    Khasta Vhar.


    The sight of it sent a shiver racing down her spine. The stories surrounding the Khasta Vhar weren’t just cautionary tales—they were etched into the collective memory of the realm. Wherever this plant grew, it was said an angel had fallen.