---
The moon rose early that evening, pale and swollen over Eldhollow, casting silver light across the frost-hardened fields. It watched in silence as the village held its breath—quiet, expectant, like a beast waiting for a reason to roar.
Elia Thornbrook moved through the trees with a basket under one arm and a dagger tucked into her boot. Not for fighting—she wasn't stupid enough to think she'd survive a fight—but for the herbs that clung stubbornly to the frozen ground. A cut root was easier than a cut throat. And in Eldhollow, both could get you burned.
She crouched near a stump, brushing back brittle leaves to uncover a stubborn cluster of devil's nettle. The villagers would call it cursed. She called it medicine.
"Elia." His voice came from behind, low and breathless. "You shouldn't be out here."
She didn't look up. "And yet, here you are."
Thorne Hale stepped into view, cloak half undone, dark curls escaping his hood. He looked like he'd run the whole way from town.
"They're meeting again," he said. "The reverend, my father—half the council. They're talking about Mara. About your family."
Elia straightened, stiffening. "What about her?"
"Strange dreams. Visions. Someone said she speaks in her sleep, says things she shouldn't know. They think your mother taught her."
"She's eleven," Elia snapped. "She still thinks clouds are alive."
Thorne ran a hand through his hair, guilt painting his face. "I'm not saying they're right. But you know what it takes for them to start looking."
"They already are." She slung the basket over her arm. "They always have been. They just waited for someone small enough to grab."
They stood in silence, cold air biting between them. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then stopped.
"I could talk to my father," Thorne said. "Maybe stall them."
"You're his shame," she said quietly. "You don't even believe what he does, and that scares him more than devils ever could."
Thorne didn't argue. He stepped closer, close enough for her to smell the woodsmoke on his coat, see the flicker of fear behind his eyes—not for himself, but for her.
"You should run," he whispered. "Now. Take Mara. Go before they come with ropes and prayers."
She looked up at the sky. The moon had climbed higher now, glowing full and white above the treetops. It looked like a noose.
"I'm tired of running from people who call themselves holy," she said. "Let them come."
"Elia—"
"Go home, Thorne," she said, turning away. "Before someone sees you with a witch."
He didn't leave. He reached out, took her hand—the same hand that had stolen fever from a child's skin just days ago, the one that smelled faintly of nettle and earth. For a moment, neither of them breathed.
"If I go," he said, "it won't be far."
Then he was gone, the crunch of his boots swallowed by trees.
Elia stood alone beneath the hanging moon, hand still warm where he'd touched it, basket heavy at her side.
Tomorrow would bring whispers. And whispers, in Eldhollow, were always a prelude to fire.
---
The heat had gone cold again. Elia knelt by the blackened logs, striking flint with trembling fingers. Sparks caught the dry moss, and slowly, the fire returned—weak and shivering, like the girl curled on the mat beside it.
Mara hadn't spoken since morning. She only stared at the wall, eyes wide and unfocused, lips twitching as if caught between words and prayers. Her fingers twitched against the floor, tracing patterns in the ash.
"Elia," her mother whispered. "She did it again."
Elia rose. "What?"
"In her sleep." Her mother held a cracked clay bowl of broth, untouched. "She said your name. Said you were in the woods, bleeding. She even knew what herbs you had."
Elia glanced down. The scent of nettle and wormroot still clung to her clothes. "She's guessing."
"No, she isn't."
She didn't answer. She crouched beside Mara, brushing the girl's dark hair from her damp forehead. Mara, she said softly. "Can you hear me?"
A blink. A tremble.
"Elia?" Mara's voice was barely a breath. "They're coming for you."
A silence followed, thick as mud. Even the fire seemed to pause.
"Who told you that?" Elia asked.
"I don't know." Mara looked up at her. "But you should run."
Elia didn't flinch. She had already heard it once that day—from a boy who kissed her like he meant to save her, and left like he knew he couldn't.
She stood, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "She's afraid. That's all. She hears the gossip and dreams it back."
"She never used to talk in her sleep," her mother said. "Not until last week."
Elia turned to the heat. The ash was thick there. Grey. In the center, Mara had drawn something. A crooked circle, jagged lines slicing through it like thorns.
"You need to stop going into the woods," her mother said behind her. "They're watching you."
"They've always watched."
"They're not whispering this time. They're listening for proof."
Elia didn't answer. She crouched, swept the symbol into dust, and added more wood to the fire. It caught quickly now, dancing orange over their anxious faces.
As night deepened, Elia sat awake while her family slept. She could still feel Thorne's hand in hers. Still hear Mara's voice echoing beneath the quiet crackle of flame.
They're coming for you.
She stared into the fire until it looked like a gallows.
And then she stared longer, until it didn't.
---
The church bells rang just before dawn. Three slow chimes. No sermon had been announced, yet the villagers came anyway—called by the sound, and by fear dressed as faith.
Inside the chapel, Reverend Halden stood beneath the wooden cross like a statue carved from shadow. He waited without speaking as boots shuffled in, hands folded, eyes lowered. Even the children sat still. Fear was better than any hymnal.
Thorne stood near the back, beside the warped doorway, arms crossed and jaw tight. He hadn't slept. He didn't need to hear his father's voice to know what was coming.
When the last villager sat, Halden raised his hands.
"There is a serpent in Eldhollow," he said, voice smooth and deep. "And like all serpents, it slithers in silence. It whispers through children. It touches the sick. It hides in plain sight—until it strikes."
No one moved. The fire crackled in the hearth behind him. A child coughed, and her mother clutched her tighter.
"The signs are clear," he went on. "Visions. Illness. Children speaking things they cannot know. These are not the fruits of innocence, but the seeds of witchcraft."
Thorne felt his pulse in his teeth. He scanned the faces in the pews—wide-eyed, hungry for blame. He knew them all. And yet in that moment, they looked like strangers.
"Names will not be spoken today," Halden said. "We seek no chaos. Only truth. The innocent will not fear the light."
He smiled. A slow, careful smile that never touched his eyes.
But the people heard what he didn't say. And they left with names burning behind their tongues.
Thorne stayed behind. He watched his father light a candle on the altar, his hands steady as always.
"You bait them with fire and call it faith," Thorne said quietly.
Halden didn't turn. "The people need direction."
"They need peace. Not fear."
"They need protection from corruption." He turned now, eyes sharp. "And that includes your softness."
Thorne didn't flinch. "You mean my disobedience."
Halden stepped closer. "You spend too much time watching that girl. The Thornbrook line is diseased. Always has been. We let one of them walk free, and this is what happens—visions. Death. Her mother corrupted the child, and now—"
"You have no proof," Thorne said.
His father leaned in, voice low and poisonous. "We don't need proof. We need unity. And if unity means sacrifice, then so be it."
For a moment, Thorne said nothing. Then he turned and walked out.
As he passed the chapel's door, someone slipped a folded scrap of cloth into his hand.
He opened it in the cold outside. Inside, scrawled in Elia's rough script:
They're watching my window. I won't run. But I'll wait.
His hands shook. From rage or fear, he didn't know anymore.
---
The child's name was Ailin. Six years old. Fevered, pale, and slipping fast.
His mother, Jessa, stood in the doorway with red-rimmed eyes and dry hands that had forgotten how to pray. She'd sent for Reverend Halden the night before. She sent for Elia at dawn.
"I don't know what else to do," Jessa whispered. "He won't eat. He just keeps whispering… someone's name."
Elia knelt by the boy, careful not to touch too much. His skin was burning, his breath shallow. His eyes fluttered behind his lids, caught between dreams and the dark.
She opened her pouch. Nettleroot. Crushed willow. Dried thyme soaked in oil. Simple remedies. Old ones.
"Give him this when the moon rises," Elia said. "Only three drops on the tongue. Keep him warm. Don't let anyone else in tonight."
Jessa nodded too fast. "Thank you. Thank you, Elia. I won't forget this."
The boy died the next morning.
By afternoon, they were whispering.
"She gave her something. Some potion." She was alone with him. That's when he started seizing. My cousin said she left herbs under his bed."
Elia walked through town with her hood low, but it didn't matter. People watched her like they were waiting for her to sprout horns.
Outside the chapel, she passed Agnes Marrow. The midwife gave her a tight, unreadable nod—then quickly looked away.
Elia didn't speak. She just kept walking, feeling the weight of a hundred gazes. Behind her, someone muttered, "Witch."
That night, Thorne found her behind the old mill, pacing. Her fists were clenched, jaw set. She looked like a match about to strike.
"They're saying you poisoned him," he said gently.
"He was already dying. She knew that. She begged me to help.'" Elia stopped. "Now she wants someone to blame."
"She's grieving."
"She's gutless."
He stepped closer, brushing her hair back from her face. "You need to stop going into homes. Stop giving them things, even if it helps."
"They're sick."
"They're scared. And scared people burn whatever they don't understand."
She turned her face toward his hand, softening for only a breath.
Then: "Did your father put her up to it?"
Thorne hesitated. "Not directly. But he knows. And he's letting it spread."
"Of course he was." Elia stepped back. "They found something in the boy's bed. My pouch. I never left it there."
Thorne's expression changed. "That doesn't make sense."
"Unless someone planted it."
He looked away. "Agnes was there the night he died."
Elia's eyes narrowed. "Agnes helped me once. Years ago. She taught me things."
"Then she's got more reason than anyone to protect herself now," Thorne said. "And if that means selling you out—"
"I know," Elia said. "I'd do the same."
Silence stretched between them. Cold wind through dry leaves.
He stepped close again, voice low. "You don't have to do this alone."
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Then, suddenly, her lips brushed his—rough, fast, angry.
"I'm already alone," she whispered.
Then she was gone, boots crunching across frozen leaves, leaving Thorne in the dark with nothing but smoke and breath and regret.
---
To Be Continued...