Chapter 16 – Moon Over Thorns
1110 Words
The forest had always been wild, but tonight it breathed like a living thing. The deeper Elias rode, the more it seemed to close around him — vines curling across the path, trees bending under a silent wind, the air thick with something ancient and mournful. His horse snorted and refused to move further. Elias dismounted, boots sinking into moss slick with dew.
The moon hung low and enormous, pale as bone. Its light spilled across the thorns that bordered the clearing ahead. They glistened like silver wires, interwoven so tightly that no mortal hand could part them. And beyond them, through their cruel beauty, he saw the first glimpse of her realm.
Mist rose from the ground in slow ribbons, drifting between half-dead trees. Their branches glittered faintly, as though frost had never left them. Flowers bloomed out of season — black roses, their petals trembling when touched by moonlight. The air itself seemed to hum, each note a blend of sorrow and longing.
Elias reached out and brushed a thorn aside. It pricked his glove, slicing through leather as if the plant had been waiting for him. A drop of blood welled up, red against his pale skin. The forest responded — a shiver rippled through the mist, and distant whispers stirred.
“He comes… he bleeds… he remembers.”
Elias froze. The voices were faint, neither male nor female, weaving through the air like threads of smoke. He gripped his dagger, the silver hilt gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
“Show yourself,” he murmured.
Only silence answered, followed by the soft creak of branches overhead. Then, through the mist, he saw movement — a flicker of white fabric, the faint outline of a figure gliding between the trees. His heart hammered.
He stepped forward, through the wall of thorns. The vines recoiled from him, curling away as if in recognition. The cut on his hand burned, but the pain steadied him. The ground beneath his feet changed — no longer soil, but marble veined with light. The air smelled of rain and lilies, of mourning cloaked in beauty.
And then he saw it: the heart of her domain.
An ancient garden stretched before him, half-ruin and half-dream. Stone arches rose from the earth, tangled in ivy that shimmered with starlight. Pools of still water reflected the moon, yet each reflection showed a different sky — one burning, one storming, one filled with falling stars.
At the garden’s center stood a single willow tree, its branches glowing faintly blue. Beneath it lay a circle of carved stones, each etched with runes that pulsed softly, keeping time with a heartbeat that was not his own.
Elias stepped closer. The hum in the air grew louder, vibrating against his ribs. He knelt by one of the stones, tracing the strange markings with a gloved hand.
“Leave this place, hunter.”
The voice came from behind him, soft yet sharp enough to still his breath.
He turned.
A woman stood at the edge of the clearing, her figure half-shrouded in mist. Her hair was long, dark as ink, and the wind did not dare move it. Her gown shimmered like moonlight spilled across water, and her eyes — gods, her eyes — held the endless sorrow of centuries.
Elias felt the air thin in his lungs. “You’re real.”
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “And you’re foolish.”
He rose slowly, careful not to draw his dagger. “Mira.”
At the sound of her name, the forest seemed to sigh. The willow’s branches trembled, scattering silver petals that dissolved before touching the ground.
“Names have power here,” she said, voice low. “Do not use mine so freely, hunter.”
“I’ve come a long way to find you.”
“Then you’ve come a long way to die.”
The words should have chilled him, but there was no cruelty in them — only weary truth. Elias took a step closer, his gaze never leaving hers.
“I’ve heard your story. The healer who lost her love, who cursed herself to grief.”
Her expression flickered — pain, denial, and something dangerously close to hope. “Stories are lies told by those too afraid to forget.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
She studied him, her gaze cutting through shadow and pretense alike. “Truth is not what you seek. You carry loss too, don’t you? I can feel it. The forest remembers pain.”
Elias hesitated. The memory of his brother — his blood, his scream, the hunt gone wrong — flashed behind his eyes. He swallowed hard. “We all carry ghosts.”
“Some carry them inside,” she whispered. “Some become them.”
The willow behind her shuddered again, and the light around them dimmed. Mira’s gaze softened, and for the first time, he saw not the witch of legends, but a woman—lonely, trapped in a cage of her own making.
“You should not have crossed the thorns,” she said quietly. “They were meant to keep the living out.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
He almost smiled. “Maybe. But I’ve been called worse.”
The faintest curve touched her lips. “Your courage will feed this place.”
The wind picked up suddenly, swirling the mist into shapes — figures, faces, shadows of the dead. They reached toward him, whispering in dozens of voices. “Stay… bleed… remember…”
Elias held his ground. “I didn’t come to join your ghosts.”
“Then you came to wake them.”
She lifted her hand, and the moonlight bent to her will. For a heartbeat, the world became pure silver. Elias shielded his eyes. When the light faded, she was gone. Only her voice lingered, soft and sorrowful.
“The thorns will test you, hunter. They always do.”
The air stilled. The mist settled. Elias found himself alone once more beneath the willow. His cut had stopped bleeding, and yet a faint scar remained — shaped like a crescent moon.
He looked up. Above the branches, the moon hung heavy and low, its light caught in the thorns that now encircled the garden. They glowed faintly red, as if remembering his blood.
Elias exhaled, feeling the strange pull of her magic — both warning and invitation.
For the first time, he understood: this was no simple curse. This was a realm born of heartbreak, where grief itself had taken form.
And he, fool or savior, had just stepped into its heart.
- Writer
