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Tanwen would tell her family everything.

She would.

But not tonight.

Tomorrow.

After breakfast.

Tomorrow after breakfast, Tanwen would tell her family about the kidar and the ambrü.

Until then she would do her best to enjoy her last precious moments in this forest, in this home, in the only place she had friends—despite them being animals.

She would have to tell them too.

She would have to do a lot soon.

Like pack.

Tanwen’s stomach turned over as her thoughts slid to her room, to what items she might be able to take with her, to which were worthy of their weight on her back.

Do not cry, she silently chastised herself as an aching sorrow tightened around her throat. Do not cry.

“ Tanwen. ” Her mother’s curt voice snapped her back to where she stood at her side within their dark workroom. Though it was night, their windows still had been covered, the only light made by a cluster of candles and the jadüri partially dissected on the table in front of them. “Your mouse is about to eat a very precious petal,” pointed out her mother.

“ Eli. ” Tanwen shooed her friend from the glowing bud. He scampered down the table to hide behind a bottle. “You won’t be allowed in here if you act like that.”

“He shouldn’t be allowed in here at all,” huffed her mother. “Rodents aren’t the most hygienic for a meddyg’s workroom.”

“He assured me he cleaned himself thoroughly,” said Tanwen. “He won’t be a problem again. Right?” She glared pointedly at Eli, who squeaked his compliance.

“Wonderful,” said her mother. “Now, if you don’t remove the anthers soon, the gods’ nectar will grow less potent.”

Tanwen blinked back to her task. “Yes, sorry, Mother.”

They were making docüra; a coveted hallucinogen whose key ingredient was the very flower Tanwen had regrettably dashed from the forest to acquire.

“Those tweezers are too big.” Her mother plucked the instrument from Tanwen’s hand. “You know we use the thinner forceps for this.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tanwen, her cheeks growing flushed with her chagrin.

She sensed Aisling’s scrutinization as she bent to gather the small glowing buds within the jadüri bloom. The warmth of their illumination touched Tanwen’s cheeks, the subtle fragrance of vanilla and honey lifting as she carefully scraped the thick pollen off and into an awaiting bowl of tonic. As soon as the pollen hit the liquid, the room erupted with blue light. Tanwen squinted against the brightness, waiting as the nectar of the gods fully dissipated within the mixture. The liquid changed from clear to what appeared like a pulsing night sky, the shimmering stars pinpricks of magic.

Despite Tanwen’s mournful mood, making docüra always gave her a rush, a sense of strength to be one of the few who knew the art. For docüra was sought by both Süra and Volari, though used very differently. Süra applied it ceremoniously, in trauma healing or to converse with the Low Gods. The Volari preferred it recreationally.

A single drop to a shallow cut was enough to send the user into a prolonged haze. And the price of such a drop was more than a handful of gem. Normally a worthwhile reward for the risk of obtaining the jadüri bloom. Though now, Tanwen would have gladly paid that amount tenfold to erase the last two days. To not have to do what she would in the morning.

Her chest was gripped with that ever-present mixture of anxiety and dread.

“Good,” said her mother as she reached for the bowl. “And now for a dash of the Coslett secret spice.” She added in the last ingredient.

“Will you ever tell me what that is?” asked Tanwen, watching as her mother stirred in a fine brown powder before recapping the bottle and setting it aside.

“Eventually,” said Aisling. “When it’s necessary.”

“Why even teach me how to make docüra if you won’t teach me all of it?”

“Because you can make docüra without the Coslett secret spice.”

“Yes, I am aware, but it’s evidently not as good.”

“Of course it’s still good,” corrected her mother. “But this makes it more potent.”

“Perhaps I will make up my own secret spice, then,” challenged Tanwen. “To rival yours.”

Her mother smiled as she stirred the mixture. “I certainly welcome you to try. Experimenting is what sets apart a good meddyg from the best, but remember, with any of your experiments—”

“You must be the willing first subject to test them.” Tanwen finished her mother’s usual rhetoric. “Yes, I know.”

Her mother shot her a wry glance. “And why do I always say this?”

“Because empathy is the key ingredient to all healing.”

Aisling nodded, pleased, before refocusing her attention on the docüra.

“So you’ve really tried all your altered docüra mixtures before discovering the secret ingredient?” wondered Tanwen.

“Your father helped on occasion.”

Tanwen thought on this answer. “Does that mean Thol can help me with my experiments?” she asked.

“If he agrees, I don’t see why not,” said her mother as she wiped clean her spoon before setting it aside.

Tanwen couldn’t help but smile at the thought of putting her brother through all sorts of tests under the guise of perfecting her craft. I’d paint his face with dung first, she thought, and tell him it was an ointment to help bring in his facial hair faster.

“I see the mischief of Ridi spinning through your mind, girl.” Her mother tut-tutted. “What torture are you concocting for your loving brother this time?”

“Loving?” Tanwen raised her brows. “Loving does not rub poison moss all over my mattress.”

“If I recall correctly,” countered her mother, “you had put pepper ants in his first.”

“Only because he had cut off a chunk of my hair while I slept so he could have a tail for his silly toy horse.”

Her mother huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “And here your father and I thought we had to protect you both from the outside world, not from each other within our own home.”

Home.

The word snagged sharp.

Home.

Despite Tanwen’s desperation to enjoy one last night pretending all was good and happy and safe, the inevitable danger that hovered over her shoulder suddenly pressed down, unyielding.

Tell her, the small voice of Eli urged within Tanwen’s mind. She glanced to her friend regarding her on hind legs. Tell your mother, he prompted again. She needs to know.

Tanwen’s resolve wavered. She didn’t disagree, but ... I need tonight, she silently rebuked, quietly begged. I need one final night of peace. Something to keep my heart beating when all in Cādra want it still.

The sudden heavy stomping of feet a floor below turned Tanwen’s attention to their workroom’s door.

“Your father and brother must have finished early in their workshop,” said her mother. “We need to set out dinner. Come, Tanwen,” she instructed as she began to clean up. “We’ll let the docüra settle overnight before preparing to sell it in Ordyn.”

Another weighted pull of guilt to Tanwen’s shoulders at the mention of their capital city. They would not be making it to Ordyn.

But we can sell the docüra on the road, she silently reasoned. Between that and my ambrü, we’ll have plenty to ensure our survival away from Zomyad.

It was a small but welcome reprieve to Tanwen’s burden. A similar press of comfort as when Eli jumped from the table to scamper up her sleeve before situating himself on her shoulder.

I’m here, he said. I will go wherever you go.

Tanwen held back the threat of tears.

Thank you, she thought, running a gentle finger over Eli’s soft fur before she followed her mother downstairs, hoping her smile didn’t appear as forced as it felt.

Supper was uneventful.

Almost boring.

Tanwen couldn’t stand it.

Not with her secret rattling inside her chest.

Despite barely touching her food, she quickly excused herself, fearful that if she sat for another moment, her confession would burst free.

Thankfully, her family hardly paid her leave mind. Thol was too content to finish her meal, while her mother sat on her father’s lap, the pair consumed with one another, ogling and sharing sappy grins.

It would have disgusted Tanwen if she was not already used to their displayed affection.

With Eli on her shoulder, Tanwen had stepped from their den, never more thankful for the cool night air racing into her lungs.

The woods were a pulsing glow over their balcony. After the sun set, the forest awoke with new light. A diverse tangle of blue- and green-bioluminescent organisms. Glow beetles, moon moss, starlight spiders, and a thousand other plants and animals lit the thick weave of ancient trunks and leaves.

Tanwen never could decide which she enjoyed more: the richness of the forest during the day or the effervescent illumination of it at night. She remembered only her awe when they had first arrived.

If ever proof was needed of the Low Gods’ existence, one merely needed to visit the Zomyad Forest. Their magic vibrated within the soil. Bosyg’s beauty.

Tanwen wanted to bottle this moment, this view. Trap it beneath glass so she may take some of this home to wherever they ended up next.

Her melancholy stirred, but she quickly turned from it as she ignored the long winding stairs that led to the forest floor and instead set loose the rope ladder near their door, a faster exit to the ground, then climbed her way down.

The air grew damper the farther she descended, the sweet fragrance of plumeria richer as her booted feet hit soil. Tanwen set off on a path that wove from their tree den to where her father and brother’s workshop lay hidden.

Eli sat quietly on her shoulder, nibbling on a piece of bread. As Tanwen twisted along the lane, glow beetles gathered to better light her way, dancing and twirling at her side, a happy greeting. An owl screeched overhead, causing Eli to momentarily hide within Tanwen’s collar.

Hello, Willia, thought Tanwen before the owl rushed forward and into the dark.

Her usual companions were coming to see her toward her destination.

Despite her somber mood, she smiled, welcoming the company.

It didn’t take long for Tanwen to reach the workshop, which was tucked beside a small waterfall. The rushing waters fed into a small river that snaked through an open glen before dropping into the western cliffs. The fast current was a key component in powering many of her father’s tools, which was why he had risked situating his workshop so close to the forest’s clearing.

Still, he left nothing to chance.

If one didn’t know where to look for the door, it was easily missed.

Tanwen stood before a massive boulder covered in moss and hanging vines. But there, disguised as a crooked piece of wood, was a door handle and a simple metal keyhole.

Tanwen located the spare key tucked beneath a nearby rock. After making fast work of the lock, she slipped inside.

The workshop smelled of papers and ink, wood shavings, and the tang of greased metals. It was also utterly consumed in black. No bioluminescence reached the bowels of this windowless domain, but soon the darkness was overtaken by light as Tanwen lit a nearby lamp.

As she carried the lantern, the room awoke, with long stretches of tables covered in schematics and numerous miniature models of innovations. An automated water lift, a zip line for transporting heavy supplies long distances, a resetting sundial. Tanwen skimmed over the inventions that her father had shared with the western clan over the years. These she had seen before. Many times. Tonight, she was on the hunt for new.

While she might not be allowed within the workshop when her father and brother were here, she still knew its floor plan as if she were an apprentice herself.

Tanwen had made a habit of entering at night, alone, to take in what women were thought too feebleminded to understand. Though her father might not publicly contradict such beliefs, his behavior certainly did behind closed doors. Within their den, Tanwen had been taught the art of arithmetic and physics alongside her brother. If you are learning to read, he had said, you might as well learn how to read everything. It had made much of her childhood filled exclusively with lessons, fitting in teachings from both parents, but it was a blessed distraction from the daily danger that loomed.

As Tanwen walked the room, she drank in the sharp scribblings from her father and brother. New ideas and calculations.

She stopped at a particularly interesting project regarding the funneling of water from their well up to their tree den. She studied the rough sketch done by her father’s hand, trying to make sense of the pressure system. Though none in her family spoke of it, there was an understanding regarding Tanwen’s occasional evening trips. Over the years papers had gone from being stacked and filed each night to left out, spread out. An invitation.

Come look, and see what you might understand.

No doubt an experiment of sorts for her father.

But Tanwen did not mind.

She would take any scrap given to learn all she could about the power of invention, for it stirred an elated frenzy in her veins.

Being an inventor was not so unlike being a meddyg.

Both practices used trial and error, both sought to fix, better, innovate.

Which was why Tanwen found it confusing that women couldn’t learn the trade, a thought her mother didn’t disagree with but advised her to remain quiet about.

Aisling believed a woman’s power held more value by remaining unassuming. A heavy blow might make a dent, her mother had once shared, but think of the noise. A well-sharpened blade is much quieter and can easily cut straight through. You must remember, my wyrthia, more can be accomplished when no one is looking.

Tanwen let out a tired sigh. Her mood for learning had faded. In its stead rose her inevitable fate that would come with dawn’s approach.

After taking one last glance around the workshop, Tanwen doused her lantern and slipped out.

Her family’s tree den lay quiet when she returned, sleep filling the dark halls as she softly padded toward her room. The weak glow of candlelight creeping from beneath her bedroom door alerted her to Aberthol, still awake. As she pushed in, he glanced up from where he sat in bed, book in hand.

“Learn anything of interest on your nightly stroll?” he asked, a knowing grin present.

“Nothing of exceptional interest, no,” she countered, coming to sit on the edge of his bed.

Aberthol shifted his legs to give her more room as she helped Eli down from her shoulder. The mouse scurried across the floor and into the small home she had built him out of slats of wood and straw.

She made a mental note to figure out how to fit his bed into her pack tomorrow.

The true weariness of her tasks ahead collapsed around her. She stared out the window, which sat across the room. The croaking and buzzing of night spilled in through the open shutters, filling the silence.

“Are you thinking about the Mütra?” asked Aberthol.

Tanwen turned to her brother. He wore a pinch between his dark brows, the low-burning candle on his bedside painting half his face and horns in warm light, the other in shadow.

“I’m thinking about a lot,” she admitted.

“Me too,” he said, putting down his book.

He moved to sit beside her, both their feet now pressing into their floor. His bare, hers booted.

Tanwen never knew if it was because they were siblings or twins, but she and Aberthol always seemed to understand when the other had something heavy on their mind. Something they would not press to learn unless the other wished to share.

Tanwen wished to share what was on her mind very much. The words had been fighting their way up her throat for the better part of today. And now it was time. Telling her brother first felt a bit less intimidating than telling her parents. That way they could go to them together. It was always easier when they were together. But how to start? Where to begin?

With the weight of her admission causing her chest to grow tight, the sick dread of knowing she could not come back after speaking what she would next, Tanwen stood and went to her side of the room.

She pushed aside her bed and bent to remove a slat from the floorboards.

“I knew you had a hiding spot,” said Aberthol, his triumph clear in his voice as she returned holding a small pouch.

“Yes, well, it won’t be my hiding spot any longer.”

Her brother frowned before his features changed to shock as she revealed the ambrü.

The red glow was a glint in his green eyes as she held it up between them.

“Thol,” she began. “There’s something I need to tell you.”