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Eden

THE WORLD HAD never been kind to me, but I never needed kindness to survive. I learned early that survival was an act of will, a lesson instilled by my parents. While most children lay in warm beds, I spent my nights in Veilwood. My hands trembled as I foraged for something useful: roots to numb the pain, berries to stave off hunger, and bark to brew into a sense of warmth.

My father referred to it as building resilience. My mother said it was necessary. But I considered it abandonment.

Wickloe, like every village in Aurelith, had its superstitions. Some whispered of the Veilwood’s ancient hunger, warning that those who wandered too deep never returned the same. Others swore the river carried the spirits of the forgotten, pulling them under when the moon hung low.

My mother used those stories as cautionary tales, but I learned the truth early: real monsters didn’t lurk in the shadows of the trees. They sat at dinner tables where they bargain with their blood.

The hood of my cloak slipped from my head as I kneeled by the river’s edge, plunging my fingers into the icy water. The crisp, clean flavors of stone and soil offered a momentary relief from the exhaustion weighing on my limbs.

The Veilwoods were nearly behind me. The twisted trees had thinned, their gnarled roots no longer reaching out to trip me with each step. Although the air felt lighter, alive with the hum of insects and free of the mossy decay, my chest felt no less heavy. I should have felt relieved. I should have felt something other than this endless, gnawing fatigue. But the capital was a day away, and I couldn’t afford to think beyond the next step.

Crunching over frosty leaves, I moved away from the water to find dry ground beneath an oak. The rough bark scraped my spine as I sank to the ground, trying to focus on my surroundings and stay present.

My limbs felt heavy, and my breath misted in the frosty night air. The wind stirred the trees above, rustling brittle leaves that never fell. An owl hooted in the distance, its call low and haunting, while something small scurried through the undergrowth, unseen yet near. Veilflies glimmered in the air with tiny blue pulses of light against the darkness. A fox padded along the riverbank, its ears flicking toward me before it vanished into the underbrush, leaving only the whisper of rustling ferns behind.

My eyelids closed for a moment, yet the darkness behind them pulled at me. Echoes of nightmares lingered at the fringes of my mind.

Not yet. I couldn’t sleep yet.

My grip strengthened on my cloak. Clutching onto something could secure me here, in this instant, and not where my mind attempted to take me. The muscle ache told me I needed rest, but sleep was dangerous. Sleep meant lowering my guard. It meant slipping into dreams where hands reached for me from the dark, the smells of iron and fire coated my throat, and I woke gasping with a heart that sputtered and a pulse deafening in my ears. The faint sound of a snapping branch made me stiffen, though it was too light to be anything other than a deer moving through the trees.

Still, my pulse stayed tight in my throat.

The river’s rhythmic murmur wove through the rustling branches. When exhaustion sank deep into my bones, my body slumped more heavily against the tree. I intended to rest for only a moment, long enough to gather my strength. But the river’s insistent lullaby beckoned to me, and the darkness enveloped me.

The damp soil pressed against my knees as I plucked feverfew from the tangled roots of an oak, my fingers brushing against the delicate white petals. A fragrance of pine and loamy soil filled the air. Distant insect calls blended with the hush of the wind as it swept through the trees.

It should have been peaceful.

But something felt wrong.

My skin prickled at the nape of my neck, an instinct older than reason. My pulse slowed, then pounded.

I turned.

Marcus stood just beyond the tree line. His leather shoes were too pristine for the forest trail, and his tailored jacket was immaculate, as if he had stepped from a ballroom, not from my nightmares. He was as calculated as ever. Entitlement clung to him like a second skin.

“Hello, Darling.” His silky, almost pleasant voice sent ice threading through my veins. He rolled the leaf between his fingertips, then let it fall, before wiping his hand against a crisp white handkerchief. “I thought I might find you here. You always did love your little…” He paused. “Plants.”

My stomach tightened, but I kept my voice even.

“I’m busy, Marcus.”

“Busy avoiding me, you mean? You’ve been doing that an awful lot lately.” He took a slow step closer, and his head tilted as though he were considering a misbehaved pet. “Haven’t you?”

My eyes remained locked on him. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been working.”

“That’s cute,” he laughed.

I narrowed my gaze. “What?”

“The way you play healer.” His lips curled as his mask slipped enough to show the underlying disdain. “We all know what you’re really doing here, Eden.” My name dripped from his tongue with venom, stealing my breath. I had to get past him, and my best option was to move before his patience snapped.

“I don’t have time for this,” I clipped, pushing past him.

“I think you do.” His hand closed around my arm, his fingers dug deep, and I lost my balance. I stumbled, but he didn’t let go. The amusement in his voice vanished, replaced by indifference. “You have to stop running away from us like this. The dramatics have lost their flavor.”

“There is no us, Marcus,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “Now let me—”

“Oh, but there is. There has always been, Darling.” His smile twisted into a predatory hunger. “You and I are soon to be married. I’m sure you already know.”

His words struck hard, and a sick weight settled in my stomach. “Let. Me. Go.” He shoved me back. The breath rushed from my lungs when my boots slid over damp leaves, and I landed hard on the forest floor.

Marcus didn’t move to help me. He only watched, wiping his hands as though touching me had dirtied him. His silken and cruel voice carried through the frosty air. “Go ahead. Play your little games while you can. But don’t think for a second that you’re free of me.” He turned and walked back down the path with confidence. “You’ll come back,” he called over his shoulder. “You always do.”

I woke with a gasp, my heart slamming against my chest and my breath shallow. The river still murmured beside me, and the wind whispered through the branches above.

The freezing air bit at me as I sat still beneath the tree. I pushed a hand against the rough bark at my back to secure myself in the present. The Veilwoods stretched behind me, filled with the sounds of the river’s steady murmur, crickets, and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush. The sky above had deepened into the darkest shade of blue, with stars peeking through the canopy in pinpricks of light.

I wasn’t in the past.

I was here. Alone.

Forcing my stiff limbs to move, I reached for my satchel. My fingers grazed over the worn leather before slipping inside, grasping the small paper tucked between vials and dried herbs. The edges crinkled beneath my touch as I unfolded it.

Court Herbalist Needed.

The handling blurred the ink in places, but the words remained legible.

A strange, heavy sensation curled in my chest. It had only been a day since I had taken it, but it felt as though the slip of paper had been waiting for me much longer. I traced my thumb across the parchment and reread the words, even though I knew them by heart.

This was my way out. My chance to put distance between myself and the past that still haunted me—to be more than a ghost gliding through forests and back alleys. I wanted to step into a world where Marcus’s reach couldn’t find me.

I took a deep breath and folded the flier, slipping it back into my satchel. Its weight suggested a quiet promise. There was no time for ghosts.

The river ran shallow where I crossed, the icy water swirling around rocks as I crept over the bridge. With each step, the past tugged at me, urging me to linger and hesitate.

When I reached the other side, the land expanded. The trees receded, and the Veilwoods, once dense and endless behind me, loosened their grip, yielding to open space. However, with that openness came an unease coiling low in my spine.

Pulling my hood to hide my face, I crossed the old dirt path toward the bridge. Thick, swirling fog clung to the wooden planks and crept along the edges like ghostly fingers. The air smelled of damp soil and something faintly metallic, sending a chill down my spine.

A crow cawed from the railing, its dark eyes gleaming in the soft light. Another responded from the trees beyond, the sound piercing the muffled silence of the mist.

My fingers burrowed into my cloak. I was still shaking off the nightmare when the past came clawing at me again.

The wood beneath my feet gleamed with rain, and the air was heavy with wet pine and dampened lantern oil.

I was running.

My ragged breaths constricted my chest. My boots struck the wooden planks in rapid succession. Each step echoed with the pounding of a drum. The fog swallowed everything beyond the bridge and left shadows in its wake.

Marcus’s men weren’t far behind when I looked back. Their torches flickered in the mist, and their cruel and amused voices echoed. “She won’t get far.”

“She never does.”

The words scraped against my mind.

The village lights of Wickloe ahead glimmered in false salvation once I crossed the bridge. My lungs burned. My legs ached. But I kept moving. I had to—

A hand caught my wrist.

No.

The world spun, and the bridge beneath me tilted. My hip hit the railing, and pain lanced through my bones. Their fingers tightened with a bruising force as a voice murmured in my ear.

“Going somewhere, Darling?”

The memory snapped, leaving me cold and unsteady. The bridge lay behind me, the crows still watched from their perch, and the river whispered without care.

I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t running.

Willing my breath to steady, I unclenched my fingers from the hem of my cloak. My pulse hammered at my temples, but I continued forward, one step at a time.

The past held no sway over me here. Yet, as I walked into the mist, I could still feel Marcus’s fingers ghosting over my wrist and hear his voice curling in the depths of my mind. The farther I walked, the thinner the trees grew, their skeletal branches bending under the weight of the morning frost. Soon, the road widened, bordered by brittle fields and the first hints of distant hills. By midday, the silence pressed in, leaving too much space for thoughts to creep in, unwelcome and sharp-edged.

What if they don’t accept me?

Doubt constricted in my chest, colder than the wind that bit at my face. I knew the experience. My journal hadn’t been filled with observations and theories; I had earned every remedy, every antidote, and every detailed note of pain.

Burning fevers. Stomach cramps. Weakness in the limbs. Blurred vision. Hallucinations.

I learned the signs of poison not from books, but from my body. I learned the cures because I needed them to live. But would that be enough?

The capital was filled with people who had studied in halls of marble and gold. These men and women learned from scholars, not through suffering. Their hands had never trembled from fever as they scrawled notes by candlelight, desperate to comprehend what threatened their lives before time ran out. I didn’t look the same as them, or like I belonged in a palace. That thought sent a familiar ache crawling through me, sinking deep into my ribs. My steps faltered, and the world grew hazy.

The fire was dying in the hearth, casting shadows that crawled across the wooden walls of our home. The scent of dried herbs and candle wax hung in the air, yet it did nothing to soften the sharp bite of my mother’s voice.

“You have charcoal on your hands again.”

I rubbed my fingers against my skirts, but the smudges wouldn’t come off. “I was writing.”

Her gaze flicked to my open journal, to the pages spread wide with careful notes, pressed flowers, and sketched diagrams. Her expression twisted in neither anger nor approval.

My father set down his pipe, watching me from across the room. “You’ve been spending too much time with that book.”

“It’s important,” I said. “I’m learning.”

My mother’s sigh was sharp and final. “You can’t change what you are with books and pressed flowers, Eden.”

She didn’t have to say it outright. I didn’t learn from books or study in a grand hall beneath candlelit chandeliers. My knowledge came from bitter-tasting drafts given to me with lies and calculated intent.

“Drink this. It will help with the fever.”

“This will warm you.”

My mother’s hand smoothed my hair as the poison took hold, my vision blurred, and my heartbeat stuttered. My father watched as I writhed on the floor, fighting to purge whatever mixture they had given me this time. They never explained why or provided a reason.

But I learned. I wrote everything down and tracked the symptoms, their duration, and the lingering effects. When I had recovered enough to move, I searched the area for herbs that might counteract the effects of what had been done to me. I tested doses on myself and observed whether or not the antidotes worked. I discovered what kept my pulse steady, what cleared my mind, and what stitched me back together after they tried to break me.

Marcus’s poisons were more cruel. His touch was excruciating. His voice coiled deep within me.

“You always had such a talent for healing, Darling. I wonder how much you’ll have to break before accepting that you belong to me.”

The icy air stung my lungs. The empty road stretched endlessly ahead, and the sky was a pale shade of blue above it. I set my jaw and compelled my feet to move.

“This isn’t real.” Another breath. “I’m on the road to the capital.” Another. “The sky is clear. The wind is cold. The air smells of frost and dirt.”

My voice was a faint murmur, but it was enough. Enough to ground me, to break the memory’s grip, and to remind myself that I wasn’t there. I wasn’t a child waiting for an answer that would never come. I wasn’t his.

The charcoal on my hands was nothing to be ashamed of. It proved my hard work. I had my journal, knowledge, and skills. That had to be enough.

If it weren’t, I would make it.