How could Eryn possibly know, when she set out, that the girl who began the journey would not be the one to finish it?

She did not seek the path she walked, nor did she choose the forces that shaped her. Once thrust upon the path, she could not turn back. She was lost—and lost much. She wandered far. She passed through darkness deeper than she thought possible to endure. And yet, in the end, she found what she sought—she found her heart’s true desire, beyond her wildest imaginings." 

#
Eryn  lived with her parents and younger brother Kael in a modest village nestled between river and forest. They worked the fields, planting and harvesting grain from dawn to dusk. They weren’t rich — to say the least — but their small cottage was warm with laughter and love. Eryn knew the gentle touch of her mother’s hand smoothing her hair as she drifted to sleep the sound of her father’s deep voice telling stories of long-forgotten heroes, and endless play with her younger brother Kael. What they lacked in material comforts was more than offset by the richness of their loving life together.
One bright summer's day, when the sky stretched endless and blue overhead, Eryn and her brother were playing in the meadow just beyond the village. The wildflowers swayed in the warm breeze, and bees hummed from blossom to blossom. Kael was absorbed in building a fort in the mud by the river. Eryn was weaving a crown of daisies when she noticed a butterfly unlike any she had ever seen before. Its wings shimmered with impossible iridescent hues — sapphire, emerald, and gold, shifting as it fluttered through the sunlight.
Entranced, she stood and followed it. The butterfly danced just out of reach, drawing her farther from the village, deeper into the forest. She ran after it, laughing at first, but as it glided into the shadowy depths of the forest, her steps slowed. The woods were quiet, too quiet. The usual rustle of squirrels, the distant chirping of birds — gone. Still, the butterfly hovered ahead, glowing faintly in the dimness like a tiny ember.
Compelled by something she didn’t understand, Eryn stepped deeper into the woods. The air grew cool, and shadows stretched like long fingers across the forest floor. The butterfly paused at the base of an ancient oak and then, without warning, its iridescent wings folded in on themselves. It twisted and darkened, morphing into a swirling cloud of black mist shot through with jagged streaks of lightning.
Eryn froze. The cloud coiled like a snake, circling her. A low rumble, like distant thunder, filled the clearing. Before she could scream, the mist struck, lashing into her left eye with a bolt of cold fire. Agony shot through her skull. She collapsed to the ground, clutching her face.
The storm-cloud voice spoke, crackling and vast:
"YOU ARE CLAIMED."
And then the cloud was gone. The forest was silent once more.
The next thing Eryn remembered was the cold, damp ground beneath her and the faint, flickering light of torches bobbing in the darkness. Rough voices called her name. She tried to speak but found her throat dry and raw. Heavy footsteps pounded toward her, and then strong arms lifted her.
"I have her!" her father cried. His heart thudded against her ear as he turned and ran, the torchlight fading into the shadows behind them.
The next thing Eryn remembered was being laid gently on her bed back at the cottage. Her mother's voice shattered the quiet:
"Get the Healer! Get the Healer! Get the Healer!"
Her mother’s sobs followed her down into darkness.
The next thing Eryn remembered was waking to bandages wrapped tightly around her eyes. She reached up to pull them away, but a gentle hand caught hers.
"There, there, child," said a low, soothing voice. "You let those be for now. Why don’t you get some more sleep, hmm?"
The hand gave hers a comforting squeeze, and the voice was so calm, so sure, that sleep did indeed feel like the thing to do. Her body relaxed into the bed, and the swirling confusion of the butterfly, the storm, and the burning eye drifted away like mist before the sun.
And somewhere, deep in the corners of her mind, the voice of the storm-cloud whispered: "You are claimed."
#
Eryn finally awoke to a conversation between her parents and the Healer.

“It’s not just the injury to the eye, she’s been poisoned somehow. By something I ne’er seen before. The only thing to do is stay to bed and continue feeding her the cleansing broth I brought you. All we can do is give her body time to sort out what’s happened to her, and hope.”

“Will she see in that eye again?” asked her mother.

“I don’t know, lass. Time will tell!”

“But how will we take care of her? We both have to work in the fields! And the harvest is here!”

“I have a thought,” said the Healer. “Maybe she can stay with the Weaver.” 

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Eryn’s mother traced invisible circles on the wooden table, her brow furrowed deep with worry.
“The Weaver?” her father finally asked, his voice hesitant. “But… she’s—”
“Blind, aye,” the Healer replied gently. “But her hands know the loom better than anyone knows these fields. She spends her days there, weaving from dawn to dusk. She’ll be there, steady and watchful in her own way.” The Healer’s voice softened. “And besides, sometimes it’s not the eyes that see the most.”
Eryn’s mother hesitated, then nodded, though her hands still trembled. “It’s better than leaving her alone.”
The Healer stood, brushing off her skirt. “I’ll speak with the Weaver. She’s no stranger to guiding those who’ve lost their way, even if she doesn’t always say so.”
Eryn stirred slightly but didn’t open her eyes. The muffled conversation faded as sleep pulled her back under, though strange shapes and shadows flickered at the edges of her dreams—unfamiliar patterns twisting like threads in a loom.

The next morning, Eryn’s father carried her gently through the village. She felt the soft sway of his steps and the warmth of his arms, but she kept her eyes shut beneath the bandages. She didn’t want to see—not yet.
The Weaver’s cottage sat at the edge of the village, half-hidden beneath drooping branches and vines. It smelled faintly of herbs and woodsmoke. Eryn’s father laid her on a simple cot near the loom, careful not to wake her fully.
“I’ll be back before sunset,” he murmured, brushing her tangled hair from her forehead.
She opened her eyes just a sliver beneath the bandages, enough to see his shadow fade through the doorway.
The room was filled with a gentle, rhythmic sound—the steady beat of the loom. Thump. Pull. Thump. Pull. A quiet melody of work and patience.
The Weaver sat before the loom, her hands moving effortlessly over the threads, though her milky, sightless eyes remained fixed ahead. She hummed softly as she worked—an old tune, wordless and lilting, carrying an echo of something older still.
Eryn drifted in and out of sleep as the days passed, her father carrying her each morning to the Weaver’s cottage and returning at dusk. Most of her hours were spent in a fog, her dreams filled with swirling images she couldn’t understand—threads winding into patterns that dissolved the moment she tried to focus on them, shadows flickering at the edges of her sight, and always, somewhere deep within, the low hum of that haunting tune the Weaver sang as she worked.

#
Finally the day arrived to remove her bandages.

“Sorry, love, that we had to bandage both your eyes. But we didn’t, your injured eye would move around with the good one, and we couldn’t have that.”

The Healer removed the bandages and Eryn slowly opened her eyes, blinking. 
“Everything looks really strange! It’s like a weird blurriness on top of normal!”
“Cover your left eye with your hand, love,” said the Healer.
“There, that looks normal.”
“Now cover your right….”
“Oh dear!” Exclaimed Eryn. It looks like a dark, misty place with blobby things that don’t look like anything! Can I have a mirror?”
Looking in the mirror she gasped. Her altered eye glimmered with a restless, hidden energy, like a distant star seen through a veil of mist. Eryn just sat there, stunned.

“Let’s just put your bandages on, just a spell. I need to consult my fellow Healers about this.”

The next day the Healer returned. 
“We think your left eye is now tuned to a different reality, woven into the one we all know. It’s as if the one you see with your right, the one we all see is the ‘warp’, while your left eye sees the ‘woof’. It’s as if you’re seeing a different kind of light.”
“Do you mean I’ll be able to see the future, or see through walls, or anything wonderful like that?”
“We don’t know. We think it’s going to take you a while to learn to see with your left eye — whatever it is you’re seeing with it. It’s something like learning to see all over again.’ Meanwhile I brought you this…”
And with that, the Healer rummaged in her bag and pulled out an eye patch.
“Wine you’re going about your day, cover your left eye with this. When you want to practice seeing with your left, cover your right with it. In time you may not need it at all.
Eryn slowly looked around the room — at the furniture, at the Healer, at the walls, alternating looking with her left and right eye. “These two realities are definitely connected. When I look at you with my left, I see a glowing something.”
“Yes, love, we think you’re really seeing the same world with both eyes. One just works with a different kind of light than the other. That’s the best explanation we can come up with. 

In due time Eryn healed — as much as she was ever going to. She became accustomed to wearing her eye patch over her left eye for dealing with the affairs of ‘ordinary reality’. But she was also drawn by the world she saw — if ‘world’ is what it was — that she saw with her left. She came to calling them ‘Right World” and “Left World”. The draw of Left WOrld was greatest at dawn and dusk — in those times between daylight and night. But mostly she felt a longing growing inside of her, a longing for — she didn’t know. Something beyond herself, something more. Not more for herself, but more as in — more will be expected.
And so, at the opportune time, she began working in the fields alongside her parents by day. And fitfully dreaming of Something Beyond in fitful dreams at night.

#
At first she tried doing without the eyepatch. But the villagers recoiled in horror — retreating to their houses and locking their doors, or crossing to the other side of the street. And, she found the sunlight almost unbearable.

But with time, the villagers came to appreciate that she had Abilities.

At first, they whispered about her eye—*the cursed eye*, some called it, with its restless, glimmering depths. They crossed themselves when she passed and warned their children not to meet her gaze. After all, what good could come from a sight so unnatural? Eyes should reflect the world around them; hers seemed to pulse with a faint, unknowable energy, as though it saw something beyond the ordinary.  

Yet slowly, grudgingly, the village’s fear began to fray. Not because they understood Eryn’s altered sight, but because—despite its strangeness—it proved useful.  

She was the first to notice the goats growing skittish near the far pasture. When she told the herdsman, he scoffed at first; no signs of wolves had been seen for months. But that night, he set a trap just to placate her, and by morning, a massive gray wolf lay caught, its eyes glassy and teeth bared in eternal frustration. The villagers muttered, but the herd was safe.  

Another time, when the heavy rains battered the village again, Eryn tilted her head toward the north granary. “The beams don’t like the strain,” she murmured to no one in particular. The old miller overheard her and, despite his skepticism, sent his sons to investigate. They found the central support cracked, hidden beneath the plaster. The beam was replaced just days before the structure would have collapsed, ruining the entire harvest.  

But what unsettled the villagers most was how she sometimes responded to things that hadn’t been said. When neighbors quarreled over boundaries or debts, she would speak softly—an offhand comment here, a gentle observation there—always naming the unspoken fear or resentment that fueled the dispute. Her words, though never accusing, often struck too close to the heart of the matter.  

“She listens too well,” muttered the blacksmith one evening. But his voice was uneasy. *It wasn’t her ears that listened*, he thought.  

Eryn never explained these abilities, and truth be told, she couldn’t have if she’d tried. The patterns came to her without warning: the tremble in the barn’s bones, the tremor in a voice weighed down by guilt, the invisible threads that stitched events together. Sometimes she wished she could stop seeing them. Sometimes the villagers’ wary glances cut deeper than her aching eye.  

But when the river threatened to flood again and Eryn stood at the edge of the village square, pointing toward the bend where the embankment had weakened—despite no visible signs—no one questioned her.  

They worked through the night to reinforce the banks. The river surged, tested their defenses, and then receded.  
“If not for her…” someone whispered.
Eryn shifted her weight, her left eye hidden beneath its eyepatch, but she could still feel the villagers’ gazes—some filled with gratitude, others with suspicion.
An older woman stepped forward, wringing her hands. “We… we thank you, Eryn.” Her voice quivered, as though saying the words took great effort.
Eryn managed a nod, but her stomach twisted. The woman’s children stood behind her, clutching her skirts, eyes wide and afraid.
She turned to leave, her boots crunching over the dirt road, when a low voice caught her ear.
“Curse or not, she saved the village.”
Another villager chimed in: “Yes, she may be cursed but she has her uses!”
“Yes, but for how long? One day that eye will bring ruin, just as easily as it brought warning.”
Eryn’s hands balled into fists.
It didn’t matter what she did—she would always be the girl with the Twilight Eye, the one who had been touched by something unnatural. She was useful, but would never be truly accepted.
“They don’t want me. They want what I can do.”

#
At least the Weaver The Weaver understood.

She understood, not because she had read it in a book or heard it whispered by the old ones around the fire, but because she had lived it. The subtle withdrawal of neighbors when she passed. The half-second pause in conversation when she entered a room. The way the children stared, then turned away, not sure whether curiosity or fear should win. Blindness, in their eyes, was a shadowy thing. Unnatural. And what is unnatural must be kept at arm’s length.

Her father had been a weaver, his hands rough from the loom’s endless demands. He had taught her the craft, but more than that, he had taught her to listen. "The threads speak," he used to say, guiding her hands across the taut warp. "Not with words, but with the way they resist or yield. They’ll tell you what they need if you’re patient enough to hear."

When her sight had dimmed, then vanished entirely, the villagers muttered that it was a curse. Some old sin, perhaps. Or simply the Weaver's burden. "What good is a blind weaver?" she had overheard once. But her father had simply set her hands back on the loom and said, "Sight isn't the only way to see."

In time, she learned the language of tension and release, of fibers stretching and slackening beneath her fingers. Patterns emerged from the void, not because she saw them, but because she felt their presence. The loom became her compass, her anchor, her voice. And though the villagers never truly accepted her, they came to respect her skill. 

Her cottage stood at the village's edge, half-forgotten like the woman who lived within. And she liked it that way. From the fringe, she could feel the world more clearly—its subtle shifts, its unspoken currents.

Gradually they accepted the Weaver — because she withdrew from their sight, and wove useful cloth. But she never enjoyed the status of a full-fledged member of the village. Indeed, they never even called her by name — she was simply The Weaver. In time, that suited her just fine.

Now, as she sat beside Eryn, she recognized the girl's bewilderment. The altered eye, still tender and aching, had unsettled the villagers. The way they skirted past Eryn now, the wary glances, the fearful mutterings—they were familiar echoes of the Weaver’s own past. Eryn's whole being was tacking toward something unseen, toward a wind no one else could feel. And the villagers, like any who fear the unknown, instinctively pulled away.

The Weaver let her fingers drift across the threads of her loom, listening for the whisper of the pattern beneath. 

"It's shifting," she said softly.

Eryn, sitting cross-legged beside her, turned toward the sound. "What is?"

"The pattern. The one you stand within." The Weaver gave a small, enigmatic smile. "The threads pull differently now."

"Because of my eye?"

"Because of you." The Weaver's voice was gentle. "The eye is only a doorway. What steps through it—that’s you, child. And the village feels it, though they wouldn’t know how to name it."

Eryn was silent, her fingers brushing the scarred wood of the loom. Outside, a wind stirred the autumn leaves. 

The Weaver reached over and placed her hand atop the girl's. "Don't worry too much about what they fear. Just keep listening. The threads will tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it."

#
The morning the bandages came off, Eryn sat rigid on the wooden stool in the Weaver’s cottage, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles turned white. The old woman sat beside her, silent as always, her fingers brushing the warp threads of the loom. The Healer stood before Eryn, gently unspooling the linen wrappings with practiced hands.
"Sorry, love," the Healer said as she worked. "Had to cover both eyes, you know. Otherwise, your injured one would move with the good one, and we couldn’t have that."
The bandages smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. With each layer peeled away, the dimness behind Eryn's eyelids brightened into an uncertain glow.
Finally, the last strip fell away. The world returned in a blur of color and shadow. She squinted against the light.
"Everything looks... strange," she murmured. "Like there's a shimmer lying over everything."
"Cover your left eye," said the Healer.
Eryn obeyed. With her right eye alone, the room appeared normal: the stone hearth, the hanging herbs, the Weaver's loom standing sentinel in the corner.
"Good. Now cover your right."
She hesitated. Her stomach clenched. Slowly, she switched hands.
The world shifted. Colors dulled. Shadows deepened, pooling beneath the furniture as though gravity pulled harder in some places than others. Threads of silver, faint and wavering, stretched across the air like spider silk glinting in twilight.
Eryn’s breath caught.
"It’s... misty," she whispered. "And there are... shapes. Blobby shapes. Can I see a mirror?"
The Healer sighed and passed her a small bronze hand mirror.
Eryn held it up. Her right eye looked as it always had—brown, steady, familiar. But the left...
The left eye shimmered like pale glass over hidden embers. The iris, once hazel, glimmered faintly silver. Thin lines veined outward from the pupil, shifting as though stirred by an invisible current.
Her stomach turned cold.
"No," she whispered. "That’s not my eye."
"It doesn't look bad, love," said the Healer gently. "Just... different."
But it was bad. Worse than she'd imagined. Her eyes no longer matched. Her face no longer matched. One half looked like herself; the other belonged to a stranger.
Eryn shoved the mirror back into the Healer's hands and rubbed her palms against her skirt, as if scrubbing away the sensation of that unfamiliar gaze.
"Put the bandages back on," she said through clenched teeth.
The Healer hesitated but did as she asked.

The next morning, Eryn asked her mother for scraps of fabric.
She spent the afternoon hunched at the cottage table, matching dyes, adjusting threads, testing patches against her skin. Her mother murmured encouragement, but Eryn barely heard her. She adjusted, trimmed, and sewed until the eyepatch disappeared against her cheek.
When the Weaver ran her fingers across it later that evening, she nodded.
"Very clever," the old woman said.
"If I cover it properly," Eryn mumbled, "maybe people will forget."
The Weaver's fingers stilled. "Maybe," she said softly.
Days passed. Eryn tried to disappear back into ordinary village life, but the Eye had other ideas.
It happened a week after the bandages came off. She and her parents were returning from the fields when they passed Old Jarrek, the herdsman, who stood scowling beside his pasture fence.
"Trouble?" her father called.
Jarrek spat into the grass. "Lost a calf again. Third time this month. Probably wandered into the woods."
Eryn, trailing behind, barely registered the conversation. The sun was low in the sky, and her Eye throbbed beneath the patch. She rubbed it absently. As she walked past Jarrek’s fence, the left side of her vision shifted. Silver threads flickered beyond the pasture, winding into the trees toward a cluster of large stones.
Before she knew what she was doing, she stopped and pointed. "It's there," she said, voice flat. "By the stones near the old hollow oak."
Her father turned. "What?"
Eryn blinked. Her hand dropped. "Nothing. I don’t... I didn’t mean to..."
But Jarrek was already hurrying across the pasture, clambering over the fence and heading into the woods. Eryn’s parents exchanged uncertain glances.
Fifteen minutes later, Jarrek emerged with the calf slung over his shoulders.
He passed Eryn without a word, but his eyes lingered on her patch.
By sundown, everyone in the village knew about the calf.
At first, they whispered with nervous curiosity: "Maybe she just heard the calf bleating?" "Lucky guess."
But when the baker misplaced his purse of coin and Eryn—distracted and irritated by his pacing—blurted out, "Check the flour bin," and he did and found it... the whispering deepened into something colder.
They began calling her the Girl with the Twilight Eye.
The name made Eryn's skin crawl.
"It's still me," she insisted to her friend Lira one morning. "Same Eryn. Same girl as always."
But Lira wouldn't meet her gaze.
#
That night, the dream came.
The river gleamed silver beneath a copper sky. The surface looked smooth, but beneath it, shadows churned—dark, writhing shapes twisting against the current. The water coiled like a snake, moving upstream instead of down.
From somewhere nearby came a faint, high-pitched sound: a voice singing without words. The song's melody drifted across the surface like mist.
Eryn stood on the bank, unable to move. The ground beneath her feet trembled. Cracks formed along the shore, widening into jagged lines.
The water swelled.
A figure appeared downstream: the butterfly, perched on a stone in the center of the current. Its wings glimmered with the same impossible hues she remembered—sapphire, emerald, and gold. It opened and closed them slowly, like the breathing of some vast, unseen creature.
The wind shifted.
The butterfly turned its head and fixed her with its gaze.
The copper sky darkened. The wind roared. The water surged toward her feet.
The butterfly's wings shimmered as its voice spoke, low and cold:
"The waters rise."
Eryn gasped and sat up, the blanket tangled around her legs. Her heart raced. Sweat drenched her nightgown. She pressed her hands to her face.
Just a dream. Just a stupid, meaningless dream.
But the whisper of the butterfly’s words coiled around her heart like a vine.
The waters rise.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her left eye pulsed beneath the patch.
From somewhere deep in her memory, another sound stirred: thin, reedy, and distant.
The flute. The old wooden flute her grandfather had given her long ago.
She slid from the bed and knelt beside the trunk at the foot of her pallet. Lifting the lid, she dug beneath the blankets and ribbons until her fingers found smooth wood.
The shepherd’s flute. She hadn't thought of it in years.
Her grandfather's voice echoed from some forgotten corner of her mind: "Music follows the wind. And the wind follows the unseen."
Clutching the flute, she slipped out the door and climbed the hill behind the cottage. The moon was high, casting silver light across the fields.
She sat cross-legged on the crest, raised the flute to her lips, and played.
The notes were rough and unpracticed at first. But gradually, the melody found its shape—simple, wandering, lonely. The wind stirred the grass, carrying the sound down toward the darkened village.
Eryn closed her right eye. The left remained open beneath the patch. And for just a moment, she imagined the silver threads of the world twisting upward toward the moon.
She played until her breath ran out, then sat in silence. The wind settled. The night grew still.
Behind her, in the village, the river whispered beneath the bridges.

#
The river betrayed them.
It began as a distant rumble, low and indistinct, like thunder trapped beneath the earth. Eryn paused, spade in hand, and turned toward the sound. The villagers noticed it too—a subtle vibration through the ground, an unfamiliar tension in the air. But it was the Weaver who first understood. Sitting beneath the eaves of her cottage, she tilted her head toward the noise, lips pressing into a thin line.
"Something's coming," the Weaver murmured.
Eryn’s pulse quickened. She scanned the horizon beyond the fields, but there was nothing—just the familiar line of trees and the river’s lazy glint beneath the midday sun.
Then the birds rose, all at once, from the northern woods. A dark, frantic cloud.
The ground trembled harder.
Shouts erupted across the village as people abandoned their chores and ran toward higher ground. Eryn stood frozen for an instant, heart lurching toward the northern fields where her parents worked. She sprinted toward them, the earth quaking beneath her feet.
The sound grew, deep and monstrous, a roar that seemed to come from everywhere at once. When she reached the crest of the hill, she saw it: a wall of water, churning with uprooted trees, boulders, and debris, tearing down the valley like a beast unleashed.
Her parents were too far away. They stood in the open field, tools abandoned, staring in horror at the oncoming torrent. Eryn screamed their names, waving her arms as though the gesture might pull them toward her.
Her mother saw her. For a moment, their eyes locked across the distance. Then the water struck.
The flood swallowed them whole.
The shock of it broke something inside her. Eryn collapsed to her knees, watching as the torrent swept away the field, the fence line, the figures she loved most. The water surged past her vantage point, surging toward the village below. Someone grasped her arm—strong, wiry fingers. The Weaver.
The Weaver. "We have to go!" the old woman yelled. Eryn let herself be pulled to her feet. Together they ran, Eryn leading her by the hand to higher ground.

#
The village stood in ruins. Half the cottages lay flattened, and the fields were strewn with mud and broken branches. By nightfall, the survivors gathered in the square around a meager fire. Their faces were hollow with shock and grief.
Eryn sat apart, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Her body ached from exhaustion, but her mind remained numb, circling the image of her parents disappearing beneath the water.
Over the next few days, she threw herself into the recovery efforts. She helped clear debris from the fields, patched roofs, and comforted grieving neighbors. She wanted to belong, to help rebuild the village that had been her home.
But the whispers persisted.
"She should have seen it," someone muttered from the shadows.
"Aye," said another. "With that eye of hers. Isn't that what it’s for?"
Eryn’s gut clenched. She lowered her gaze to the ground.
"She warned us about the goats. The granary beam. But not this?" A voice she recognized—Tavrik, the miller. "Why didn't you warn us, girl?"
She looked up then. The firelight caught the faint shimmer of her left eye. Faces turned away as if from a wild animal.
"I didn't see it," she whispered. "It was too far away."
"Convenient," Tavrik said. "Her parents die, half the village is lost, and she saw nothing? Maybe that eye of hers brought the flood. Maybe it draws misfortune."
"That's not how it works," she said, voice trembling.
"How would we know? We never asked for it. Or for you."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Fear mixed with anger in their eyes.
Eryn stood, the blanket falling away. The ache in her left eye flared into a sharp, stabbing heat.
The Weaver appeared beside her, laying a hand on her arm. "Not tonight," she said softly. "Come, lass."
Eryn followed her back to the cottage. She sat at the loom’s side, silent, while the Weaver brewed tea. 
"They hate me," Eryn said at last.
"They fear you," the Weaver corrected. "It's not the same."
"Feels the same."
The Weaver sighed. "Fear needs a face. Today, it’s yours."
“The butterfly said, “YOU ARE CLAIMED!” For what? Misery? If this ‘twilight eye’ is so wonderful, why didn’t it warn me?” What kind of cruel, sick joke is all this?
The Weaver took her into arms and held her as she sobbed.

#
That night, with the villagers' words assaulting her mind — on top of losing her parents and all that had befallen her — something in Eryn snapped. 
She threw a few things into a small satchel — a crust of bread, a water flask, her flute, and a single copper coin she'd found years ago in the village square. She left the Weaver’s cottage just before dawn, slipping through the door without a word. The floor creaked softly beneath her step.
From her bed, the Weaver stirred but said nothing. Her sightless eyes opened, as if feeling the shift in the air, and she listened as Eryn's footsteps faded into the misty morning. A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "Safe travels, child," she whispered to the empty room.
The road, Eryn thought, led somewhere. And anywhere was better than here.
The first steps felt like freedom — crisp air in her lungs, the open path ahead. The village disappeared behind her, swallowed by mist and memory. She walked with purpose, imagining bustling towns, friendly strangers, perhaps even answers to the restless longing that haunted her nights.
But the road was not what she'd imagined. The packed dirt turned to thick mud beneath her shoes. It stretched on endlessly, flanked by twisted, leafless trees. Her feet ached; her satchel grew lighter with each passing hour. By midday, the bread was gone. By evening, the water too.
She reached a small roadside inn as the sun dipped below the horizon. The lanterns cast warm, inviting glows through fogged windows. Eryn stepped inside, clutching her copper coin. The innkeeper, a stout man with narrowed eyes, listened to her request for food. When she held up the coin, he barked a laugh.
"One copper? For supper?" He shook his head. "That'll buy you a sniff of the stew, girl."
The patrons laughed. Eryn flushed, mumbling thanks as she backed out of the inn, the sting of humiliation burning as hot as her empty stomach. 
She sank onto the stone steps outside, pulling her cloak tighter around her. Hunger gnawed at her, but worse was the growing realization that she had no plan — just the road and her worn shoes, leading nowhere.
Her fingers drifted to her satchel. The flute.
She hadn’t even thought about it since leaving the village. But now, in the quiet dusk, it felt like the only friend she had. She pulled it out, turning it over in her hands, before lifting it to her lips.
The first notes were shaky — fragile, like her own breath. But as she closed her eyes, the melody deepened, soft and mournful. It wasn’t a song of joy or hope; it was raw and aching, a melody of longing and loss.
A few passersby slowed.
The clink of a coin landing in her satchel made her eyes snap open. An older man, wrapped in a heavy cloak, offered her a soft smile before continuing on his way.
Eryn blinked, stunned.
She kept playing, the music becoming steadier. Over the next hour, a few more coins trickled in — small offerings, but enough for a crust of bread and a cup of thin broth.
I can do this, she thought, hope flickering in her chest.
For the next few days, she walked from hamlet to hamlet, stopping in busy squares or by the roadside to play. The flute brought enough for scraps of food — a few coins here, a half loaf there — but never enough for a real meal or a warm bed to sleep.
Nights were the hardest. She huddled under hedges or beneath trees, clutching her satchel, the cold seeping into her bones. Her Twilight Eye ached more at night, the shadows twisting into strange, flickering forms she couldn't understand.
The longer she walked, the more the initial thrill of freedom dulled into exhaustion. Her shoes wore thin, her hands grew stiff from the cold, and the music from her flute turned hollow, the melodies echoing her despair.
By the fifth day, she was done. Her legs trembled with every step, her stomach hollow and cramping. She tried to play her flute again, but the notes faltered, her breath too weak to carry them.
Finally, too exhausted to continue, Eryn sat by the side of the road, her head drooped against her knees. Tears stung her eyes, but she was too tired and hungry even to cry.
I need to go home.
The realization was bitter but undeniable. She had tried — really tried — but this path wasn’t hers. She would return to the Weaver, even if it meant facing her shame.
That’s when she heard it — the creak of wooden wheels approaching.
She turned her head slightly, too weary to care. A cart, laden with sacks of grain, rumbled toward her. The driver was a woman with sharp eyes and a weathered face.
The cart slowed. The woman squinted down. "Where you headed, girl?"
Eryn opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. Her throat was too dry.
The woman clucked her tongue, hopped down, and handed her a waterskin. Eryn drank greedily, water trickling down her chin.
"Running away, eh?" the woman asked.
Eryn managed a nod.
"Happens," the woman said. "Come on, then. There’s no shame in falling, only in staying down. Where do you belong?"
Eryn hesitated, then whispered, "The Weaver."
The woman’s eyebrows lifted. "The Weaver? She's barely off my path. Hop on."
The woman helped her onto the cart, wrapped her in an old wool blanket, and turned the horse around. They rode in silence back toward the village.
When they reached the Weaver's cottage, the woman set the brake and helped Eryn down. The door opened before they could knock. The Weaver stood there, unseeing eyes gazing past them.
The Weaver said simply, "Hello, love. Would you like some soup?" Eryn fell into her arms, sobbing.

#
The next morning the sun filtered weakly through the cottage window, casting long, thin beams across the loom. The rhythmic clack of the Weaver’s shuttle echoed through the quiet space, steady and unhurried.
Eryn sat at the wooden table, her hands wrapped around a bowl of thin porridge. She stirred it absently, not eating. Her body ached from the days on the road — the cold, the hunger — but worse than the physical pain was the heaviness inside her.
The Weaver’s sightless eyes faced the loom, but her voice broke the silence. “You’re awfully quiet this morning, love.”
Eryn’s fingers tightened around the spoon. “I don’t know what to say.”
The Weaver’s hands didn’t stop moving. “No need to say anything. You’re here. That’s enough.”
The kindness in her tone made Eryn’s throat tighten. “I shouldn’t have left. It was stupid.”
The shuttle clacked against the loom. “Perhaps. But sometimes we need to be stupid before we can be wise.”
Eryn let out a sharp breath — a half-laugh, half-sob. “I thought I could manage on my own. I thought... I don’t know what I thought.”
The Weaver set the shuttle down and turned her head slightly toward Eryn. “You thought the road might give you something this place couldn’t. Freedom, maybe. A chance to be someone else.”
Eryn nodded, though she wasn’t sure if the Weaver could sense it. “I wanted to be... normal again. Before all this.” She gestured vaguely toward her left eye, the Twilight Eye hidden beneath its patch.
The Weaver’s voice softened. “But you aren’t that girl anymore, are you?”
Eryn swallowed hard. “I don’t even know who I am.”
The loom creaked as the Weaver leaned back slightly. “Well, that’s something to work on, isn’t it? But you won’t find the answer sitting here feeling sorry for yourself.”
Eryn flushed but didn’t argue. She knew the Weaver was right.
There was a pause, filled only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Then the Weaver spoke again, her tone thoughtful. “You need something to keep your hands busy, your mind too. Something that’ll let you find your footing again.”
Eryn looked up. “Like what? I’m no good at anything.”
The Weaver smiled faintly. “Nonsense. You’ve got sharp eyes — both of them, whether you like it or not. And sharp eyes are just what Briala needs.”
Eryn furrowed her brow. “Briala?”
“The herbalist,” the Weaver said. “She lives out near the edge of the northern woods. Knows the plants, the roots, the mushrooms. She could teach you a thing or two — and in return, you can help her gather what she needs. It’s honest work, and it’ll give you time to think without all the noise of this village.”
Eryn hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the bowl. “But… won’t I have to go into the forest?”
The words hung in the air, heavier than she’d intended. Her heart beat faster, her mind filled with the dark tangle of trees where she had followed the butterfly — where she had been claimed.
The Weaver was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke gently, “Yes, love. You will.”
Eryn’s stomach twisted. “I can’t. Not there. Not again.”
The Weaver’s hands moved across the loom, fingers feeling the tension of the threads. “The forest didn’t do this to you. The butterfly did. And not all the woods are dark and twisted, Eryn. There’s life in the trees — roots that heal, leaves that soothe. Briala knows that. She’ll show you the forest’s other face, the one you’ve forgotten.”
Eryn bit her lip. “But what if… what if I see it again? The butterfly, or whatever that thing was?”
The Weaver’s voice softened further. “Then you’ll be stronger this time. You’ll have eyes that can see more — both the dangers and the paths through them.”
Eryn sat quietly for a long moment.
“Would Briala even want me there?” she asked quietly.
“She’ll take you,” the Weaver replied confidently. “I’ve already sent word. She knows you’re coming.”
Eryn blinked in surprise. “You knew I’d be back?”
The Weaver’s sightless eyes seemed to twinkle. “I knew the road would give you what you needed — even if it wasn’t what you wanted.”
Eryn’s shoulders sagged, a strange mixture of relief and dread washing over her. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“No one ever is,” the Weaver said gently. “But you’ll go. And you’ll find more out there than you expect — about plants, yes, but also about yourself.”
Eryn sat quietly for a moment, tracing the rim of her porridge bowl with her fingertip. Then, softly, she said, “Okay. I’ll go.”
The Weaver smiled. “Good girl. And Eryn?”
Eryn looked up.
“Don’t be so quick to hide that eye. It sees more than you think — even if you’re not ready to understand it yet.”

#
The First Task: The Ring of Pale Caps
Mistress Briala stood at the doorway of her mossy cottage, appraising Eryn with a flick of her moss-green eyes. "So. The Weaver sent me a storm-eyed wisp. Good. The woods have been restless."
Eryn shifted her weight and lowered her gaze. She felt out of place here, on the edge of the wild forest. She didn't know why the Weaver had sent her here—only that she needed time away from the village, from the whispers and wary glances. "Restless woods?" That sounded like the kind of thing the Weaver would say—more riddles, more mystery. Eryn just wanted something simple. Practical. Something that didn't involve strange visions or aching eyes.
"Come in," Briala said, stepping aside. "You look like you could use a meal and a rest."
Inside, the cottage was warm and smelled of dried herbs and woodsmoke. Briala ladled stew into a clay bowl and handed it to Eryn. "Eat first. The forest will wait."
Eryn ate slowly, her body grateful for the food. Briala hummed as she moved about the cottage, rearranging herbs and stirring a pot over the hearth. She asked no questions, made no demands. The silence was companionable, grounding.
Over the next few days, Briala gave Eryn small tasks—sweeping, chopping roots, stirring tinctures—things that required little thought but kept her hands busy. She let Eryn settle, let her body recover from exhaustion, let her mind quiet. Then, one morning, she handed Eryn a small basket.
"Go to the edge of the woods and gather some fennel and marjoram. You'll find them growing by the old well."
Eryn hesitated at the doorway. Her stomach tightened. She glanced toward the tree line, dark and tangled in the morning mist. "The edge of the woods?"
Briala nodded, busying herself with a bundle of dried lavender. "That’s what I said."
Eryn swallowed hard but took the basket. The task was simple. Just herbs. Not deep inside. She could do this.

The Second Task: A Little Further In
Eryn returned, the basket filled with fragrant leaves. Briala accepted it without comment, simply pointing to a table where she should place them. The next morning, Briala handed her another basket.
"Today, you'll go a little further in. There's lemon balm and coltsfoot not far from the clearing just past the first row of trees. Shouldn’t take long."
Eryn's breath hitched. She stared at Briala, waiting for an explanation, a reassurance. But the woman just stirred a pot, acting as though it was the most ordinary request in the world.
Eryn hesitated, gripping the basket tightly, then nodded and went.

An Exchange
Eryn returned, heart pounding but triumphant. She'd done it. Briala took the basket with an approving nod, then casually asked, "Did you see any iridescent butterflies?"
Eryn blinked. "No...?"
Briala smirked. "Then you’ve nothing to worry about."
Eryn frowned, unsure if she was being teased or warned. But Briala said nothing more.

The Third Task: The Ring of Pale Caps
The next morning, Briala handed Eryn a woven satchel and a small, curved knife.
"Your next job's simple: find me a ring of pale caps before dusk. White, smooth, like moonlight on snow. Shouldn't be hard."
Eryn's shoulders loosened with relief. Mushrooms. Just mushrooms. No riddles, no strange visions, no uncanny threads or whispered voices. Finally.
"I can do that," she said, forcing confidence into her voice.
"Can you?" Briala murmured, but her smile was unreadable.

The Search
Eryn trudged into the forest with her satchel slung across her shoulder. The earthy scent of damp leaves filled her nose, grounding her in normalcy. She breathed deeply. If she could just find these mushrooms, she'd prove she could handle herself. Maybe even live a life where no one called her cursed.
But as the sun climbed and then dipped toward afternoon, doubt crept in. White mushrooms dotted the forest floor—some wide and flat like dinner plates, others clustered like tiny soldiers in formation. But none formed the ring Briala described.
Her frustration grew. Her back ached. Her right eye burned from squinting at shadowed undergrowth. The patch over her left eye chafed her temple, the skin beneath always hot and tender since the butterfly's sting. She'd resisted scratching at it all day.
Finally, she collapsed beside a fallen log and rubbed her face. Her fingers found the knot behind her head, and before she could stop herself, she tugged the eyepatch free.
Cool air washed over her skin. The relief was immediate. She rubbed both eyes and sighed.
Just mushrooms, she thought. Why can't anything ever just be simple?

The First Glimpse
When she opened her eyes, the world felt... wrong.
The right eye saw the forest as it should be: tangled roots, damp earth, a scattering of pale fungi.
But through her left eye, faint lines shimmered across the ground—like silver threads drawn from the earth itself. They wove beneath the leaf litter, connecting the mushrooms into patterns she couldn't quite grasp. The lines pulsed softly, like a heartbeat in the soil.
Eryn froze. No.
Her heart raced. This was exactly what she didn't want. The left eye, this cursed eye, had haunted her since the butterfly's sting. It showed her things she couldn't explain—glimpses of strange shadows in the village square, patterns in candle flames. She thought if she wore the eyepatch long enough, the visions would stop.
She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the threads had dimmed but hadn't vanished.
Then she noticed something else: the faintest glimmer of pale shapes ahead, just beyond the fallen log. She climbed to her feet, breath held, and moved toward them. As she stepped closer, the silver threads brightened, guiding her steps. She reached the log and peered over.
There, in a soft hollow of earth, was a perfect circle of pale mushrooms.

The Return
Eryn returned to the cottage and set the satchel beside Briala, who was grinding something in a stone mortar. The woman peered into the bag, raised an eyebrow, and gave a low whistle.
"Moonveil caps," she said. "Impressive. You found these without digging up half the forest?"
"I... I just followed the threads," Eryn said softly, unsure whether to feel proud or afraid.
Briala smiled, setting the mortar aside. "Well, they're fresh and unbruised. Good work. Moonveil caps like these fetch a high price."
"So... it worked?" Eryn asked.
"It worked," Briala confirmed. "But mushrooms don't lie, girl. The forest showed you something today. Pay attention next time."
She turned back to her mortar and pestle and began humming—a low, lilting tune, the melody winding like a vine. Eryn caught fragments of the words as she turned away:
"Where roots entwine and shadows play,
The unseen walks in light of day..."
The tune followed Eryn to her mat, curling in the edges of her mind. She burrowed into the blankets, exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come easily. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those silver threads again.
By dawn, she convinced herself it was just an odd trick of the light. The tune, too—just a silly rhyme from an eccentric herbalist.
But weeks from now, when she heard the same melody whispered by a stranger deep in the forest, she'd know better.") ] }

#
It had been a week since Eryn found the Moonveil caps. Since then, Briala had kept her busy with practical tasks—grinding herbs, bottling tinctures, and learning how to bind simple wounds. The forest no longer felt quite as threatening.
Still, Eryn hadn’t ventured back into the woods—not since she’d seen those silver threads with her Twilight Eye. Part of her itched to go back, to see more. Another part was terrified of what else might be waiting.
Briala, of course, noticed.
That morning, as the mist curled low around the cottage, Briala set down a bundle of fresh-picked herbs and tilted her head at Eryn. “You’ve been watching the woods more than usual.”
Eryn glanced away. “They’re... quieter than before.”
Briala’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “That’s because they’re waiting.”
Eryn frowned. “Waiting for what?”
Briala pointed to the flute resting by Eryn’s satchel. “For you to speak their language.”
Eryn blinked. “You want me to... play? In the forest?”
Briala nodded. “Music carries differently there. It moves through the roots, the branches. It calls things.” 
Eryn hesitated, fingers trailing over the smooth wood of the flute.
Then Briala added, voice soft but firm, “Go. Let’s see who’s listening. And leave the eyepatch behind.”
Eryn’s hand flew instinctively to the patch covering her Twilight Eye. “I... can’t!”
“You can.” Briala’s moss-green eyes locked onto hers. “You need to.”
A knot formed in Eryn’s throat, but she understood. If the forest was to hear her, all of her had to be present—including the part she feared most.
With trembling fingers, she reached behind her head and untied the eyepatch. The cool air hit the sensitive skin around her left eye, and for a moment, she felt raw and exposed—as if the forest itself was already watching.
She tucked the eyepatch into her satchel, picked up the flute, and turned toward the trees.
Eryn walked deeper into the woods than she ever had before. Without the eyepatch, her Twilight Eye ached, the overlapping visions of both worlds disorienting at first—the real and the hidden layered atop each other like mismatched glass.
The silver threads that had once flickered faintly now pulsed with life beneath her left eye, snaking through the earth and around the roots, guiding her forward.
She found a small clearing—a perfect circle rimmed with white-barked trees. It felt... expectant, as though the forest itself held its breath.
She sat on a mossy stone, pulling the flute from her satchel. Her fingers hovered over the instrument, but her left eye burned, making her hesitate.
What am I doing?
But then, she remembered Briala’s words—“Let’s see who’s listening.” She took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders to relax, and lifted the flute to her lips.
The first notes were soft, faltering. The twin visions from her eyes made it hard to focus—the forest as her right eye saw it, tangled and familiar, and the shimmering patterns of her left, alive with unseen energy.
But as her fingers found the melody, her breath deepened, and the two worlds began to overlap in rhythm. The music smoothed into something older than she could name—a tune her grandfather used to play long ago, now reshaped by the forest.
The sound drifted through the clearing, weaving between the trees, and the silver threads began to pulse in time with the melody.
And then, something answered.
Tiny orbs of light flickered into existence, floating like fireflies but brighter, more deliberate. They spiraled toward her, twining around the flute and her hands. The lights danced to the melody, illuminating the silver threads until the entire clearing shimmered with a soft glow.
Eryn’s heart pounded, but she didn’t stop playing.
Then, from the edge of the clearing, something flickered—an iridescent shimmer.
No!
Her Twilight Eye locked onto it—the familiar form of her butterfly, its wings glowing with that same impossible light she’d seen the day she was stung.
But this time, it hovered at a distance, watching. It didn’t attack, didn’t approach. It simply... listened.
Eryn’s fingers trembled on the flute. The urge to run surged inside her, but instead, she closed her eyes—both of them—and shifted the melody. She played softer, gentler, turning the tune into a lullaby her mother used to hum at night.
When she opened her eyes, the butterfly was gone.
But the lights remained, still dancing.
Briala was waiting by the hearth when Eryn returned, the flute still clutched tightly in her hand, her left eye bare.
Briala arched a brow. “Well?”
Eryn hesitated, then said softly, “I played. And... the forest answered.”
Briala’s gaze flicked to Eryn’s uncovered eye, a small, knowing smile forming. “And?”
Eryn swallowed hard. “The butterfly—it was there. It listened.”
Briala’s smile didn’t falter. “Good. It means you’re being seen. And now, maybe you’re starting to see in return.”
Eryn’s grip tightened on the flute. “Why didn’t it come closer?”
Briala shrugged. “Not everything that marks you is meant to harm you, Eryn. Some things just... watch. Waiting to see what you’ll become.”
The words lingered in Eryn’s mind as she sat by the fire that night, the flute resting across her knees, her left eye uncovered and burning—but no longer hidden.
#

#
In the days and weeks that followed her first musical episode in the forest, Eryn found herself returning to its clearings—sometimes at Briala’s request, but more often driven by a subtle pull she couldn’t fully explain.
The flute, once tucked away like a forgotten trinket, now hung from her side, always within reach. Its smooth wood felt alive beneath her fingers. Music had become her bridge—a way to speak to the forest in a language beyond words.
At first, her notes were tentative, fragile as spider silk. But with each visit, her fingers grew steadier, her melodies deeper, richer. And the forest listened.
One misty morning, with dew still clinging to the leaves, Eryn sat in a hollow where tree roots rose and twisted like the ribs of a sleeping giant. She raised her flute and played a slow, deep melody—notes that sank low into the earth, echoing in her chest.
Her Twilight Eye flickered to life, revealing silver threads beneath the soil, pulsing faintly. As she played, the threads thickened, glowing brighter, winding through the roots in an intricate network.
The melody deepened, vibrating through the ground, and Eryn watched as mushrooms—pale and delicate—bloomed in slow motion along the gnarled roots. Vines shifted slightly, repositioning themselves as if reaching for the music. She could feel the pull beneath the earth, the silent conversations between the roots and stones, old as time itself.
When she stopped playing, the forest grew still, but her Twilight Eye still caught the silver threads—thicker now, more vivid.
Later, back at the cottage, Briala examined the mushrooms Eryn had gathered.
“The forest’s roots carry memories. You played to them, and they remembered.”
Eryn nodded, feeling a strange warmth in her chest. For the first time, she’d made something grow—not with potions or herbs, but with music.
A few days later, beneath a bright, cloudless sky, Eryn chose a clearing filled with wildflowers. The air buzzed with bees and dragonflies. She lifted her flute and played a higher, lilting melody—quick and playful, like the laughter of running water.
Almost immediately, the silver threads in her Twilight Eye lifted into the air, becoming shimmering filaments that wove through branches and petals.
Tiny orbs of light flickered into existence—like fireflies, but brighter—and flitted in time with her music. Birds appeared, their feathers shimmering with faint auras only her left eye could see. A flock of delicate moths joined them, swirling above her head.
Then, out of the corner of her Twilight Eye, she caught a flicker—an iridescent shimmer.
A butterfly.
Not The Butterfly, but one similar. Its wings pulsed with impossible hues—sapphire, emerald, gold. It hovered at the edge of the clearing, observing.
Eryn hesitated, her heart racing. Then, she shifted her melody, adding a soft trill, inviting the butterfly closer.
It fluttered forward, circling her once before landing gently on the flute’s end.
Her breath caught, but she kept playing. The butterfly’s wings beat in rhythm with the tune, and for a moment, it felt as though they shared a fragile, unspoken connection.
When the song ended, the butterfly lifted off, its shimmer fading as it vanished into the trees.
She sat in stunned silence, her heart still racing. This moment felt like a gift—an offering from the forest.
On anothe evening, as dusk settled over the forest and the first stars blinked to life, Eryn chose a different melody—slower, mournful, laced with dissonant notes that lingered like smoke.
The forest responded differently.
The silver threads dulled, replaced by shadowy tendrils that coiled along the ground, writhing as if alive. Her Twilight Eye revealed shapes lurking just beyond the edges of the clearing—figures formed of mist and shadow, half-seen, whispering to one another in voices too faint to understand.
Eryn’s fingers trembled, but she didn’t stop. The shadows circled her, some flickering closer, others retreating. Fear surged in her chest, but she pushed it down, letting the melody carry her forward.
As she continued playing, the shadows slowed. They no longer seemed menacing—just... curious. One reached a tendril-like hand toward her flute before dissolving into mist.
When the melody faded, the clearing grew still again. The darkness retreated, but a lingering presence remained—a reminder that the forest held more than roots and light. It carried its own sorrows and secrets, waiting for someone brave enough to listen.
Through these sessions, Eryn grew more comfortable with her Twilight Eye. At first, she’d been disoriented—her right eye showing the physical world, while her left eye layered shimmering threads and hidden energies atop it. But with time, she learned to shift her focus, blending the two.
One day, while playing in a clearing, she noticed a simple fern beneath her feet. Her right eye saw it as it was—green, delicate. But through her Twilight Eye, the fern glowed faintly, silver veins pulsing beneath its surface.
Eryn blinked, focusing both eyes together.
Suddenly, she saw the fern in its entirety—not just as a plant, but as a living node in the forest’s vast network, connected to every root, branch, and stone around it.
For the first time, she didn’t feel the urge to cover her left eye.
The sun hung low on the horizon as Eryn trudged back to Briala’s cottage, the flute swaying at her side, her left eye uncovered. The path beneath her feet felt different—lighter somehow—as though the earth itself had softened, welcoming her steps.
The cottage door stood ajar, and the scent of herbs and woodsmoke drifted out to meet her. Inside, Briala stirred a pot over the hearth, her moss-green eyes catching the flicker of the flames. She didn’t turn as Eryn entered but spoke softly, her voice as calm and steady as the wind through the trees.
“You kept the eye uncovered the whole time, didn’t you?”
Eryn paused in the doorway, one hand resting on the flute. She hesitated before answering.
“Yes. It... it didn’t feel like a curse anymore,” Eryn said softly.
Briala finally turned, her face shadowed by the firelight, but her eyes shone with something warmer—approval, perhaps, or understanding. She set the wooden spoon aside and crossed the room to where Eryn stood.
“It was never a curse, child. Just a door you weren’t ready to walk through.”
Eryn lowered her gaze, tracing the grain of the wooden floor with her toe.
 “I thought... I thought if I ignored it, if I kept it covered, maybe it would go away. But today, I didn’t want to hide. The forest—when I played—it felt like it saw me. Not just the me with two eyes, but... all of me.”
Briala’s lips curled into a faint smile. She reached out and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind Eryn’s ear, her fingers rough from years of grinding herbs and working the land.
“You’re beginning to see—not just with your eyes, but with your heart. That’s what the Twilight Eye is for. It shows you the threads that run deeper than roots or rivers.”
Eryn’s throat tightened. A strange mixture of pride and sadness swirled in her chest. She had been so afraid of this eye, of what it revealed. But now, it felt like a part of her she could no longer live without.
“I think... I’m starting to see people differently too. Not just the forest.”
Briala raised an eyebrow, curious.
“Oh?”
Eryn shifted, her hands gripping the flute tightly.
“When I passed a traveler on the road today, I saw something in him—not with my right eye, but the left. A kind of thread, faint and frayed, tugging at his chest. He looked fine on the outside, but... I could feel how lonely he was. How heavy it was for him to carry.”
Briala’s expression softened, her gaze turning inward for a moment as if considering her own memories.
“The threads run through all things, Eryn. Plants, rivers, people. When you see deeply enough, you’ll find there’s no true separation.”
The room filled with a deep stillness, broken only by the crackling fire.
Eryn let the words sink in, feeling their truth ripple through her like the silver threads she now saw in the forest. It was all connected—every root, every person, every hidden sorrow and secret joy. Nothing truly stood alone.
She took a deep breath, then moved to sit by the hearth. Briala ladled steaming stew into a bowl and handed it to her without a word. They ate in companionable silence, the weight between them lighter now, transformed.
Later, as Eryn lay on her pallet by the window, staring at the stars beyond the wooden beams, Briala’s voice drifted through the dark.
“You’re ready, Eryn. The forest has taught you well. But there’s more waiting beyond these woods. Deeper threads. Stronger songs.”
Eryn didn’t reply. She knew it was true. The thought filled her with both fear and excitement—a strange, wild melody of its own. But for now, under the soft hum of the forest and the gentle rhythm of her breathing, she allowed herself a rare moment of peace.
Her Twilight Eye remained open, watching the stars, but for the first time, they didn’t seem distant or cold.
They seemed... familiar. Like old friends, waiting patiently for her to see them.
That night, lying beneath the stars outside Briala’s cottage, Eryn placed the flute beside her and closed her eyes. She listened—not with her ears, but with the stillness she’d learned in the forest.
She felt the gentle pulse of the earth beneath her, the faint hum of life in the trees, and the quiet song of the stars above.
For the first time since the butterfly’s sting, she didn’t feel lost.
She felt found.
#
“What is truly strange,” said Eryn, “is that if it weren’t for this cursed eye, I’d be dead with the rest of my family. It’s because of the Butterfly’s sting that I was with the Weaver and not out in the fields with my family that day. It’s both my great blessing and great curse!”
#
The morning sun crept through the trees, its pale light streaming into Briala’s cottage in soft, golden slants. The smell of dew-soaked earth mingled with the familiar aroma of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Eryn stood by the small wooden table, her satchel half-packed, the worn edges of her flute peeking out from its folds.

She hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of a clay bowl on the table, feeling the smoothness beneath her thumb. It was strange how familiar this place had become. When she had first arrived, the very thought of the forest had filled her with dread. But now, the walls of the cottage, the soft creak of the beams, even the stubborn herbs that refused to dry properly—it all felt like a second skin.  

Briala moved quietly around the room, grinding something fragrant in her mortar, though Eryn noticed she hadn’t spoken much that morning. The silence between them was not heavy, but thoughtful—like the air just before rain.

Finally, Eryn cleared her throat.  “I think... I should go.”  

Briala didn’t look up right away. She pressed the pestle into the mortar one last time before setting it aside. Her moss-green eyes met Eryn’s.  

“I thought you might say that today.”  

Eryn’s brow furrowed.  “You knew?”  

Briala smiled faintly, the corners of her lips softening.  “The forest has been quieter these past few days. It doesn’t pull at you like it did before. It’s a sign.”  

Eryn swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.  

“I’ve learned so much here… more than I thought I could. But I feel like there’s more waiting for me—more I need to understand about healing, about the Left Eye… about myself.”  

She hesitated, fingers grazing the satchel again.  “I thought I might find another herbalist. Someone more advanced. Keep growing as a healer.”  

Briala nodded but didn’t speak for a moment. Instead, she crossed the room and reached up to a shelf, retrieving a small bundle wrapped in green cloth. She handed it to Eryn.

“Dried moonveil caps. You found them with your Eye—you might need them.”   

Eryn accepted the bundle, feeling its soft weight in her hand.  “Thank you. For everything.”  

Briala’s face softened further, her sharp edges dulled by something deeper—pride, perhaps, or a kind of motherly affection that had grown quietly between them.  

“You found more than herbs here, girl. You found yourself. And you’ll keep finding more, if you let the threads guide you.”  

Eryn slung her satchel over her shoulder, adjusting the weight. She hesitated again at the doorway, glancing back at the hearth where she had spent so many nights, and the small mat where she had slept.

“I was scared when I first came here. Of the forest. Of the Eye. Of myself.”  

“And now?” said Briala, smiling gently.

Eryn paused.“I’m still scared. But I’m not letting it stop me anymore.”  

Briala chuckled softly and crossed the room, pulling Eryn into a brief but fierce hug.  
“Good. That’s all the forest ever asked of you.”  

The door creaked as Eryn stepped outside. Morning mist still hung low over the ground, curling around the roots and stones. She could hear the distant calls of birds and the soft rustle of leaves, almost as if the forest itself was offering a quiet goodbye.

She turned back one last time.  

“Goodbye, Briala,”  embracing her.

“There’s no such thing as goodbye in the forest. Only... ‘until next time.’”  

Eryn smiled, blinking back the sting in her eyes, and then she turned, her feet crunching along the path that wound away from the cottage.  

The satchel felt heavier than before, but in her chest, something felt lighter—open. The road ahead stretched wide, uncertain, but she no longer felt the same hollow fear that had once filled her.

She placed her hand on her flute as she walked, feeling the smooth wood beneath her fingers. The path forward was hers to choose. And for the first time since the butterfly’s sting, she felt ready to take it.
#
Eryn: “They only wanted me when I was useful. It wasn’t… it wasn’t me they accepted. It was the eye. The curse.”
Mentor: “And what do you want?”
Eryn: [long pause] “To be seen. Not through the eye, not for the things I can do. Just… seen.”

#
The path wound steeply upward, its edges lined with moss-covered stones and wildflowers that glowed faintly in the morning sun. Eryn adjusted the strap of her satchel and took a breath of the crisp mountain air. With every step, she felt a growing sense of purpose—each stride carrying her farther from the timid girl who had once been too afraid to venture into the forest.

Briala’s parting words still echoed in her mind:  “You’ve learned to listen to the forest. Now it’s time to listen to yourself.”  

It had taken her days of wandering to hear whispers of the Master Herbalist—a healer unlike any other, who lived deep in the mountains near sacred springs said to hold restorative powers. People spoke of him in hushed voices, as if unsure whether the old healer was myth or reality.

With her Twilight Eye uncovered, Eryn had followed the faint, silvery threads of energy woven into the landscape, letting them guide her. When she came upon a wounded hare, its leg twisted at an unnatural angle, she had knelt, coaxing it close with soft notes from her flute. The threads around the animal pulsed in rhythm with her song, guiding her hands as she wrapped herbs around its injured limb. When the hare bounded away moments later, she felt a swelling warmth in her chest—confirmation that she was on the right path.

The journey had felt lighter than any before. She was healing. Not just others—but maybe, finally, herself.

Eryn arrived at the edge of a glen, where the trees opened to reveal a small stone cottage nestled among ancient oaks. A gentle stream wound through the clearing, its waters clear and shimmering, and in the center stood the cottage, its roof covered in flowering vines. The air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and wild mint.

She hesitated at the entrance, then raised her hand to knock on the weathered wooden door. Before her knuckles touched it, the door creaked open.

An old man stood there. His face was deeply lined, but his eyes were bright and kind—a deep blue that sparkled with warmth and mischief. A tangle of white hair framed his face, and a long, well-worn cloak hung from his shoulders, its pockets bulging with bundles of herbs and tiny vials.

“Ah! There you are. I was beginning to wonder when you’d arrive.”  

The words startled her.  “You… you were expecting me?”  

The old man chuckled, a soft, rolling sound like water over stones.  
“Of course! The threads said you were on your way. Not that they ever tell me when. Silly things.”  

Eryn blinked, unsure whether he was teasing or serious.  “I—I heard you were a Master Herbalist. I want to learn. To heal.”  

The Herbalist’s eyes softened as he studied her, his gaze lingering briefly on her Twilight Eye—but without fear or reverence. Instead, there was simple understanding.  

“I can see that. And you’ve been carrying quite a weight, haven’t you?”  

Eryn’s throat tightened, but she only nodded.

The Herbalist stepped aside, waving her in.  “Well, come in, come in! No point in standing out there like a lost kitten.”  

The inside of the cottage was warm and filled with the mingling scents of dried herbs and woodsmoke. Jars lined the shelves, filled with roots, leaves, and strange powders. Dried flowers hung from the beams overhead, swaying gently in the draft.

The Herbalist bustled about, setting a kettle over the fire.  “I’m called Thalen, by the way. You look half-starved. Tea first, lessons later.”  

Eryn sat by the hearth, grateful for the warmth and his easy manner. It felt like a home—a place of safety.  

Over the days that followed, Thalen taught her more than she had ever imagined. He was patient and gentle, guiding her through advanced herbal practices. Under his tutelage, Eryn learned not only how to mend broken bones and cure fevers but also how to heal deeper wounds—the kind that festered unseen in the heart and mind.

“A good healer sees the whole person, not just the sickness,” he told her one afternoon, as they gathered herbs near the sacred springs. “Body, heart, and spirit—they’re all woven together.”  

Eryn began to align her flute’s melodies with the energies of healing. Thalen showed her how each note could touch the threads of life in different ways—a soft harmony to soothe pain, a bright trill to restore strength, a gentle hum to calm restless spirits.

The sacred springs became their sanctuary. The water shimmered with subtle hues that only her Twilight Eye could fully see, threads of energy running deep beneath the earth.

For the first time since the flood, Eryn felt truly whole. Her Twilight Eye no longer felt like a curse but a tool—an extension of her growing understanding.

She found herself laughing more, her steps lighter, her heart less burdened. The guilt she had carried since the flood began to loosen its hold, like brittle leaves breaking free in a strong wind.

One afternoon, as sunlight dappled through the trees, Thalen brought her to the edge of the springs. They sat in silence, the water murmuring at their feet.

“You’ve come far, Eryn. I see it in the way you play your flute, in how you walk through the woods. But there’s something you’re still holding onto.”  

Eryn’s fingers curled around the flute in her lap. She hesitated, then spoke.  
“The flood. I still… I still think about it. I wonder if I’d understood the dream sooner—if I could have saved them.”  

Thalen was quiet for a long moment.  

“Every healer carries a moment like that. The one we wish we could go back and change. But Eryn, even the most skilled among us can’t stop death when it comes. We do what we can, but we aren’t gods. Sooner or later, death comes for us all — every plant, every animal, every tree, every person.”  

Thalen sighed, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.  

“There’s the real wound. You’re not here to fix the past. You’re here to help where you can—and to forgive yourself when you can’t.”  

The words sank deep, but they weren’t enough. Not yet. Eryn felt the old ache return—the weight of failure, of not being enough. She nodded silently, but inside, doubt stirred.

#
Eryn crouched among the tall grass, fingers brushing the soft leaves of wild marjoram. Her Twilight Eye flickered open, revealing the familiar silver threads beneath the soil — the interconnected lifelines that bound the forest together.
But then, something shifted.
Her gaze caught a cluster of threads ahead — vibrant at first, but fraying, strands unraveling in slow motion. Curiosity piqued, she followed them, weaving between the trees until she found the source.
A small deer, no older than a fawn, lay beneath a twisted oak. Its chest rose and fell in labored breaths, eyes half-closed. A crimson stain darkened its flank — a wound from a predator, perhaps.
Eryn’s heart ached. Instinctively, she stepped forward, kneeling beside it. Her Twilight Eye revealed the fawn’s life thread, now thin and tattered, delicate filaments snapping one by one.
She reached out, her hand hovering over its fragile body.
Could she mend it?
Her mind raced — maybe with the right herbs, maybe with the right melody, she could weave the thread back together. She fumbled for her flute, but her hands trembled. The fraying continued.
Then, a voice behind her.
"Let it go."
Eryn turned. The master herbalist stood a few paces back, her arms crossed, face unreadable.
"But—" Eryn’s throat tightened. "It’s dying. I can see it—"
"And sometimes that’s all we can do — see."
Eryn’s fists clenched. "But if I can stop it—if I can fix it—"
The master herbalist walked forward, crouching beside her.
"You think death is a mistake to be corrected?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "This fawn isn’t afraid. Look at it."
Eryn did. Through her Twilight Eye, she saw not just the fraying threads, but a soft silver glow around the fawn’s body — as if the forest itself was cradling it. The tension she’d felt began to ebb, replaced by an odd serenity.
"It’s… peaceful," Eryn whispered.
The master nodded. "Death isn’t always violent or wrong. Sometimes, it’s a return. The forest reclaims what it gave."
Eryn’s shoulders sagged, tears prickling her eyes. "But it’s still so… sad."
"Of course it is," the master agreed. "But sadness isn’t something to fix either. It’s something to feel."
The fawn’s breathing slowed — one final exhale — and the last of its threads snapped, dissolving into the earth. The silver glow lingered for a moment before fading.
Eryn sat in the silence, the flute still in her lap, untouched.
"You saw it leave, didn’t you?" the master asked softly.
Eryn nodded. "I thought I could stop it. But… maybe I wasn’t meant to."
The master placed a hand on her shoulder. "That’s the hardest part of being a healer, Eryn. Knowing when to fight and when to let go. Death isn’t your enemy—it’s part of the pattern. We honor it when it comes, just as we honor life when it thrives."
Eryn traced her fingers over the grass where the fawn had been. The threads there shimmered faintly, as if the earth had absorbed the fawn’s essence.
"So… I couldn’t have saved it?"
The master hesitated. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. That’s not the question. The real question is — would saving it have been the right thing?"
The weight of the moment settled over Eryn. She tucked the flute back into her satchel and stood.
"I… I’m not sure I’m strong enough for this," she murmured.
The master smiled, bittersweet. "None of us are. Not at first."
#
The morning was crisp, the air filled with the distant calls of birds and the gentle burble of the sacred spring. Eryn was seated beneath an old willow, her flute resting in her lap, when she first heard the desperate shouting.

She turned as a man emerged from the forest path, his face pale with fear, cradling a bundle wrapped in a worn blanket. His steps were hurried, uneven, as though each one cost him more than he had to give.

Thalen, the Master Herbalist, stepped from the cottage at the same moment, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. The man staggered forward and collapsed to his knees before Thalen.

“Please! My daughter—she’s burning with fever. Nothing I’ve done has helped. I—” His voice cracked as he pulled back the blanket, revealing a small girl, her cheeks flushed red, sweat beading on her brow.

Eryn’s heart lurched as she stepped closer. The girl’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, her tiny hands clenched tight.

Thalen knelt, resting a gentle hand on the girl’s forehead. His brow furrowed, and after a moment, he looked up—not at the desperate father, but at Eryn.

“You can do this.”

Eryn’s breath caught in her throat.

“Me? But—”

“You’re ready.” He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be here. But you need to trust yourself.”

The weight of his faith in her felt both empowering and suffocating. She swallowed hard and nodded.

Inside the cottage, Eryn laid the child gently on a straw-filled mat near the hearth. The flickering firelight danced across the girl’s pale face. Thalen moved around the space, gathering herbs—marjoram for fever, willowbark for the pain—but left them in Eryn’s care.

Her hands trembled as she crushed the leaves and mixed them into a paste, but she forced herself to steady. This was what she’d been training for. This was her moment to help—to heal.

Eryn positioned herself at the child’s head and pulled her flute from its strap. She took a shaky breath, her Twilight Eye flickering open, revealing the glistening silver threads that wove through the girl’s body. But something was wrong—she could see dark knots, twisted tangles in the threads, like a creeping rot.

She began to play.

The melody was soft at first, a soothing lullaby that filled the room with warmth. The threads responded—some of the dark knots loosening, the girl’s breathing slowing, deepening. The villagers’ father hovered in the doorway, hope blooming in his eyes.

Eryn’s heart surged with cautious optimism.  “It’s working,” she thought. “I’m doing it.”

She deepened the melody, her fingers moving faster, more urgently, her Twilight Eye guiding her through the tangles of sickness. She saw where the knots were the worst and pushed her focus deeper, willing the threads to unravel.

But the threads resisted.

The more she pushed, the more they frayed. The child’s breathing, which had steadied, began to falter—soft gasps now, spaced too far apart. Panic surged in Eryn’s chest. She shifted the melody, adjusted her breath, but the threads slipped from her grasp, like sand through open fingers.

Her Twilight Eye flared painfully as she strained to see deeper—to fix it—but the sickness was relentless, spreading faster now, consuming the fragile threads.

“No… please, hold on.”

The girl’s chest lifted once more, then stopped.

The room was silent, save for the soft, dying echo of Eryn’s flute.

She dropped the instrument, scrambling forward, pressing her hands to the girl’s chest, as if she could physically coax the breath back into her. Tears blurred her vision.

“Please, no. Not like this.”

But the child remained still, her face now peaceful in the cruel way death often leaves its victims.

The father’s gasp was sharp and guttural, like the final snap of a bowstring. His hope, so fragile, shattered in an instant.

“What… what did you do?” His voice trembled, stricken with grief and confusion.

Eryn turned to him, her own face streaked with tears.

“I—I tried everything. I swear.”

But the father’s eyes darkened as they drifted to her Twilight Eye, its faint glow still pulsing from the effort.

“It was the eye.” He backed away, his voice growing louder, harsher. “That cursed eye! She did this!”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Thalen, who had been silently watching, stepped forward, placing himself between Eryn and the grieving man.

“Enough.” His voice was gentle but firm. “This was no one’s fault. Some threads can’t be rewoven, no matter how skilled the hands.”

But his calm reasoning did little to ease the villager’s pain. He scooped his daughter’s body into his arms, his eyes filled with sorrow and blame.

“You said she was ready. You let her kill my daughter.”

The words echoed in Eryn’s mind long after the man had left, disappearing into the forest’s shadows with his grief.

Eryn sat by the hearth long into the night, her flute lying beside her, untouched. Thalen busied himself with silent chores, giving her space, but the weight in the room was suffocating.

Finally, he sat beside her.

“You did everything you could.”

She shook her head, her voice raw.

“I should have been able to fix it. I saw the threads—I almost had them.”

“Almost isn’t the same as control, Eryn. We aren’t meant to control life and death. We only guide the threads where we can.”

But the words felt hollow. She had held life in her hands, had felt its fragile weight, and still, she had failed.

Eryn’s Twilight Eye flickered shut, the silver threads of the world dimming into darkness.

Inside her, a deep well of guilt opened wide.

“I’m not ready,” she thought bitterly. “I’ll never be enough.”

And as that thought rooted itself deep within her heart, the delicate growth she’d made—the healing, the confidence—began to wither, piece by fragile piece.
#
The world blurred as Eryn staggered away from the Master Herbalist’s sanctuary. The towering trees, once gentle guardians, now loomed like silent witnesses to her failure. Her satchel hung limp at her side, barely brushing her hip with each dragging step. The ache in her chest burned hotter than the dull throb radiating from her Twilight Eye—a hollow, pulsing reminder of the gift she wished she could tear away.

The woods stretched endlessly before her. She didn’t know how far she’d gone, nor did she care. Each step felt heavier, her boots sinking into soft earth, her breath ragged and sharp.

“I missed it again,” the thought roared in her mind, echoing like a cruel taunt. “I failed her. Just like I failed them.”

Images flashed unbidden—her parents swept away in the flood, the dream she had ignored, the child’s fragile chest rising and falling beneath her hands, and then… stopping.

A broken sob tore from her throat.

She stumbled into a barren clearing, the trees parting in a rough circle as though carved by a storm. The ground here was dry and cracked, roots twisted and bare, jutting like gnarled fingers from the earth.

Her legs gave out, and she crumpled to her knees, the satchel falling beside her. The weight of her grief swelled, hot and suffocating.

She reached for her eyepatch, fingers trembling, and ripped it off, hurling it into the dirt.

The Twilight Eye throbbed, the familiar shimmer of silver threads flickering to life in her vision. But where they usually danced gently, now they were jagged—fractured, tangled, chaotic.

Eryn’s hands curled into fists.

She grabbed a stone, rough and jagged, and hurled it across the clearing. It struck a twisted root with a dull crack.

“WHY?!” she screamed, her voice raw.

The forest held its breath.

“Why did you choose me?!” She clawed at her temple, fingers brushing the edge of her Twilight Eye, nails digging into the tender skin around it.

“I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t want any of it!” Her voice broke into sobs, words spilling out in furious gasps.

Another stone. Another scream.

“First my parents… now that child… I ruin everything!” She slammed her fists into the earth, dirt caking beneath her fingernails.

Her Twilight Eye flared wildly now, without her control. The silver threads writhed around her, reflecting her inner chaos. Some curled in on themselves, fraying into nothingness, while others stretched taut, like they might snap at any moment.

The earth itself rippled beneath her, and dark tendrils seeped from the ground’s cracks, creeping toward her like smoke. Shapes twisted at the clearing’s edge—half-formed shadows, neither beast nor spirit, drawn to her turmoil.

Eryn barely noticed.

Out of the swirling chaos, a glimmering light caught her Twilight Eye.

A butterfly.

Its wings shimmered—iridescent hues of sapphire, emerald, and gold shifting with every beat. It hovered at the clearing’s edge, silent and still.

Eryn’s breath caught, her fury igniting anew.

“You,” she spat.

The butterfly fluttered closer, its wings catching the fractured light.

Her hand shot out, grasping for another stone. She hurled it with all her strength.

The butterfly drifted upward, the stone sailing harmlessly beneath it before clattering into the undergrowth.

“YOU DID THIS!” she screamed, tears blurring her vision. “You ruined my life!”

The butterfly hovered, its delicate wings undisturbed by her rage.

“I hate you! I hate this cursed Eye!” She grabbed at her face again, digging her fingers into her scalp as if she could rip the Eye out. But pain surged, white-hot, forcing her to let go.

Her shoulders sagged. The butterfly hovered for a moment longer, then, with a single beat of its wings, vanished into the trees.

Eryn’s rage drained from her as quickly as it had surged. The threads around her dimmed, the shadows receded, and the forest grew eerily still.

She collapsed forward, her forehead pressing into the cool earth. The sobs came freely now—deep, wracking cries that echoed into the emptiness.

“I can’t do this…” she whispered, dirt sticking to her tear-streaked face. “I’m not strong enough.”

Her body trembled with exhaustion, the hollowness inside growing deeper. The weight of her failures—the flood, the child—pressed down on her, a crushing force she couldn’t escape.

The Twilight Eye flickered, its glow weakening.

And for the first time since the butterfly’s sting, Eryn wished it would close forever.

She didn’t know how long she lay there. Eventually, the cold seeped into her bones, urging her to move.

Eryn staggered to her feet, her limbs heavy, her head pounding. The eyepatch lay nearby, half-buried in dirt, but she didn’t reach for it.

The forest felt different now—empty, distant. Even her Twilight Eye, though still flickering faintly, offered no comfort.

She turned from the clearing and walked.

Where? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

Her flute hung limp at her side, silent. Her satchel dragged behind her, half-open, herbs spilling out onto the path.

She was adrift.

The forest grew denser, wilder, branches tangling above her like the threads she could no longer bear to see.

Days passed—maybe more.

She scavenged when she could, drinking from streams, but hunger gnawed at her. Her dreams were filled with twisted images—of the flood, of the child, of the butterfly’s watching eyes.

Eryn was lost—not just in the forest, but in herself.

As she wandered, the spiral of anger shifted.

“If only I’d been stronger… If only I’d seen it sooner… If only I hadn’t ignored the dream before the flood…”

The thoughts circled endlessly—each one cutting deeper than the last.

It wasn’t just the child she had failed. It was her parents. Her brother. Everyone who had ever depended on her.

And beneath it all, a whispering thought:

“Maybe I was never meant to heal. Maybe I was only ever meant to destroy.”

The spiral tightened, dragging her deeper into the wilderness—both around her and within her heart.

The Anger still burned, but now it mixed with something colder: hopelessness.

And so, Eryn wandered, waiting for something—anything—to pull her back.

But for now, there was only the wilderness.
#
The forest had grown quiet in Eryn’s absence. Days—perhaps weeks—had passed since the failed healing, since she had vanished into the wilderness, carrying her guilt like a stone in her chest.
But the Master Herbalist found her.
Eryn sat by a shallow stream, her knees drawn up to her chest, the eyepatch lying discarded nearby. Her Twilight Eye pulsed faintly, but she refused to look through it, afraid of what she might see.
The gentle crunch of footsteps on leaves stirred her from her haze. She didn’t look up. She knew who it was.
The Master Herbalist approached slowly, carrying no tools or baskets—only a small, delicate vial in his hand.
He stood beside her for a moment in silence, the stream burbling between them. Then, in his deep, calm voice, he spoke.
“You have the sight, Eryn. A rare gift. But that doesn’t make you all-powerful.”
His words stung more than she expected. She kept her gaze fixed on the water, watching leaves drift by.
“I tried,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I did everything I was supposed to. And still…”
The Herbalist knelt beside her, placing the vial gently between them. “Healing isn’t about control. It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about compassion—even when you fail.”
Her throat tightened. “But I should have saved him. I should have been able to.”
He sighed, his weathered face filled with understanding. “Some threads can’t be rewoven, no matter how hard we try.”
She clenched her fists. “Then what’s the point of this cursed eye? Of seeing the threads if I can’t do anything?”
The Master Herbalist didn’t answer. Instead, he slid the vial closer to her. The glass glimmered in the dappled light, filled with shimmering liquid—the essence of the sacred spring.
“For when the path grows too dark,” he said softly. “It won’t solve your pain, but it may guide you through it.”
Eryn stared at the vial. Its soft glow felt almost mocking. But still, she closed her hand around it, feeling its cool weight.

The Departure
She didn’t say goodbye. Not really.
The next morning, she stood at the edge of the sanctuary, her satchel slung over her shoulder, flute tucked inside, and the vial of spring water hidden deep within.
The Master Herbalist was waiting by the garden, tending to the herbs as if it were any other day. But when he noticed her, he set down his tools and met her gaze.
“I thought I could fix things,” Eryn said, her voice tight. “But I can’t.”
He gave her a small, knowing smile. “Sometimes, we’re not meant to fix everything.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not strong enough.”
The Herbalist nodded once, not arguing. “Then go. Find what you need to find.”
She expected him to stop her, to offer more wisdom or a reason to stay. But he didn’t.
The low point she was in—he knew it was necessary. No words would fix it.
So Eryn turned, walking away from the sanctuary, her path leading nowhere in particular.
She didn’t look back.

Wandering in the Wilderness
The days bled into one another, marked only by the slow rise and fall of the sun. Eryn wandered through dense woods and over barren hills, moving with no clear direction. Hunger gnawed at her, but she foraged just enough to survive. She avoided villages, shying away from smoke rising from chimneys or the distant sounds of voices.
The eyepatch remained over her Twilight Eye, its pressure both a comfort and a weight. The flute stayed untouched in her satchel, its music silent.
Her thoughts spiraled in the emptiness.
“If only I’d seen it sooner.”
“If I hadn’t ignored the dream before the flood.”
“If I’d played a different melody. Used a different herb. Tried harder.”
The same thoughts circled endlessly, each cutting deeper than the last.
She remembered her younger brother—his laugh, his small hands grasping at her sleeves, the way he had looked at her the morning of the flood. The dream she had ignored still haunted her. She could still see the rising water, feel the urgency she had dismissed.
“I didn’t even try to save him.”
The guilt wrapped around her like a vine, tightening with every step.
At night, she curled beneath trees or in shallow caves, but sleep brought no rest. Her dreams were filled with echoes—whispers of the dead, the child she failed, the butterfly’s shimmering wings hovering just beyond reach.
“Why did you choose me?” she would whisper into the dark, but there was never an answer.

#
Hunger finally broke through her haze.
Her limbs weak, her head spinning, she stumbled onto a dirt road winding through a gentle valley. Small farms lined its edges, with rows of sprouting vegetables and grazing goats. In the distance, smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys, and the faint hum of a market carried on the breeze.
A town.
Eryn hesitated at the edge of the road, every instinct urging her to turn back—to stay hidden in the wilderness, forgotten and unseen. But her stomach growled, sharp and hollow, and her knees wobbled beneath her. 
She followed the road into the town.
It was small but alive. Children raced through narrow streets, giggling as they weaved between carts. Vendors hawked vegetables and fresh bread, their voices mingling with the soft strum of a lute played by a street musician. The air smelled of baking bread and wet earth.
No one here knew her. No one whispered about her cursed eye or the flood or the child she couldn’t save. 
It was peaceful. Untouched by her past.
Eryn drifted through the market, her fingers tracing the edge of her satchel. She watched as townsfolk traded goods—simple exchanges, clean and unburdened by the shadows that haunted her. 
She noticed a cluster of herbalists’ stalls—three different vendors, each with displays of roots, leaves, and bottled tinctures. One woman haggled with a customer over a pouch of dried fennel, while another crushed herbs in a mortar, the rich scent wafting through the air.
Eryn’s fingers twitched at her side.
“I could do this,” she thought. “I could survive here. Quietly. No one would ever have to know.”
She still had her knowledge. She could forage in the nearby forests, gather mushrooms and herbs, and sell them here. No magic. No Twilight Eye. No healing. Just simple, mundane remedies.
For the first time in what felt like months, a sliver of calm settled over her.
“A simple life,” she told herself. “No more trying to fix everything. No more failing.”
She found a small room to rent in the attic of a kind elderly couple’s house. They didn’t ask many questions—only offered her warm bread and a soft bed in exchange for a few copper coins each week. The attic was cramped, but it had a small window that overlooked the marketplace below, where she could watch the life of the town from a safe distance.
Occasionally, someone at her stall would glance at her eyepatch, curiosity flickering in their eyes. 
“What happened to your eye?” they’d ask, sometimes with hesitation, other times with genuine concern.
Eryn’s answer was always the same—quiet, rehearsed, and final. “I lost it when I was younger.”
The simplicity of her reply left little room for further questions. Most would offer a sympathetic nod before moving on, and soon, the curiosity faded. Her eyepatch became just another feature—no more notable than her worn satchel or the flute that hung from her side, untouched.
Children stopped staring. Vendors greeted her as they would any other familiar face, asking about her latest mushrooms or commenting on the weather.
In the mornings, Eryn would venture into the nearby forest, gathering herbs and mushrooms under the dappled light. She worked quickly and quietly, her eyepatch firmly in place, ignoring the faint pull of her Twilight Eye beneath it.
By afternoon, she set up her stall in the market square, laying out bundles of herbs, foraged mushrooms, and simple tinctures. People came and went, paying her in copper coins or trading goods—fresh eggs, a loaf of bread, sometimes even a warm pastry.
In the evenings, she returned to the attic, the flute resting beside her, untouched. She would sit by the small window, staring out at the stars, listening to the muffled laughter of the family below—the elderly couple and their young son, whose playful chatter echoed through the house.
He was about the same age as her younger brother had been.
The thought tightened something deep in her chest. She kept her distance, wary of the emotions that stirred when she saw the boy running through the market or laughing over supper with his parents.
Still, as the days passed, a quiet routine settled over her. She lived simply, without magic or melody, convincing herself that this—this life of herbs and silent nights—was enough.
No healing. No Twilight Eye.
Just a peaceful, ordinary life.
#
The Boy’s Illness — Quiet Atonement
The sickness came quietly, like a shadow slipping beneath the door. One evening, after the market had closed and the family gathered for supper, the young boy coughed—a sharp, dry sound that echoed through the small house. No one thought much of it then. But by morning, the fever had taken hold.
Eryn heard the mother’s anxious murmurs through the thin attic walls—the soft hushes and the clatter of wet cloths being wrung out. Her heart sank as she heard the boy’s labored breathing, shallow and quick.
It wasn’t life-threatening—not yet. But it was enough to send Eryn spiraling backward, to a memory she’d tried to bury: Kael’s laughter by the riverbank, the way he’d run ahead, the dream she had ignored. The helplessness of watching the flood swallow him, powerless to do anything.
She sat on her narrow cot, gripping the edge, the room spinning around her. I can’t go through that again. Her hands trembled. But this isn’t the same.
The boy’s fevered breathing drifted up through the floorboards. Eryn squeezed her eyes shut. I couldn’t save Kael... but maybe I can save him.
Her mind raced. She had sworn off healing—not because she lacked skill, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of failing again. But this... this was small. Simple. A quiet act. It wouldn’t change the past, but maybe—just maybe—it would ease the weight on her heart.
That night, when the house had settled into uneasy sleep, Eryn crept from her attic. The wooden steps creaked under her bare feet, but no one stirred. She clutched her flute in one hand, but as she approached the boy’s room, she hesitated. The flute’s too loud. Even the gentlest notes would echo through the house.
Instead, she set it aside and slipped into the darkened room. Moonlight pooled through the window, illuminating the boy’s flushed face, damp curls stuck to his forehead. His mother had fallen asleep in a chair nearby, her head resting against the wall.
Eryn knelt beside the boy’s bed, her breath shallow. Slowly, she let her Twilight Eye open. The threads of life flickered into view—fragile, glimmering strands that stretched from the boy’s chest like spider silk. They pulsed unevenly, some fraying at the edges, others flickering weakly.
She took a trembling breath and began to sing.
It was soft, just a whisper of melody—fragments of the songs she had learned in the forest, but reshaped now, tinged with grief and longing. Her voice wavered at first, but as the notes floated into the air, something inside her steadied.
The threads responded, quivering with each note. She hummed gently, coaxing the frayed strands to mend, guiding the pulse of life back into rhythm. Her Twilight Eye revealed the subtle shifts—the fever’s heat lessening, the boy’s breathing slowing, becoming steadier.
Hours passed unnoticed as Eryn sang through the night, her voice a fragile tether between life and sickness. She sang not as a healer or a mystic, but as a sister still mourning the one she couldn’t save.
By dawn, the boy’s fever had broken. His tiny chest rose and fell with ease, a soft flush returning to his pale cheeks.
Eryn’s throat ached from the quiet chanting, but she didn’t stop until she was sure. Then, as the first light crept through the window, she slipped from the room, pausing only once to glance back at the sleeping boy.
“I couldn’t save Kael… but I saved him.”
She climbed the attic stairs, her body heavy with exhaustion but her heart… lighter. Just a little.

The Morning After
Eryn awoke to the sound of soft sobs below. She pressed her ear to the floorboards, her Twilight Eye closed now, her regular vision dull and grey in the morning light.
“It’s a miracle,” the boy’s mother whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “The fever’s gone… he’s better.”
Eryn closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She wanted to go down, to accept the mother’s gratitude. But she didn’t. She remained silent, hidden in the attic.
This wasn’t about thanks. It wasn’t about recognition. It was about a small piece of her heart finally finding relief—a tiny act of atonement.

Emotional Beat:
Eryn had bargained with herself: “I won’t heal anymore. I won’t use my powers.” But this act—quiet, hidden—was her compromise. A way to help, but from behind the veil.
Yet as the morning sun rose, she realized something deeper. She couldn’t ignore suffering—not forever. This family had become hers in some fragile, incomplete way. And the boy’s recovery was proof that, even if broken, even if scarred, her heart still longed to heal.
#
Eryn was deep in the forest, where golden beams of late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the trees. Her satchel hung heavy at her side, filled with marjoram, comfrey, and yarrow—her usual finds for healing and cooking. The woods were still, but an unusual hush filled the air, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
She crouched low, snipping sprigs of marjoram, when a faint sound echoed through the trees—the snap of a branch. She froze, heart racing, and slowly stood, peering through the dense thicket.
At first, she saw nothing but tangled undergrowth. But then, just beyond a fallen tree, she spotted a figure slumped against the base of a gnarled oak—an old man, clutching his leg. A dark stain spread across the dirt beneath him, blood pooling into the earth.
Her heart sank.
“Not again,” she thought, swallowing hard.
Eryn stayed rooted to the spot, her pulse drumming in her ears. She could walk away. He hadn’t seen her. No one would know.
“He’s not my problem,” she thought bitterly. “I said I’d only help people I know. Only people who matter.”
But then the old man groaned, a raw, painful sound that sliced through her rationalizations. She winced, her grip tightening around the satchel's handle.
“If the price of helping is more guilt…” she whispered to herself, “…that’s a small price to pay.”
Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She knelt beside him, the earthy scent of crushed leaves filling her nose.
The man was pale, his breathing shallow. The wound in his leg was deep—jagged edges of torn flesh, blood still oozing. She could see how close he was to passing out.
Eryn yanked open her satchel, pulling out yarrow and comfrey. Her hands worked quickly, grinding the herbs into a paste against the flat of her knife. She tore a strip from the hem of her tunic for a bandage. But as she reached for the man’s leg, her fingers brushed against the edge of her eyepatch.
She hesitated.
Her Twilight Eye had been covered for days. She could heal this wound faster—better—if she used it. But doing so meant opening herself up to the thing she kept trying to ignore.
She cursed under her breath and lifted the eyepatch.
The world shifted immediately. Her Twilight Eye flared softly, and the wound before her shimmered—threads of the man’s life force flickered and frayed at the edges of the gash. It was worse than she thought. His strength was fading.
She hummed quietly, the sound almost imperceptible, guiding her focus. A soft glow spread from her palm as she pressed it to the wound. Warmth radiated through her fingers, coaxing the torn tissue to knit together, slowing the bleeding, stabilizing him.
When the wound stopped oozing and the man’s breathing deepened, she pulled her hand away and quickly re-tied the eyepatch, pressing it tight.
She finished by wrapping the wound with the torn fabric, making it look like an ordinary field dressing.
The old man stirred, his eyelids fluttering open.
“You… saved me.”
Eryn swallowed hard, forcing her voice to stay steady.
“All I did was bind the wound with some herbs. You’ll be fine with a little rest.”
The lie sat heavy on her tongue, but it was easier than explaining the truth.
The old man tried to shift but winced in pain.
Eryn knew what had to be done. The man needed to be helped back to the village — he couldn’t do it on his own. But that meant exposing her secret. “You won’t make it back on your own. I’ll help you.”
Eryn draped the man’s arm over her shoulders, helping him to his feet. He leaned heavily on her as they began the slow, uneven journey back to the village.
The village came into view just as the sun dipped below the treetops, casting the houses in soft purple hues. A few villagers were out tending to evening chores, and their heads turned as they saw Eryn and the old man emerge from the woods.
“This girl—she saved me! Patched me up in the woods when no one else would’ve found me!”
Eryn’s stomach twisted as faces turned toward her. She hated the attention. She helped him to a bench near the village square, trying to step away before more questions came.
“You’ve got a gift, girl. The woods must’ve sent you.”
Her chest tightened at his words. She couldn’t respond.
“Just lucky I passed by.”
Before he could say more, she turned and slipped away, retreating into the shadows as murmurs spread behind her.
Eryn moved quickly through the outskirts of the village, her heart racing. She didn’t stop until she reached the small attic where she lived. Only then did she sink to the floor, her hands trembling.
“Was I guided there?” she wondered again, this time not as easily dismissing the thought.
The idea unsettled her deeply—because if something had led her to the man, it meant she wasn’t as invisible as she wanted to be. 
And worst of all? It meant she might not be able to walk away the next time either.
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
But deep down, part of her wondered if that mattered anymore.
#
The village was quiet in a way that felt wrong—too still, too fragile. The usual sounds of morning, the hammering of the blacksmith or the chatter from the market stalls, were absent. Instead, the air hung heavy, thick with the metallic scent of sickness.
Eryn stood at her attic window, staring down at the street below. Shutters were closed, doors bolted. Only the occasional figure staggered between houses, moving slowly, their heads low.
The illness had come quickly. At first, it had seemed harmless—mild fevers, aching limbs—but within days, more and more people had fallen. It spread like fire through dry grass.
At first, Eryn told herself it wasn’t her problem.
“I’m not a healer anymore. Never really was.”
But the words felt hollow.
She tried to keep her distance, but when she heard the harsh coughing from below—the family she rented the attic from—her chest tightened. Especially when she saw the boy, the one who reminded her so much of Kael, growing pale and fevered again.
Her heart raced. The same helplessness she had felt when Kael was swept away came crashing back.
Eryn clenched her fists, turning away from the window. “No. I can’t. I’m not getting involved.”
But then the Twilight Eye stirred beneath the eyepatch—a faint pull, as if urging her to look. To see.
She fought it. For hours, she paced her attic, her thoughts spiraling between guilt and fear. But the coughing below grew worse. The pull inside her deepened.
Finally, with trembling fingers, she reached up and peeled the eyepatch away.
The world shifted instantly.
Her Twilight Eye revealed the village beneath the surface—the usual silver threads now blackened, curling like smoke. Dark tendrils spread through the ground, weaving beneath streets and homes, converging in one place.
The village well.
Her breath caught.
“The water…” she murmured.
She could see it now—tainted, the source of the illness, spreading sickness through every ladle.
Her mind raced, recalling old lessons. She knew which herbs had purifying properties—ones that could cleanse water of disease if prepared correctly. But this wasn’t an ordinary illness. It had sunk deep into the village, into its lifeblood.
She would need more than just herbs. She’d need her magic.
The thought made her stomach twist. But then she pictured the boy, pale and coughing, and Kael’s face flickered in her mind. And all the other children in the village like Kael.
“I couldn’t save him. But I can save these.”
Eryn went to the forest, and filled her satchel with the herbs she needed—feverfew, sage, burdock—and slung it over her shoulder. She tucked her flute into her belt.
That night, under the cover of darkness, she crept from her attic. The village was eerily silent, the only sounds the occasional hoarse cough echoing from shuttered homes.
The well stood at the center of the square, its stone edges slick with moss. The same dark tendrils she had seen with her Twilight Eye still curled around it.
She crouched beside the well, pulling out the herbs, crushing them with her knife into a rough paste. She sprinkled the mixture into the water, watching it swirl and dissolve.
But it wasn’t enough.
She pulled out her flute.
For a long moment, she hesitated. The last time she had played to heal, she had been caught in a spiral of guilt and secrecy. But this time was different. There was no audience. No one would know.
That thought gave her comfort.
She lifted the flute to her lips and played.
The melody was soft, almost too soft to be heard. It drifted over the square, weaving through the tendrils of smoke-like corruption. Her Twilight Eye revealed the music’s effect—the herbs activating, glowing faintly, spreading through the water, breaking apart the dark tendrils.
The threads that had been blackened began to clear, the sickness unraveling.
When the song ended, hours later, the village felt lighter, as if the air itself had been scrubbed clean.
Eryn let out a long, trembling breath.
She had done it. And no one knew.
She sat by the well for a moment, letting the relief wash over her.
“I did it,” she thought, almost smiling. “No one will know. No one will look at me, or thank me, or make me feel like I’m something I’m not.”
This felt right—helping from the shadows, doing good without the burden of being seen.
She picked up her satchel and stood to leave when a shift in the air caught her attention.
Across the square, half-concealed in the shadows, stood a figure cloaked in dark robes. A hood obscured their face, but Eryn could feel their gaze—calm, patient, observing.
Her heart raced.
“How long has he been there?” she wondered.
The figure didn’t speak. He only gave the faintest nod, as if in approval, before turning and vanishing into the shadows.
Eryn stood frozen, the weight of his silent acknowledgment sinking in.
She wasn’t as hidden as she thought.
And suddenly, the sense of control she had felt—the comfort of being invisible—began to crack.
#
The dawn broke softer than it had in days. Eryn sat by the small attic window, knees tucked beneath her chin, watching as the village slowly stirred to life. Where once there had been the heavy silence of sickness—fevered coughs, hollow groans—now there were cautious footsteps, the creak of doors opening, and low, tentative conversations.
From her perch, Eryn could see the baker’s wife stepping into the sunlight, her hand pressed to her chest as if testing the strength of her own breath. Children trickled out, still pale but no longer flushed with fever, gathering near the square where the well stood—now silent, clean, and pure.
It had worked.
“I did it. And no one knows.”
A faint, fragile relief flickered in her chest. For once, she'd done something right—something that mattered—and it hadn’t come with eyes watching, voices praising, or expectations mounting.
Except…
Her stomach twisted. No matter how hard she tried to bury the thought, it clawed its way forward—the memory of the figure.
The night before, as she had crouched by the well, dropping the purified herbs into the tainted water, her Twilight Eye exposed, she had felt it—a presence. At first, she’d dismissed it as nerves, the creeping paranoia of someone doing something in secret. But then, as she had finished her quiet melody, coaxing the water clear, she had seen it.
A figure, cloaked in shadow, standing at the edge of the square. Still. Silent.
As she rose to leave, her heart racing, the figure had nodded once—subtle, deliberate—and then vanished into the darkness.
Now, in the soft light of morning, that memory chilled her more than the sickness ever had.
She pulled her knees tighter against her chest, her eyepatch rough beneath her fingers as she tugged it more securely over her Twilight Eye.
“Who was that? Why didn’t they stop me? Or… help?”
The question echoed in her mind, feeding the growing unease. She had always believed that if she stayed hidden, if she helped in secret, she could avoid the crushing expectations, the judgments, the whispers. But someone had seen. Someone knew.
Her eyes drifted to the villagers below, none of whom seemed aware of what had happened. They moved carefully, still recovering but alive, their lives continuing as though the sickness had never touched them.
They would never know who had saved them. That had been the plan.
“I helped them. That’s all that matters. No one else needs to know.”
But someone did.
She rose from the window, pacing the length of her narrow attic. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest, trying to still the racing of her heart.
“It was probably nothing. Just… a villager. A passerby.”
But she didn’t believe that—not really. The way the figure had stood, unmoving, almost expectant. The nod—it hadn’t been surprise or confusion. It had been acknowledgment. Approval.
A fresh wave of fear coursed through her.
“Am I being watched? Guided?”
The thought twisted her insides, but she pushed it down, forcing herself back into her fragile cocoon of control.
Yet, even beneath the fear, there was something else—a whisper of peace. She had saved them. The sickness had receded. The boy downstairs, the one who had reminded her so painfully of Kael, had laughed that morning, his fever broken.
For a moment, she allowed herself a sliver of pride.
“I helped… and no one will ever know.”
That had been the bargain. She could atone, quietly, in the shadows, without anyone lifting her onto a pedestal or drowning her in gratitude that felt like knives against her guilt.
Helping in secret—it worked. It was safer. Cleaner. It protected her from the crushing weight of failing in front of others.
Until now.
The figure in the shadows had shattered that fragile safety.
Eryn sank back onto her narrow cot, staring up at the wooden beams above her. She tried to hold onto the peace that had settled over her earlier, but it was thin now, fragile.
“Who was that? And what do they want from me?”
The figure’s presence had shifted something—pulled a thread in the carefully woven fabric of her solitude. She could feel it unraveling, even if she didn’t know where it would lead.
And yet, beneath the fear, there was an undeniable pull—a growing awareness that her path was no longer entirely her own.
Her secret bargain with the universe—to help without being seen—had been broken. And someone was waiting.

#
The forest was quiet, the hush of evening settling over the trees as Eryn made her way back toward the village. The scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, mingling with the fading warmth of the sun. She kept her head down, thoughts swirling, a strange mixture of relief and tension knotting in her chest. The village was recovering. The illness had begun to recede, and no one would ever know why.
It was better that way.
A soft crack—a twig snapping underfoot—echoed behind her. Eryn froze, heart pounding. Her hand flew to the knife at her belt, fingers tightening around the hilt. Slowly, she turned.
A figure stood at the edge of the path, cloaked in deep gray, the hood shadowing their face. Silent. Still.
Eryn’s throat went dry. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice tighter than she intended. “How long have you been following me?”
The figure took a step closer, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound. When they spoke, their voice was calm, smooth as a still pond. “You did well. The village recovers.”
Her heart sank. Someone had seen. Someone had watched her.
“I asked you a question,” she snapped, stepping back. “Who are you?”
The figure’s head tilted, as if considering her. “I’ve been watching long enough to see you heal them—and hide.”
The words stung. Her grip on the knife tightened. “I didn’t do it for them,” she shot back. “I did it because I had to.”
The hooded figure didn’t flinch. “Yes. And yet, you helped without need for praise or thanks. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t care why you’re here.” Eryn’s voice cracked. “If you’re going to tell me I’m special, or chosen, or whatever—I don’t want to hear it. I never asked for this.”
A pause. The figure seemed to exhale, a soft breath that mingled with the evening air. “No one asks. The question is—what will you do with what’s been given?”
She glared at him, her vision blurring with hot, sudden tears. “I just want to be left alone,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask for this eye, or the dreams, or… any of it.”
The figure shifted, folding their arms. “There’s a place for those who carry too much. A place to unlearn the weight you’ve taken on.”
The word caught her attention. Unlearn?
Eryn crossed her arms, jaw tight. “Unlearn? That’s your answer? I need to get rid of this, not play mind games.”
“The School of Unlearning,” the figure said, as if that explained everything. “Where the clutter falls away—until only what’s true remains.”
It sounded ridiculous. And yet, there was something unsettling in the calmness of his voice, in the way he didn’t try to convince her.
“And if I say no?” she asked, daring him.
The figure tilted his head. “Then you walk away. But the threads are already pulling. Whether you see them or not.”
The weight of his words settled heavily over her. She clenched her teeth, her heart racing. Then, with a sharp turn, she spun on her heel, forcing her feet to move. She would not be pulled into this.
“I’m fine on my own,” she muttered under her breath.
But even as she stormed away, the knot in her chest tightened, a flicker of doubt worming its way into her heart.
#
t was three days before she returned. The decision felt like a slow unraveling—thread after thread loosening until, finally, she stood at the edge of the same forest clearing, staring at the place where the figure had appeared. She didn’t know why she was there. Only that the knot in her chest had grown too tight to ignore.
The hooded figure was waiting.
He didn’t speak as she approached. Didn’t move.
Eryn crossed her arms, her words sharp. “I’m not staying. I just… I want to see it. This school.”
The figure nodded once, then turned and walked deeper into the forest. She followed.
The path was unlike any she had walked before. It twisted and wound through ancient trees, the air growing heavier with each step. There was something unnatural about it—somehow, she knew that if she turned around, the way back would be gone.
They emerged into a grove. No grand buildings. No towering spires. Just simplicity. A scattering of stone benches beneath sprawling trees. Pools of still water reflecting the sky. A handful of figures, moving silently, scattered through the space.
“This is it?” she asked, disappointment prickling her.
The hooded figure didn’t flinch. “The School of Unlearning. Simple, because it needs to be.”
She let out a dry laugh. “No wonder you people hide. Who’d want to come here?”
But despite herself, something in the stillness of the place unsettled her. It wasn’t peaceful. It was empty—bare, waiting.
The figure gestured down a stone path that led deeper into the grove. “The Abbot is waiting. You don’t have to go to him. You can leave whenever you want.”
Eryn hesitated. Every instinct screamed to turn back. But her feet moved forward.

At the end of the path stood a massive, ancient tree, its branches stretching wide like open arms. Beneath it sat an old man, cross-legged on the grass. His face was a map of deep lines, his hair thin and white, falling around his shoulders. His eyes—clouded, unseeing—stared straight ahead.
He was threading leaves onto a length of twine, his hands moving with deliberate slowness.
Eryn approached, standing awkwardly before him.
“You’re the Abbot?” she asked, voice wavering.
He didn’t look up. “I am. And you are Eryn. The one who carries too much.”
Her chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”
The Abbot’s hands stilled. “I don’t need to. You wear your burdens like armor.”
She clenched her fists, heat rising in her face. “I lost everything. My family. My home. I—” Her throat closed.
The Abbot raised his head then, his cloudy eyes seeming to pierce straight through her. “And so you carry them inside you? Like stones in a satchel?”
The words cut deep. She blinked, fighting tears.
Grief had become her identity. Her armor. Her weight.
The Abbot reached to his side and picked up a smooth, round stone. He held it out to her.
“Take this.”
Eryn hesitated but accepted it, the stone cool in her palm.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A burden,” he said simply. “Don’t let it go until you know, in the core of your being, that it’s time to let it go.”
And with that, he returned to threading the leaves, leaving her standing there—alone, holding the stone, already heavier than it ought to be.
#
The grove was quieter than any place Eryn had known, yet it hummed with a strange energy beneath the stillness. The soft rustle of leaves, the slow drip of water from unseen springs, the distant calls of birds—it was as if nature itself whispered lessons in the silence.
Eryn sat on a simple stone bench, her satchel at her side, the smooth stone given to her by the Abbot still nestled in her hand. It had been days—though time here was slippery—since her arrival at the school, and yet, she felt more restless than when she’d first arrived.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected. Books? Teachers in long robes spouting knowledge? Grand halls filled with students mastering hidden arts?
Instead, there were only a handful of people, all quiet, moving with purpose, but not in the ways she’d imagined. They meditated, walked simple paths, tended to the gardens, or sat in contemplation. And no one had told her what she was supposed to do.
Except for the stone. It sat heavy in her palm, a reminder of the Abbot’s cryptic words: “Carry this. When you know why, return.”
She had half a mind to chuck it into the stream she’d passed on the way in.
“Frustrated?” a soft voice asked.
Eryn looked up sharply. A woman stood nearby, her face lined with age but her eyes alight with warmth. She wore simple clothes, not unlike Eryn’s, but there was something about her presence—a calmness that felt earned.
“Why does everyone here speak in riddles?” Eryn snapped.
The woman smiled gently, unbothered. “Because answers are too heavy to carry. And, sometimes, to get better answers, we have to start with better questions. I’m Lyssa. I help guide those who are new.”
Eryn let out a huff but nodded reluctantly. “I’m Eryn. And I didn’t ask to be guided.”
Lyssa’s smile didn’t falter. “No one does. That’s why they come here.”
Before Eryn could reply, Lyssa gestured to the stone in her hand. “You still have it.”
Eryn’s grip tightened. “I don’t even know what it’s for.”
“That’s the first lesson,” Lyssa said, sitting beside her. “Here, we begin by seeing what you carry. Not in your hands, but in here.” She tapped her chest.
Eryn scowled. “I know what I carry. Guilt. Loss. A curse I never asked for.”
Lyssa tilted her head, considering her. “Then let’s begin.”
Lyssa led Eryn to a small clearing where a wide, flat stone sat in the center. On it was a pile of pebbles, each one smooth, worn down by time and water.
“Your first task is simple,” Lyssa said. “Sort these into two piles: what is useful, and what is useless.”
Eryn crossed her arms. “That’s it? What does this have to do with anything?”
Lyssa didn’t answer, simply sitting cross-legged by the edge of the clearing, waiting.
Eryn sighed and knelt by the stone, eyeing the pebbles. She picked one up—a pale gray stone, flat and smooth. It seemed solid, practical. She placed it in the “useful” pile. The next one was cracked and jagged, a sharp edge cutting through its side. Useless.
One by one, she sorted them, basing her choices on appearance, weight, texture. The sun drifted higher—if time passed here at all—and soon she had two neat piles.
She sat back, wiping her brow. “Done.”
Lyssa walked over and examined the piles. Then, without a word, she picked up a branch and swept it across the stone, knocking the piles together, mixing them into one again.
Eryn gaped at her. “What are you doing?!”
Lyssa looked at her calmly. “You sorted them based on — what criteria exactly? Qualities you randomly chose out of your head? That’s how you live your life—categorizing thoughts, memories, even guilt—without ever asking why you hold onto them.”
Eryn’s chest tightened. “They’re just rocks.”
“And what is your guilt, if not just a thought you’ve held onto for too long?”
The words stung, sharp and immediate. Eryn’s mouth opened, but no reply came. Lyssa’s gaze softened.
“We keep things because they feel familiar, not because they serve us,” she continued. “The first step to unlearning is to ask, ‘Why do I carry this?’”
Eryn swallowed hard. She clenched the smooth stone the Abbot had given her, its weight suddenly heavier.
The next day, Eryn stood at the start of a winding path leading into the dense part of the forest. Lyssa handed her a satchel.
“Today, you will walk the path and collect what you find. Put anything that calls to you into this satchel. When you reach the end, I’ll meet you.”
Eryn raised an eyebrow but took the bag and began walking.
At first, it felt almost pleasant—birds chirping, sunlight filtering through the leaves. But as she walked, she noticed small objects placed deliberately along the path: a weathered coin, a broken locket, a shard of glass reflecting the sunlight.
Each item seemed to whisper at her as she passed, stirring emotions she couldn’t quite place. A pang of sadness as she picked up the locket. A twist of fear with the shard of glass. She placed them in the satchel, feeling it grow heavier with each object.
By the time she reached the end of the path, her shoulders ached under the weight. Lyssa waited for her by a simple wooden bench.
“You made it,” Lyssa said with a nod.
Eryn dropped the satchel at her feet. “What was the point of that?”
Lyssa gestured to the bag. “Open it.”
Eryn knelt, pulling out the locket. It was broken, its hinges rusted, the picture inside too faded to make out.
“Why did you pick that up?” Lyssa asked.
“I don’t know,” Eryn muttered. “It… felt like I should.”
Lyssa nodded. “We do that with thoughts and emotions too. We collect them, carry them, even when they’re broken or no longer serve us. And we don’t ask why.”
Eryn looked down at the satchel, the weight in her chest heavier than the bag. “But some of them… they felt like memories.”
Lyssa’s eyes softened. “Yes. And memories aren’t meant to be carried forever. Some are meant to be set down.”
Eryn’s throat tightened. She thought of the flood, her parents, the dream she had ignored. She had been carrying them like stones in a satchel, too afraid to set them down.
It was later that evening when Eryn found herself by the still pool at the edge of the grove. The surface was perfectly smooth, reflecting the sky above like glass.
“You’re learning,” came a voice.
She turned to see the Abbot standing nearby, leaning on a gnarled staff.
Eryn hesitated. “I don’t feel like it.”
The Abbot’s smile was small but kind. “That’s because you think learning is about gaining more. But here, we teach unlearning—stripping away what clouds your sight. Sometimes moving forward on your Journey is more about unlearning what is untrue than learning more ‘truth’.”
He gestured to the pool. “Look.”
Eryn knelt beside it and peered into the water. At first, her reflection was warped, rippling with the faintest breeze.
“The mind is like this pool,” the Abbot said. “When stirred by thought, memory, and fear, it ripples. It cannot reflect clearly.”
Eryn watched as the surface calmed, the ripples stilling until her reflection appeared, sharp and true.
“When the mind is still,” the Abbot continued, “you see things as they are—not as you fear them to be.”
Eryn swallowed. “But I can’t just stop thinking.”
The Abbot chuckled softly. “No. But you can choose which thoughts to let go. Which ones to set down. You’ve been carrying stones in your heart for too long.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out another smooth stone, identical to the one she still carried. He placed it beside her.
“The weight you feel,” he said gently, “isn’t from the world. It’s from within.”
Eryn stared at the stone, feeling the truth of his words settle deep inside her. The burden she carried was hers alone to release.

Closing Reflection
The days in the School of Unlearning blurred together after that. The exercises grew deeper, less about actions and more about introspection. Yet, with each small step, Eryn felt lighter—though not free. Not yet.
The Abbot appeared only occasionally, like a shadow at the edges of her journey, dropping fragments of wisdom that unraveled her deepest knots. The rest she learned from Lyssa and the others, through moments of quiet reflection, symbolic tasks, and confrontations with herself.
But it was the still pool that drew her back most nights—the place where she practiced seeing clearly, not with her Twilight Eye, but with her heart.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the stones she carried began to feel lighter.
#
The Lesson of the Two Mirrors
The air in the grove was cool and still, the sky above stretched in a soft gray veil. Eryn followed a winding path deeper into the School of Unlearning, her steps slow, the weight of her thoughts heavier than the satchel she had long since abandoned. She still carried the stone the Abbot had given her, though it now rested lightly in her pocket, almost forgotten—an echo of the burden it had once been.
Today, she had been summoned.
Lyssa had appeared at dawn, wordless but with a gentle nod, beckoning Eryn to follow. There was no explanation, no warning, but Eryn had learned not to expect such things here. Lessons revealed themselves in time.
The path opened into a clearing unlike any she had seen before. At its center stood two tall mirrors, their frames wrought from twisting branches that shimmered with faint silver light. They faced one another, a few paces apart, their glass surfaces smooth and still. The Abbot stood between them, his figure stooped but solid, hands resting lightly on his staff.
Eryn hesitated at the edge of the clearing, her heart already racing.
The Abbot lifted his head, blind eyes turned toward her as if he could see more than anyone ever could. “You’ve come.”
“I was told to,” Eryn muttered, her feet dragging forward.
The Abbot smiled, as if that answer was enough. “Today, you will look.”
She followed his gesture to the mirrors. “I’ve seen my reflection before.”
He chuckled, soft and dry. “But not like this.”
Without further instruction, Eryn stepped toward the first mirror—the one on the left. Its surface rippled as she approached, then stilled, revealing her image. She saw herself as she was now: older, though not yet grown fully into adulthood. Her Twilight Eye glimmered faintly beneath the eyepatch, its presence always felt, even when hidden. Her face was thin, marked by grief she could not yet release, her mouth set in the tight line it had adopted since the Flood.
She stared at herself, a mixture of disgust and pity welling up. Was this how the others at the school saw her? A tangle of contradictions—strong and fragile, broken and mending?
The Abbot’s voice was soft behind her. “This is who you have become. The survivor. The bearer of burdens. But survival is not all you are.”
He motioned to the second mirror.
Eryn turned, hesitating before approaching. This one, too, rippled at her nearness, but when the surface cleared, she gasped.
It was her—years younger. A child, really. Her face was rounder, softer. Eyes wide, innocent, untouched by the horrors that had come. Her hair was longer, untamed by grief’s weight, her hands free of the calluses that now marked them.
She stepped closer, her throat tight. Was I really that young? The girl in the mirror couldn’t have been more than ten—perhaps eleven at most—when the Flood had come.
Her reflection tilted its head, mirroring her movement with perfect clarity, though there was a haunting softness in those young eyes. Eryn reached out a hand, her fingertips brushing the cool surface.
“Look at her,” the Abbot said gently, moving to stand beside her. “Is this the one you’ve been blaming all this time?”
Eryn’s fingers curled into a fist. “She should have known. She dreamed about the flood. She should’ve done something.”
The Abbot’s expression didn’t change, but his voice took on a deeper, weightier tone. “Should she have? Look at her, child. You expect this little girl—not yet a grown woman—to be capable of bearing a burden that would have overwhelmed the hearts of seasoned adults?”
The words struck deep, resonating in her chest like a chime. Her gaze flicked between the two mirrors—the woman she had become and the child she had been. For the first time, she truly saw the gap between them, the vast space filled with years of self-blame and relentless guilt.
“She was just a child,” Eryn whispered, her voice cracking.
“Yes,” the Abbot murmured. “And yet, you have held her accountable, as though she had the wisdom and strength of the you who stands here now.”
Eryn’s shoulders slumped, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She reached out again, touching the smooth surface, her fingers trembling.
“I… I hated her,” she admitted, the confession tearing out of her. “For not being enough. For being too scared. For dreaming about the flood but doing nothing.”
The Abbot placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “And yet she survived. She carried that pain so you could stand here now, seeing her at last.”
Eryn’s knees buckled, but she didn’t fall. Her hand pressed against the glass, as if reaching through to the younger self inside. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know how young you were. I thought you should’ve been stronger. Wiser.”
The reflection’s eyes shimmered, and for a moment, Eryn thought she saw a flicker of understanding—of forgiveness—in them.
The Abbot stepped back, his voice softening once more. “The hardest unlearning is this: to forgive the self you were for not being the self you are now.”
Eryn closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. For so long, she had carried the belief that the child she had been had failed—had been weak, cowardly, useless. But seeing her there, small and fragile, she could finally see the truth. She had been a girl, no more prepared for tragedy than anyone would expect. A girl who had dreamed of disaster and been too young to know what to do with it.
When she opened her eyes again, the reflection was fading, the surface of the mirror returning to smooth glass.
The Abbot’s hand was still on her shoulder, grounding her. “You cannot change the past, Eryn. But you can release the blame you’ve placed upon it.”
She swallowed hard. “How?”
He smiled, warm and infinite in its patience. “By seeing clearly. And today, you have begun.”
Eryn stepped back from the mirrors, the weight in her chest loosening, just a little. It wasn’t gone—not yet—but something had shifted.
As she turned to leave the clearing, she realized she was still holding the smooth stone the Abbot had given her days ago. But now, it felt lighter, almost hollow. Without a second thought, she set it down at the base of the mirror where her younger self had stood—a quiet offering.
And when she walked away, her steps no longer dragged.
#
Narrative: The Abbot’s Lesson — Knowing One’s Strength

The Abbot found Eryn early one mist-laden morning, when the grounds of the School of Unlearning still held the hush of dawn. She sat alone on a stone bench, staring at the worn satchel of herbs resting at her feet—remnants of her old life, heavy with memories.
The Abbot approached soundlessly, as he always did. Eryn didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat gently, his presence soft but undeniable.
“Come,” he said, motioning her to follow.
She hesitated, as she often did with the Abbot—his lessons were never simple—but curiosity pulled her to her feet. They walked in silence through the dew-laden grass, passing the stone paths and pools where other students practiced their unlearning. The air was thick with stillness, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
They stopped at a small clearing on the edge of the grounds, where a lone butterfly struggled on the ground. Its wings were half-formed, damp and fragile, its body still trembling from the effort of breaking free from its chrysalis. It flapped weakly, trying to lift into the air, but only managed to drag itself across the dirt.
Eryn crouched, a pang of sympathy rising in her chest. “It can’t fly,” she murmured.
The Abbot’s voice was gentle but steady. “No, not yet. It needs time. Its wings are too soft.”
She reached out a hand, instinctively wanting to help, but the Abbot stopped her with a raised palm.
“If you pick it up now,” he said, “and carry it into the air, it will fall. Worse still, its wings will never strengthen. It needs the struggle. Only through it will the butterfly become what it is meant to be.”
Eryn drew back, swallowing. She could feel the sting behind his words before he even spoke them aloud.
The Abbot continued, his tone even. “You tried to do something before your own wings had formed.”
Eryn’s throat tightened. The image of the dying child at the Master Herbalist’s flooded back—her frantic hands, her desperate prayers, the sickening realization that nothing she did worked. The memory burned behind her eyes.
“I thought I could help,” she whispered. “I thought—if I tried hard enough—”
The Abbot knelt beside her, his age-worn knees creaking, but his presence grounded, calm.
“You believed that sheer will could replace readiness. That compassion alone was enough.” He tilted his head, watching the butterfly still struggling to unfold its wings. “But even the deepest compassion cannot force what is not yet possible.”
Eryn felt the old guilt rise, hot and relentless. “So I failed because I was weak.”
“No,” the Abbot corrected, his voice sharp enough to cut through her self-condemnation. “You failed because you asked something of yourself that was beyond your strength. A skill that comes in time, yes, but not then. And in doing so, you added a burden to your heart that was never meant to be there.”
Eryn pressed her hands into the grass, willing the tears to stay down. “But the child still died.”
The Abbot nodded, his face somber. “Yes. And that loss is real. But the grief you carry is tangled with the belief that you should have been able to stop it. That is the heavier burden.”
He gestured to the butterfly again. It was still struggling but had managed to lift its body upright, its wings catching more of the morning light, drying bit by bit.
“Would you blame this creature for not flying yet? For not being strong enough now?”
Eryn shook her head.
“Then why blame yourself?” His gaze was kind but unwavering. “You were still in your chrysalis then, Eryn. Still forming. No one faults the butterfly for not flying before its time.”
A deep ache swelled in her chest—a mix of shame, sadness, and something softer beneath. A loosening.
“But I tried so hard,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“And that was enough,” the Abbot said gently. “The effort, the love—that was real. But it does not mean you had the power to change the outcome. And that is where the unlearning begins—not in forgetting the love, but in releasing the belief that love alone can override the natural order.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Eryn watching the butterfly inch forward, its wings now shimmering in the sun, still fragile but fuller, stronger.
“I wanted to be more than I was,” Eryn said finally, her voice hollow.
The Abbot chuckled softly. “We all do. But growth is not a leap. It is a becoming. And sometimes, the deepest strength is in knowing when we are not yet ready.”
He stood, brushing dust from his robes. “You will one day have the strength to heal a child like that. But only when your own wings are ready.”
Eryn watched the butterfly as it flapped its wings again, lifting slightly off the ground for the first time before falling back.
Still, it was closer than before.

The Lesson’s Impact on Eryn
As Eryn walked back to her quarters, the Abbot’s words echoed in her mind—not with the sting of judgment but with an unexpected softness.
I was still in my chrysalis.
The crushing guilt she had carried—the belief that she had failed because she wasn’t enough—shifted, just a little. It didn’t erase the grief, but it lessened the weight of her self-condemnation. For the first time, she wondered if she could mourn the child’s death without branding it as her personal failure.
She thought of the butterfly again, struggling, fragile, but inevitable in its becoming.
I am still forming, she realized.
And that, somehow, was enough.
#
The Lesson of the Butterfly
The garden was unlike any other within the School of Unlearning. It lay tucked away in a secluded grove, far from the usual paths Eryn took for her lessons. Here, the air was warmer, almost shimmering with life, and delicate wildflowers stretched toward shafts of golden light filtering through the canopy above. The hum of insects and the soft whisper of wind filled the space with a quiet, breathing stillness.
Eryn stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed tightly, her gaze narrowed at the hooded figure who had led her here.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, the frustration in her voice barely masked.
The figure didn’t answer at first. Instead, they gestured toward a nearby branch where a small, pale chrysalis hung suspended, swaying gently in the breeze. It looked fragile, almost translucent, the sunlight revealing faint shadows twisting within.
“Have you ever thought,” the mentor began, their voice soft yet resonant, “why it was a butterfly that stung you? And not a grasshopper, or a ladybug?”
Eryn blinked, thrown by the question. She had asked herself that once, long ago, but the thought had been buried beneath everything else—guilt, loss, anger.
“No,” she muttered, eyes fixed on the cocoon. “I figured it didn’t matter. The sting was the point.”
The hooded figure stepped forward, their shadow falling long and thin across the earth. “But it does matter. The butterfly is the perfect symbol of what you’re going through. And what is still to come.”
Eryn narrowed her eyes. “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me some grand fable now? About how I’m like that cocoon—wrapped up, waiting to become something better?”
The figure chuckled softly. “Not a fable. A truth. But not the one you expect.”
They reached out and, with surprising gentleness, cupped the air just below the chrysalis, careful not to disturb it. “The butterfly doesn’t transform because it wants to. It transforms because it must. And it suffers in the process.”
Eryn crossed her arms tighter, defensive. “So what? I’m supposed to be grateful I’m trapped in this—this cocoon? Waiting to be torn apart and rebuilt?”
The figure didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they began to speak in a measured, calm tone, outlining the stages of the butterfly’s metamorphosis.
“First, there is the egg,” they said. “Fragile. Pure potential. A single spark of life, vulnerable and unknowing. That was you, once. In the village. Before the flood. Before the sting.”
Eryn’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
“Then comes the caterpillar,” the mentor continued. “It hatches hungry, devouring everything around it. It grows quickly, obsessively. It doesn’t know why—only that it must. That was you, too, when you first realized your gifts. Consuming knowledge, grasping at answers, trying to make sense of the dreams, the visions, the Twilight Eye.”
Eryn looked away, her throat tightening. She hated how much the words struck home.
“The next stage,” the figure said, gesturing to the chrysalis, “is the hardest. The chrysalis. The pupa.”
Their voice softened. “This is the stage of death. The caterpillar dissolves completely inside the cocoon. Its body breaks down into formlessness—nothing of what it was remains. It doesn’t sleep in there, Eryn. It dies. And from that death, something new is built.”
The weight of the words pressed into Eryn’s chest like a stone. “So that’s what I’m doing now?” she asked, bitter. “Dying?”
“In a way,” the figure admitted. “But not in the way you think. You’re dissolving—not your body, but your self. The old beliefs, the burdens, the guilt that’s defined you. They’re breaking down. And yes, it feels like death.”
Eryn clenched her fists. “And what if I don’t want to? What if I liked who I was before all this?”
The hooded figure turned fully to face her, their voice gentle but unyielding. “Then you will stay trapped in this chrysalis forever, neither living nor dead. Change isn’t about desire—it’s about necessity.”
The cocoon above them shifted, and a small crack appeared along its surface. Eryn’s gaze snapped to it as thin, delicate legs began to push through the fragile shell.
“The butterfly must fight its way out,” the mentor said. “It struggles, alone, tearing through what once protected it. And when it emerges, its wings are soft, wet, useless. It can’t fly. It must wait, letting its wings dry in the sun, feeling the weight of its new body, before it can lift itself into the air.”
Eryn watched as the butterfly broke free, trembling and fragile on the branch. Its wings shimmered, translucent and weak.
“And then?” she whispered.
The figure’s voice softened further. “Then, when it’s ready, it flies. But it carries the memory of its struggle in its wings. Every beat of those wings is a reminder of what it survived.”
Eryn swallowed hard, her throat tight. She didn’t want to admit it, but the metaphor had sunk deep into her bones.
“So which part am I in?” she asked, voice low.
The figure’s head tilted slightly, as if considering. “You’re still in the chrysalis. Dissolving. Fighting it, yes—but it’s happening all the same.”
Eryn’s shoulders sagged. “And if I’m not strong enough to come out the other side?”
There was a pause, then the mentor spoke again, their voice barely more than a whisper. “The butterfly doesn’t know if it will survive the change. It simply does what it must.”
The silence that followed was heavy but not cruel. Eryn stared at the butterfly as it flexed its damp wings, its body still trembling with the memory of its struggle.
“And the sting?” she asked finally. “Why did the butterfly sting me?”
The figure was quiet for a long time before answering. “Because you were chosen—not to be punished or cursed, but to transform. The sting wasn’t a wound. It was an invitation.”
Eryn turned away, unable to face the butterfly any longer. The words left a hollow ache in her chest, but also something else—something she wasn’t ready to name.
She began to walk back toward the path, but before she left the clearing, the figure called after her.
“Eryn,” they said. “The cocoon is dark, and the change is painful. But remember this—the butterfly does not mourn the caterpillar.”
Eryn didn’t look back. But the words echoed in her mind, following her long after she left the garden.
#
It had been days—weeks, perhaps—since the Abbot’s lesson with the butterfly. Time moved strangely within the School of Unlearning. It stretched and bent, shaped more by the tides of the heart than the sun’s path across the sky.
Eryn found herself walking alone along a narrow trail that curved through the grove of willows on the edge of the school grounds. Their long branches swayed gently, whispering secrets she couldn’t quite catch. Her satchel was lighter now—emptied of the unnecessary herbs and tools she had clung to at first. Even her steps felt different, less burdened by the heaviness she’d carried.
She’d spent countless hours with the mentors, enduring exercises designed not to teach her, but to strip her bare—to unlearn. It had been uncomfortable, even agonizing at times, like peeling away layers of herself she didn’t know she was hiding behind. But now, something had shifted. She felt... still. Not hollow, not lost—just open.
She stopped by a quiet pool of water, its surface so smooth it seemed like glass. Sitting on the mossy bank, she drew her knees to her chest and gazed at her reflection. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a stranger was staring back.
“Who am I now?” she wondered. “If I’ve let go of so much—what remains?”
As if summoned by her thought, she heard the soft steps of the Abbot approaching. His presence had always been quiet, but now it felt natural, like the whisper of wind through leaves. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.
“I see the stillness has found you,” he said, his voice like the ripple of water.
Eryn smiled faintly. “I think... I think I finally understand what you meant all along. About unlearning.”
“And what is it you understand?” the Abbot asked, settling onto the grass beside her.
She picked up a fallen willow leaf, twirling it between her fingers, watching the veins run through it like lifelines.
“It’s not about forgetting. Or erasing. It’s about... breathing.” She paused, trying to find the words that had been floating in her heart. “Like breathing out the false—the lies I told myself, the guilt, the fear—and breathing in what’s real. What’s true.”
The Abbot chuckled softly, a warm sound. “Yes. Like breathing. Simple, yet most forget how to do it.”
Eryn inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the cool morning air, and then slowly exhaled. She could almost feel the weight leaving her with each breath, as though the last fragments of old lies were evaporating into the sky.
“I was so full before,” she continued. “Full of things that weren’t me. Beliefs I carried like stones in my pockets. I didn’t even realize how much space they took up. But now—” She paused again, her chest rising with another breath. “Now there’s room. Space for something new. For truth.”
The Abbot’s expression was soft, the faintest smile on his weathered face. “That is the great paradox. We fill ourselves, thinking we grow richer. But only when we empty do we make space for what matters.”
Eryn thought back to all the lessons, the painful reflections, the mirrors that had shown her the young girl she had once been—so fragile, so small—trying to bear the unbearable. She remembered the butterfly struggling to fly, its wings not yet strong enough. And she realized that she, too, had been trying to fly with damp wings for so long.
“I’m ready,” she said quietly.
“For what?” the Abbot asked, his tone curious.
She took another breath, deeper this time. It felt like the first real breath she’d taken since the flood, since everything had fallen apart.
“For new truth,” she replied. “For what comes next. Now that... now that I’ve let go of so much, there’s space inside me. And I don’t want to fill it with more lies. I want to breathe in what’s real.”
The Abbot nodded, pleased. “You understand now that truth isn’t something learned from another. You can hear it from another, but you must breathe it in for yourself. And as long as you keep exhaling the false, there will always be room for more.”
He stood, brushing moss from his robes, and began to walk away, leaving her by the still water. But after a few paces, he stopped and turned back.
“Eryn,” he called gently.
She looked up.
“You have learned the rhythm of breathing truth. But remember—just as with breath, it is not something you master once and forget. You will exhale lies again, unknowingly, and you will have to notice. And then... exhale once more.”
Eryn smiled softly, understanding. “A lifetime of breathing.”
“A lifetime,” the Abbot agreed. And with that, he vanished into the willows.
#
The Abbot found Eryn early one mist-laden morning, when the grounds of the School of Unlearning still held the hush of dawn. She sat alone on a stone bench, staring at the worn satchel of herbs resting at her feet—remnants of her old life, heavy with memories.
The Abbot approached soundlessly, as he always did. Eryn didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat gently, his presence soft but undeniable.
“Come,” he said, motioning her to follow.
She hesitated, as she often did with the Abbot—his lessons were never simple—but curiosity pulled her to her feet. They walked in silence through the dew-laden grass, passing the stone paths and pools where other students practiced their unlearning. The air was thick with stillness, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
They stopped at a small clearing on the edge of the grounds, where a lone butterfly struggled on the ground. Its wings were half-formed, damp and fragile, its body still trembling from the effort of breaking free from its chrysalis. It flapped weakly, trying to lift into the air, but only managed to drag itself across the dirt.
Eryn crouched, a pang of sympathy rising in her chest. “It can’t fly,” she murmured.
The Abbot’s voice was gentle but steady. “No, not yet. It needs time. Its wings are too soft.”
She reached out a hand, instinctively wanting to help, but the Abbot stopped her with a raised palm.
“If you pick it up now,” he said, “and carry it into the air, it will fall. Worse still, its wings will never strengthen. It needs the struggle. Only through it will the butterfly become what it is meant to be.”
Eryn drew back, swallowing. She could feel the sting behind his words before he even spoke them aloud.
The Abbot continued, his tone even. “You tried to do something before your own wings had formed.”
Eryn’s throat tightened. The image of the dying child at the Master Herbalist’s flooded back—her frantic hands, her desperate prayers, the sickening realization that nothing she did worked. The memory burned behind her eyes.
“I thought I could help,” she whispered. “I thought—if I tried hard enough—”
The Abbot knelt beside her, his age-worn knees creaking, but his presence grounded, calm.
“You believed that sheer will could replace readiness. That compassion alone was enough.” He tilted his head, watching the butterfly still struggling to unfold its wings. “But even the deepest compassion cannot force what is not yet possible.”
Eryn felt the old guilt rise, hot and relentless. “So I failed because I was weak.”
“No,” the Abbot corrected, his voice sharp enough to cut through her self-condemnation. “You failed because you asked something of yourself that was beyond your strength. A skill that comes in time, yes, but not then. And in doing so, you added a burden to your heart that was never meant to be there.”
Eryn pressed her hands into the grass, willing the tears to stay down. “But the child still died.”
The Abbot nodded, his face somber. “Yes. And that loss is real. But the grief you carry is tangled with the belief that you should have been able to stop it. That is the heavier burden.”
He gestured to the butterfly again. It was still struggling but had managed to lift its body upright, its wings catching more of the morning light, drying bit by bit.
“Would you blame this creature for not flying yet? For not being strong enough now?”
Eryn shook her head.
“Then why blame yourself?” His gaze was kind but unwavering. “You were still in your chrysalis then, Eryn. Still forming. No one faults the butterfly for not flying before its time.”
A deep ache swelled in her chest—a mix of shame, sadness, and something softer beneath. A loosening.
“But I tried so hard,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“And that was enough,” the Abbot said gently. “The effort, the love—that was real. But it does not mean you had the power to change the outcome. And that is where the unlearning begins—not in forgetting the love, but in releasing the belief that love alone can override the natural order.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Eryn watching the butterfly inch forward, its wings now shimmering in the sun, still fragile but fuller, stronger.
“I wanted to be more than I was,” Eryn said finally, her voice hollow.
The Abbot chuckled softly. “We all do. But growth is not a leap. It is a becoming. And sometimes, the deepest strength is in knowing when we are not yet ready.”
He stood, brushing dust from his robes. “You will one day have the strength to heal a child like that. But only when your own wings are ready.”
Eryn watched the butterfly as it flapped its wings again, lifting slightly off the ground for the first time before falling back.
Still, it was closer than before.
#
Eryn sat cross-legged in the quiet clearing, a simple cloth satchel in front of her. Beside it was a pile of smooth pebbles, each one catching the morning light.
The mentor, an older woman with deep lines etched into her face, sat nearby, silent but watchful.
“Each pebble,” the mentor said softly, “is a weight you carry. Speak it. Name it. And place it in the satchel.”
Eryn hesitated, her fingers hovering over the first pebble.
“This is stupid,” she muttered, but the mentor said nothing.
Finally, she picked one up—small, round, and gray.
“This one’s… for the dream,” she said, voice tight. “The one I ignored before the flood.”
She dropped it into the satchel. The sound was louder than it should have been.
Another pebble.
“This one’s for my brother. I should have been there… in the fields.”
Another.
“This is for the sting—the thing that saved me but made everyone fear me.”
One by one, she named them. The satchel grew heavier, the strap digging into the earth.
“This one’s for the villagers. They only wanted me when I was useful.”
Her hands trembled as she placed the final stone inside. She tried to lift the satchel, but it was too heavy. The strap bit into her palms, and she couldn’t get it off the ground.
“I can’t carry it.”
The mentor tilted her head. “Yet you’ve been carrying it this whole time, haven’t you?”
Eryn’s throat closed. Tears prickled at the edges of her vision.
The mentor reached over, gently lifting the satchel—effortlessly—and set it aside.
“You don’t have to carry these alone,” she said. “And some? You never needed to carry at all.”
Eryn stared at the satchel, the weight of it still in her muscles, though her hands were empty.
For the first time, she wondered: “What would it feel like to be free of it?”

#
When Eryn left the School of Unlearning, the journey back felt both longer and shorter than it had been before. Each step echoed with the gentle hum of lessons not yet fully understood. The Abbot's parting words lingered in her mind—“Unlearning takes a lifetime. You've only just begun.”
The village came into view as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the path. It looked the same—crooked roofs, worn stone paths, thin wisps of smoke rising from chimneys. But it felt different, as though she were walking into a place she had known in another life.
She made her way to the attic above the abandoned house—the one that had become her makeshift home before she’d left. A little dust had settled, and the air was still. She dropped her satchel by the door and stood there, feeling the emptiness press around her. It wasn’t suffocating, not anymore. But it was a little strange.
Eryn crossed to the window, brushing aside the threadbare curtain. Outside, life went on—the village children chasing each other, the old smith hammering away, voices carrying in the evening air. She was back among them, but the space between her and the world still yawned wide.
She reached into her satchel and pulled out the smooth stone the Abbot had given her. It sat in her palm, cool and weightless, though it had felt so heavy on the journey back. She turned it over, remembering the Abbot’s simple instruction: “Carry this. When you know why, you’ll know what to do.”
She hadn’t known why. She wasn’t sure she did now. But something had shifted. The need to find the answer had softened into something quieter—a curiosity, a question that no longer demanded resolution.
The days that followed passed like drifting clouds—quiet, slow, without clear shape. Eryn kept to herself, staying in the attic, only venturing out at dawn or dusk when the village was quieter. There was a strange comfort in being unseen. But the loneliness she once carried like armor now felt less protective and more transparent.
She sat often by the window, the smooth stone resting on the sill. Sometimes, she spoke aloud to it—not expecting an answer, but filling the silence.
“Why did I carry you all the way back?” she asked one morning, watching a sparrow flit across the rooftops. “Was it because I didn’t want to let go? Or because I thought I had to?”
The stone, of course, remained silent. But asking the question felt like the beginning of something.
Her Twilight Eye would pulse now and then—a dull throb that she had grown used to. Sometimes, without thinking, she’d slip off her eyepatch and gaze out through it. The visions came in flickers—threads of color in the air, faint glimmers around people passing below. She didn’t rush to interpret them. She let them pass, like watching leaves float downstream.
Eryn began noticing things—subtle shifts in the village. The way the baker’s hands trembled when he kneaded dough, or how the young girl who sold herbs always tucked her left foot behind her right when nervous. These details had been there before, but now they shimmered with meaning she couldn’t fully grasp.
She didn’t offer help. But she didn’t turn away either.
One evening, as twilight deepened, she saw a boy running through the narrow streets, cradling something in his hands. His foot caught on a loose stone, and he tumbled forward. Eryn stood up, watching as he sat there on the ground, blinking away tears.
The old Eryn might have stayed behind the curtain. This time, she climbed down from the attic and crossed the street.
“You alright?” she asked, keeping her voice soft.
The boy looked up, startled, but then nodded. “It’s just... my bird,” he said, opening his hands to reveal a small sparrow, its wing twisted at an odd angle.
Eryn crouched beside him, the Twilight Eye tingling beneath her eyepatch. She didn’t take it off. She didn’t need to. Instead, she gently cupped her hands around the bird, feeling its rapid heartbeat.
“I can help,” she said simply, not with power, not with magic—but with the soft touch of care.
The boy’s face brightened, and for the first time, Eryn felt something unfamiliar—not the heavy burden of responsibility, but a lightness. A thread, perhaps, weaving between her and another.
That night, back in her attic, Eryn picked up the smooth stone again. She ran her fingers over its surface, feeling its weight—or lack of it.
It struck her then, not as a revelation, but as a quiet knowing. The stone had never been heavy. The burden had been hers all along—the belief that she had to carry the weight of her guilt, her failures, her expectations. The stone was just a stone.
She opened the window and set it on the ledge. The wind tugged at it, gentle but persistent. She left it there, no longer needing to decide what to do with it.
The lessons from the School of Unlearning weren’t fully understood yet, but they had begun to root—not in her mind, but in her heart. The concepts she had struggled with there now softened, taking form not as answers but as deeper, better questions.
Who am I when I’m not hiding?
What does it mean to see with both eyes, not just the Twilight Eye?
Can I be both broken and whole?
She didn’t know the answers. But that was okay.
Her return to the attic wasn’t the end of her journey—it was an incubation, a quiet unfolding. The village didn’t see a miraculous transformation. There were no grand gestures, no sweeping changes. Just small shifts—a softening of her edges, a curiosity that reached beyond her own wounds, and an openness to the threads that connected her to others.
The butterfly’s metamorphosis had been brutal and complete in its own way. But even butterflies, after emerging, need time for their wings to dry before they can fly.
Eryn was still waiting for her wings to dry. But for the first time, she wasn’t rushing. She was simply being. And that, she realized, was progress.
When Eryn decided to reopen her herb stall, it wasn’t a grand moment. There was no dramatic tearing off of the eyepatch, no declaration to the village that she had changed. It was quieter than that—a simple morning where she stood at her attic window, watching the square come to life, and thought, Why not today?
She carried her baskets of dried herbs down the narrow stairwell, feeling the familiar weight of them against her hip. The village market was already stirring, the stalls a patchwork of colors and smells—fresh bread, smoked meats, bundles of lavender and rosemary swaying in the breeze.
Her old spot near the fountain was empty, as if waiting for her. Eryn laid out her worn cloth, set out jars of tinctures and bundles of herbs, and tried to ignore the flutter in her chest.
There were no whispers, no pointed fingers. The villagers passed her by as they always had—some casting curious glances, others avoiding her entirely. It was a small mercy.
She kept the eye patch on.
It was in the mundane moments, the simple exchanges, that something began to shift.
The first customer was the baker’s wife, a stout woman with flour-dusted hands and soft eyes. She hesitated before approaching, her gaze flickering to the eyepatch.
“I... I need thyme,” the woman said, her voice careful. “For a stew.”
Eryn nodded, reaching for the bundle without making eye contact. “Two sprigs will do?”
The woman nodded, but then lingered. Her hands fidgeted with her apron.
“My husband’s been... anxious. The harvest’s been thin. Do you have anything for that? For calming the nerves?”
Eryn hesitated. It would’ve been easier to hand over the usual herbs—lavender, maybe valerian root—but something tugged at her. She let her hand hover over the jars, letting her Twilight Eye throb softly beneath the eyepatch, even if she didn’t remove it.
“Chamomile,” Eryn said finally, passing the bundle over. “But brew it slow. Let it steep longer than usual. And add a pinch of lemon balm.”
The woman blinked, surprised. “Lemon balm?”
Eryn gave the smallest of smiles. “It helps ease the heart, not just the mind.”
The woman’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Eryn.”
It was the first time someone had spoken her name without pity or fear since she’d returned.
As the days passed, more villagers came—some with practical needs, others for reasons they couldn’t quite name. And with each encounter, Eryn found herself opening, just a little.
A young boy came with a scrape on his knee, his mother trailing behind. Without thinking, Eryn knelt to clean the wound, her hands steady. The boy winced but didn’t pull away.
“You’re brave,” Eryn murmured.
The boy shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
Eryn glanced up, meeting his wide eyes. “Being scared and doing it anyway—that’s what makes you brave.”
She caught herself as she said it—the truth of it sinking into her own bones. Isn’t that what I’m doing? she thought. Being here, with them, even though I’m still scared?
The market stall became more than just a place to sell herbs. It became a quiet space where small, meaningful encounters unfolded—threads of connection weaving through the ordinary.
A widower came asking for herbs to help him sleep. Eryn didn’t offer anything right away. Instead, she asked, “When do you feel the loneliness most?”
He looked startled, then murmured, “At night. When the house is too quiet.”
She passed him a bundle of lavender but also suggested, “Sit by your window before bed. Watch the moon for a while. Let yourself remember her—and don’t chase the memories away.”
He left with tears in his eyes but also a small smile.
Eryn didn’t have answers—not the ones she’d once thought she needed. The lessons from the School of Unlearning still swirled inside her, half-formed and half-understood. But what had changed was her willingness to live the questions.
She no longer hid in the attic, but she didn’t throw herself into the heart of the village either. She occupied the space between—visible but still guarded, open but still careful. And in that space, she found something new.
Her Twilight Eye had softened, too. It no longer pulsed with the sharp ache of before. Sometimes, she’d lift the eyepatch for a moment, just to see—not out of obligation or fear, but curiosity.
One afternoon, as the sun dipped low, she saw threads of golden light weaving between the villagers—subtle, delicate, connecting them in ways they couldn’t see. Grief, joy, love, regret—all of it, tangled together in an unseen tapestry.
And she was part of it.
This wasn’t a grand metamorphosis. There were no wings unfurling, no sudden flight. It was slower, gentler—a process of unfolding, of allowing herself to be.
She realized that becoming the “True Eryn” wasn’t about shedding all her flaws or becoming some perfected version of herself. It was about embracing the full tapestry—her strengths, her wounds, her tenderness, her stubbornness. It was about offering what she had, even if it wasn’t perfect.
The villagers, in turn, didn’t treat her as a seer or a healer or a cursed girl. They treated her as Eryn—the one who sold herbs, who sometimes spoke in strange riddles, but who listened, really listened, when they spoke.
And in those small moments, in the ordinary exchanges, Eryn found something she hadn’t known she’d been searching for—belonging.
Not because she fit into the village perfectly, but because she allowed herself to be seen, messy and unfinished as she was.
And that, she realized, was a lot.
#
The sun dipped low over the village, casting long, amber shadows across the market square. Eryn’s herb stall stood at the edge of the square, its wooden table now bare, the last of the day’s herbs sold or packed away. She leaned against the post beside her stall, watching as the villagers drifted home, their baskets full, their conversations soft and winding down with the evening.
It had been several weeks since she reopened her stall. At first, it had felt strange—exposing herself again to the village after everything she had been through, after the School of Unlearning. But bit by bit, something had shifted. No grand epiphanies, no sweeping changes—just small moments, like stepping stones across a river.
She thought of Mara, who no longer scowled at her Twilight Eye but now brought her wildflowers in exchange for sage. She remembered the baker's daughter, who shyly asked Eryn about healing salves for her mother’s hands and, after a few visits, began sitting at Eryn’s stall just to talk.
These encounters had felt tentative at first, like delicate threads she wasn’t sure she could hold. But each time, something inside her had softened, stretched. It wasn’t the grand, sweeping healing she had once believed she needed to offer. It was simple. Real.
She turned her gaze toward the path that led to her attic room at the edge of the village. The thought of returning there now felt... different. Not the lonely retreat it had been, but a place of quiet. A breath inward after a day of exhaling into the world.
Like breathing, she realized. All of it. Like breathing.
The thought made her pause. She let her chest rise and fall deliberately, feeling the air move in and out. But it wasn’t just her body—it was her life.
At the School, I exhaled. I let go of what weighed me down. My grief. My guilt. My false ideas about who I was supposed to be.
She remembered the Abbot’s voice—soft, but resonant, like the wind through hollow reeds.
"Unlearning is the exhale. But life, Eryn, is both breath in and breath out."
The School had been her breath out. And now, back in the village, she had breathed in again—life, people, connection. But standing here now, in the hush of the evening, she felt the tension between the two. The need for both.
The rhythm of it.
Her life wasn’t meant to be only exhaling into the vastness of unknowing, nor only inhaling the noise and bustle of the world. It was a dance. A flow between the two.
Venture out. Withdraw — Exhale. Engage — Inhale.
She thought of how she had begun opening up in the village—talking to customers, really seeing them, not just as transactions but as people with tangled hearts like hers. There had been moments when she’d caught glimpses of herself in their eyes—not the fractured girl who had fled the flood, not the heavy-hearted wanderer from before the School, but someone fuller, rounder. Someone real.
But I’m not finished, she realized. Not yet.
The threads of unlearning had only just begun to settle in her. The lessons from the School had shifted from thoughts in her head to truths starting to root in her heart, but there was more. She felt it, like an itch under the skin—a restlessness that wasn’t the old kind, driven by guilt or the need to prove herself, but a softer stirring. A readiness.
Her heart had more space now, cleared out from all she had let go of. And in that space, new truths could enter. But only if she let them.
It’s time to go back, she thought, not with dread or resistance, but with a kind of quiet understanding. To the School. To the Abbot. To breathe out again before I can breathe in something new.
But this time, it wasn’t about running from the world. It was about keeping the rhythm—the balance.

The Breath of Becoming
Eryn packed up her herbs, tucking them neatly into her satchel. She tied the flap closed and slung it over her shoulder, then took one last look at the market square. It would still be here when she returned. The villagers would go on living their tangled, ordinary lives. And so would she.
But she was different now. She no longer felt the sharp edges of separation between herself and others. There was a softening, a connection—not loud or dramatic, but real.
As she began the walk toward her attic, where she would gather the few things she needed for the journey back to the School, she thought of the Abbot’s words once more.
"Unlearning takes time, child. Like the tides, like breathing. You release what no longer serves, so there is room for what does."
And now, as the path wound through the trees, Eryn smiled softly to herself.
I’m still breathing, she thought. Still becoming. Maybe I’m not a ‘human being,’ I’m a ‘human becoming’ — transforming until my last breath. 
And with that she felt one more link in the chain binding her heart fall away.

* * *