Chapter 1
People lived by the rhythm of the seasons; planting in the spring, harvesting in the fall, resting in the winter, and celebrating in the summer. Life in Clovenshire was slow and deeply rooted, like the trees that guarded the village’s winding borders.
Tucked into the crook of green, misty mountains and far from the noise of the kingdom’s cities, Clovenshire was a place that hummed with simplicity. Cottages leaned into one another, stone chimneys puffed soft smoke into the skies. Wildflowers grew in the cracks of cobblestones, and bees lazily buzzed from bloom to bloom.
Nineteen-year-old Luella Shlaven knew every sound this village made. Every creaky door, every dog’s bark. Each morning, she stepped out onto the dirt paths lined with ivy-laced homes and was greeted by the scent of baking bread and warm goats’ milk. The market square bustled gently, never loud—just the shuffle of boots and the murmurs of good-hearted barter.
To Luella, this was home. The only one she’d ever known.
She had arrived in Clovenshire as a child, carried in the arms of a stranger who vanished before anyone could ask a name. With no memory of who she was or where she’d come from, she had been taken in by Niamh Shlaven, the village healer—a woman wise as winter and warm as summer.
Niamh taught her the ways of herbs and poultices, of salves and tinctures; by fifteen, Luella could calm a fever with willow bark and stitch a wound cleaner than most traveling physicians. But Clovenshire hadn’t raised her to be a healer alone.
The blacksmiths taught her strength, the hunters taught her silence, and from the mothers she learned courage, while the fathers taught her when to stand and fight. She was clever with words, quick on her feet, and graceful with a sword—admired not for mystery, but for the steady fire of her heart.
She had auburn hair like a sunset set loose and eyes like green glass catching fire, but it wasn’t her beauty that made her beloved—it was her steadiness, the way she listened fully, laughed freely, and somehow made everyone feel they belonged simply because she did.
And yet… on some days, she felt it—a flicker beneath her skin, a hush that settled over the air when she walked alone, as if even the wind knew something she didn’t.
But she never told anyone that.
Not yet.
“Luella!”
The voice came from behind a cart stacked high with wool blankets, where Marla Henders—unofficial town gossip and the most unapologetically dramatic baker alive—was wrestling her hair into a knot with one hand and balancing a tray of sticky buns with the other.
“You’re late!” she huffed, although the sun had barely finished its yawn over the mountains.
“I’m early, Marla,” Luella said with a grin, brushing a copper curl from her face. “You just like having someone to scold before breakfast.”
“True,” Marla sniffed, then held out the tray. “Here. Try one. I used cardamom this time. And a generous amount of butter.”
Luella took one gladly, biting into the golden crust. “If I collapse in bliss right here in the square, will you tell Niamh to bury me with two more of these in my pockets?”
Marla beamed. “You like them?”
“I love them,” Luella said around a mouthful. “They taste like the last day of summer.”
Before Marla could bask any longer, a goat bounded between them, trailing a string of radishes in its mouth.
“Oh for kingdoms sake—!” shouted a low and exasperated voice .
A boy with freckles and a mop of wheat-colored hair came jogging after the goat, arms flailing. “Bardly! Stop! That’s not yours!”
“Again?” Luella said, blinking, fighting back a smile. “Bardly escaped again?”
The boy, Ewan, stopped mid-chase to frown at her. “I have fifty other goats, Luella, I can not only watch Bardly, now, can I?”
Luella stifled a laugh as the goat trotted smugly away, scattering radishes like confetti.
Ewan gave up and threw himself dramatically onto a hay bale beside her. “One day,” he declared, “I will live somewhere where goats do not rule my life.”
“No, you won’t,” Luella said, nudging him. “You love your goats. You love that goat.”
“I fear her,” Ewan muttered. “That’s not the same.”
From the herb stall, old Father Delwyn called, “Luella! If you’re finished chasing pastries and goats, could you fetch Niamh’s basket? She’s needing your help at the cottage.”
“On my way!” Luella called back, brushing crumbs off her apron. “Save me a sticky bun, Marla. If I return and find none, I’ll curse your oven.”
Marla winked. “Wouldn’t dare.”
Ewan waved limply. “Tell Niamh I need a potion for goat-related trauma.”
Luella made her way up the winding path to the healer’s cottage, the morning sun stretching shadows across the garden. Bees hummed in the lavender bushes, and the door was already open, spilling warm light and the scent of thyme into the air.
Inside, Niamh sat at the table, glasses perched on the end of her nose, muttering to herself as she crushed dried flowers with the flat of a spoon.
“You’re late,” Niamh said, not looking up.
Luella dropped the basket on the table. “Why is everyone saying that today? The rooster barely cleared his throat.”
Niamh squinted up at her. “That bird’s been late since midsummer. Probably thinks he’s royalty.”
“I bring news from the square,” Luella said solemnly, sitting. “Marla is experimenting with cardamom and poor Ewan is being terrorized by Bardly.”
Niamh chuckled. “Sounds like a normal morning.”
She passed Luella a bundle of nettles. “Strip those. We’ve got a visitor coming. Boy fell from a tree—broke his wrist and dented his pride.”
“Do we know which tree?” Luella asked. “I want to award it.”
As they worked, the familiar rhythm of chopping, grinding, and boiling herbs wrapped around them like an old quilt. This was the heart of her life—the soft clatter of jars, Niamh’s humming, the steam curling from the kettle.
But even in the warmth of it all, Luella felt it again.
That something.
Like a shimmer in the corner of her eye.
A whisper in the leaves.
She looked up sharply.
Nothing.
Just Niamh, muttering about dock leaves and ungrateful trees.
“Lu,” Niamh said gently, catching her stare, “you alright?”
Luella blinked. “What? Oh. Yes. I’m fine.”
But Niamh’s wise eyes narrowed slightly, like she didn’t believe her.
Luella busied herself with the nettles.
Fine or not… the wind outside the window whispered a little louder than it had yesterday.
The next morning’s mist clung to the hills like a shawl, cool and comforting. Clovenshire yawned awake, the rooftops still damp with dew, the air scented with wood smoke and rain-soaked earth. The sun rose slowly here, stretching its golden arms over the meadows like it had all the time in the world.
Luella was already awake.
She moved barefoot through the healer’s hut, the wooden floor creaking gently beneath her. Sleep still clung to her mussed hair, twisted up in a knot and tied with twine. She lit the stove, swept the floor, and lined jars of golden calendula and crushed birch bark into neat, familiar rows. Her fingers moved with certainty—morning was a rhythm she knew by heart, like a songbird knows its song.
Niamh entered with her usual morning sigh, wrapped in a shawl that smelled faintly of mint and smoke. She yawned without apology and poured hot water over a handful of dried lavender, watching the steam curl like a ghost from the kettle’s spout.
“Have you noticed how silent it’s been?” she asked, her voice low and still raspy with sleep.
Luella glanced outside. “Quieter than usual?”
Niamh nodded slowly. “No fevers. No infections. Not even a twisted ankle. No one’s come knocking in days.”
“Maybe everyone’s just… healthy.”
“Hm.” Niamh sipped. “It’s odd.”
Luella didn’t answer. She felt it too.
