Bound by roots and flames

(The Moonglow Estate, Evening)

The Moonglow estate wasn't like the Knight estate, all stern battlements and cold tradition. It was beautiful in a polished, studied way—curved archways of pale marble, floors inlaid with moonstone, windows shaped like teardrops to catch starlight. Every piece of its construction whispered wealth, refinement, legacy.

The founding families of Hawthorne liked to believe they were different from the outside world. Safer. Stronger. Immune.

But that was before Ash Breath.

Yes, shocking

Ash breath meant for the humans has suddenly changed it's course.

And that was before Isadora Moonglow started coughing black.

___________________

Six elders of the Moonglow line sat around a long table of moonstone and silver. A fire flickered in the grand hearth, but none of them seemed warmed by it.

Lord Viridian Moonglow sat at the head. His hair was white as frost, tied back in a ceremonial silver clasp. His green eyes were bloodshot. His robes—usually immaculate—were rumpled. He had not slept in three days.

Beside him, Lady Thalia Moonglow clenched her hands in her lap, her lips a thin, angry line.

Isadora—twelve years old, and the only child of this Moonglow branch—was in the room adjoining them, separated by a heavy door carved with protective sigils.

The sigils were failing.

They'd never been meant to stop this.

Viridian slammed his palm on the table.

"I want silence," he snapped, his voice cracking.

The other elders stopped arguing instantly.

His voice dropped, but it didn't soften.

"This is not to leave this room. Understood?"

They all nodded—reluctantly.

It was unthinkable.

A Moonglow. Sick.

Not with a mundane disease.

Not with anything a regular healer could treat.

But with Ash Breath—the plague the Knight family had assured them was "contained to the humans," the same plague rumored to be old blood magic reawakened.

______________________

Beyond the door, Isadora lay in a grand bed draped with silver-stitched sheets. Her skin, once radiant as pearl, was ashy grey. Her lips were cracked. When she coughed, black streaks marred the sheet.

She wept without tears.

Two court-appointed healers bent over her. Their wands glowed. Runes flickered in the air. They chanted in low, urgent voices.

One of them—a woman named Meris—looked at her colleague in horror.

"The corruption is… moving. It's alive."

"Not a disease. A curse," whispered the other.

Meris pressed a cloth to Isadora's mouth. Black spittle soaked through.

Isadora whimpered.

"Please… Mama…"

Thalia pushed the door open so hard the protective runes sparked in protest.

"Move aside!"

The healers obeyed.

She knelt by the bed, pressing a kiss to her daughter's hair.

Isadora was too weak to lean into it.

_________________

Back in the council room, Viridian's hand trembled over the sigil-map of the founding families.

The Stonecrests. The Knights. The Barneses.

They could not know.

If they learned the Moonglows were infected, they would isolate them, cut off all trade, brand them a weak link in Hawthorne's fragile balance of power.

But worse than politics was the fear in his gut.

If Isadora died…

The Moonglow line here would end.

"Send for the healers in town," he said harshly. "All of them."

"They can't know why—"

"We'll pay them double to keep silent. Triple."

An elder licked dry lips.

"And if it fails?"

Viridian's eyes were black with fury.

"Then we pay them to lie about it."

__________________

In the next hour, messengers scattered out from the gates of the estate, their satchels full of silver and enchanted contracts binding them to secrecy.

They reached every known healer in Hawthorne.

Some refused—whispers of Ash Breath had scared even the boldest hedge-witches.

But most came, drawn by the money, by the prestige of serving the Moonglows.

By dawn, the courtyard was full of wagons, tents, small fires burning under cauldrons.

Dozens of healers lined up at the grand doors.

They were admitted one at a time.

Each emerged pale.

None had answers.

_______________

By the third day, Isadora couldn't speak.

Her breath rattled in her lungs like dry leaves.

When she exhaled, black fog leaked from her mouth.

Her eyes flickered with a dull, unseeing silver—the hallmark of source infection.

The elders began whispering about blood sacrifice.

Thalia struck one of them across the face for suggesting it.

__________________

On the fourth night, Viridian was found in the library tearing through ancient tomes of curse-breaking.

He had ripped out pages, thrown books across the room.

"It shouldn't be possible," he rasped. "We are protected. We are Moonglow. We have wards."

He slumped to the floor.

He had not bathed. Not eaten.

He wept.

"She is all we have."

_____________

Despite all the bribes, whispers escaped.

Traders noted the constant movement of healers.

Servants wrote letters to cousins in town.

Rumors reached the Knight estate.

Reached the Stonecrests.

The Barnes.

But no one intervened.

No one offered help.

Because no one wanted to admit the plague had spread to them.

__________________

By the seventh day, the council table was littered with used spell-scrolls, broken wands, and spilled ink.

"She will die," one elder said.

"We'll lie," another suggested.

"No," Thalia hissed. "She won't."

Her eyes were wild.

Viridian slammed his fist on the table.

"Then find someone who can help us. Anyone."

And they did.

They sent the butler.

He bowed deeply, voice shaking as he spoke the words that would change everything.

"My lord… my lady… there is a woman here to see you. She claims she can help."

"Who?" Thalia demanded.

"She would not give her name."