Bound by roots and flames

The butler's words hung in the air like a blade:

"She would not give her name."

Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Only the crackle of the dying fire broke it.

Thalia was the first to speak, her voice taut as wire.

"Send her away. We have no time for charlatans."

Viridian didn't even look at his wife. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on the table, on the sigil-map of their lineage.

"No," he rasped. "If she claims she can help—we will see her. But not yet."

He turned slowly to the butler, voice regaining a sliver of authority.

"Make her wait in the silver atrium. Give her food. Drink. Do not let her near Isadora. Tell her she will be summoned if we decide."

The butler bowed, retreating with relief at the command.

Thalia rounded on Viridian the moment they were alone.

"You want to let a stranger near her? When the best healers in Hawthorne can do nothing? When we cannot even slow it?"

Viridian didn't answer. He only ran a trembling finger along the silver etching of the family crest. His mouth worked soundlessly.

Thalia's voice cracked with anger and grief.

"She is our only child."

He finally spoke, low and cold:

"That is exactly why I will see anyone who claims to help. Even if they damn us for it."

____________

Outside the manor, the scene had turned grim.

The once orderly line of wagons and tents had become a chaotic sprawl. Cauldrons steamed with failed potions. Enchanted sigils burned and died on parchment scraps littering the grass.

Arguments flared between healers.

"Your ratios were wrong!"

"You used the wrong binding glyph!"

"I followed the formula—it's the disease, it's unnatural—"

The estate guards had started keeping them separate, afraid real violence would break out.

Meris, the court healer who had first diagnosed Isadora, sat in the mud, staring at her shaking hands.

We had all the right ingredients. We spoke the incantations. Why did it not work?

She had made the potion three times. The recipe was older than Hawthorne itself.

But when she fed it to Isadora?

The girl had screamed.

Black smoke had poured from her eyes and mouth.

And the potion had froze inside the chalice.

Not congealed.

Viridian had resorted to blood magic.

It was forbidden in Hawthorne, except in certain emergencies, but the founding families always kept the old books locked away "just in case."

Now, they cracked them open.

Three elders stood in a ritual circle with him.

Thalia refused to watch.

Viridian bared his arm, slicing it open with a ceremonial silver dagger. His blood pooled onto a waiting sigil drawn in moon-ash.

"I give my life-force freely," he intoned hoarsely, "to break the plague upon my bloodline."

The sigils flared, burned black, and died.

The blood evaporated in an oily hiss.

And in the next room, Isadora coughed and spat another glob of black.

Unchanged.

Isadora no longer spoke.

Her eyes were dull.

She lay limply as Thalia wiped her mouth, whispered soothing lies.

"You'll be better soon. Mama's here. Mama's always here."

The girl's lips moved soundlessly.

Her body shivered, frost riming the sheets.

Not heat. Not fever. Frost.

Thalia pressed a hand to her mouth to stop the sob.

_________

In the council room, the elders were in open panic.

"We have to inform the Knights."

"They'll quarantine us."

"If we lie and they find out later—"

"We're already finished if she dies. Do you not understand? Our line here will end."

One elder suggested sending Isadora away—to a distant Moonglow cousin in the mountains.

Thalia threatened to kill him on the spot.

Viridian sat slumped in his chair, eyes hollow.

"We are being watched already," he whispered.

Indeed, a pair of Knight envoys had appeared the day before, under the guise of a "friendly visit." They had sniffed the air, noted the number of healers.

They had left without comment.

But they had seen.

Each day brought new attempts.

Dozens of healers.

Hundreds of ingredients imported at obscene expense.

Mandrake, star-ash, wyrmroot.

Moonflower petals gathered by the light of a blood moon.Even unicorn horn shavings, purchased at illegal cost.

All of it failed.

They boiled it.

They sang it.

They bled for it.

But the potion always turned one of two ways:

Either it blackened and boiled over violently—splattering the walls with tar-like sludge.

Or it froze.

Solid. Immovable. Dead.

The healers grew afraid of making it at all.

Meris broke down on the steps of the main hall.

"It's not us. It's not the recipe. It's the plague. It's… laughing at us."

__________

By the twelfth day, the family was not sleeping.

Food went untouched.

The manor stank of fear and magic and blood.

The moonstone floors were stained.

Viridian's voice had lost all authority.

He ranted, wept, threatened, begged.

Thalia sat at Isadora's bedside, holding her tiny hand, humming broken lullabies.

The child no longer responded.

They gathered one final time in the council room.

Every candle burned low. Scrolls lay shredded.

Healers muttered prayers in corners. A bucket in the corner was filled with black bile.

"We are cursed," one elder whispered.

"We are being punished," said another.

Viridian rose unsteadily.

"We will see the woman."

Thalia looked up, eyes red.

"If she's a fraud—"

"Then she dies. But we will see her."

As if summoned by the words, the old butler entered.

He was pale, trembling.

"My lord… my lady… she is waiting. She has been waiting… for days."

"She waited?"

"Without complaint. She took no payment. She asked no questions."

Viridian exhaled raggedly. He felt all the old pride drain away.

"Bring her."

"Shall I announce her name?"

"No," Thalia whispered. "Don't. Just… bring her."

The butler bowed, backing out.

____________

In the hall beyond the silver doors, shapes moved.

A tall shadow. A woman's silhouette.

The family council fell silent, all breath held.Their eyes locked on the doors.

Waiting. Hoping. Fearing.

Because in Hawthorne, help never comes free.