Ashes and Thorns

The woods beyond Embermere were ancient—older than the kingdom, older than the church bells that tolled on festival days. They whispered with the breath of things not seen and not meant to be disturbed. Which made it all the more foolish when Jorah ran straight into them with a bloodied shirt and two royal guards hot on his heels.

The theft had gone wrong. He’d meant only to take a jeweled dagger from Lord Helric’s private display—quick in, quick out, sell it to a collector in Crossport, and vanish into a new life. But the lord had returned early. And now Jorah was marked as both thief and would-be assassin.

The forest swallowed him in damp moss and silver mist. Thorny brambles tore at his coat and roots snagged his boots, but he didn’t stop until the shouting faded behind him and the world grew unnaturally still.

Then he realized: the forest wasn’t silent. It was listening.

Jorah drew his dagger, breath ragged, eyes darting. “I just need to rest a moment,” he told the air, as if it would grant permission.

A low growl answered.

He spun. A shape slinked between trees—something too large for a wolf, too smooth for a bear. The mist parted for just a heartbeat, revealing antlers like black iron and eyes that glowed green with unnatural light.

Jorah stumbled back and ran again, this time not caring where his feet led. The beast didn’t follow. It didn’t have to. Something about this place—its angles, its quiet hunger—was wrong.

He crested a ridge and tripped over a stone, crashing down onto a flat patch of earth surrounded by mushrooms. The wind died entirely. The air smelled of ash.

Then, from the shadows, someone said, “You’ve stepped into a fae ring. That’s unwise.”

Jorah whipped his blade up, panting. A figure emerged—a woman, cloaked in black and green, a wooden staff in hand. Her eyes were gold like a cat’s and her hair coiled like vines. Her smile was sharp.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” he said.

“They never do.”

She circled the ring, not stepping in. “You’re lucky the ring isn’t active tonight. Elsewise, you’d be dancing until your bones turned to dust.”

Jorah lowered his blade. “Who are you?”

“A stranger. One who hasn’t yet decided if you’re worth the effort.”

“I’m not asking for trouble,” he said.

She raised a brow. “You’re bleeding, carrying a cursed blade, and dragging the scent of royal blood through Thornmere. Trouble is asking for you.”

Jorah felt his knees wobble. “I just need to get out. Alive.”

“Hm.”

The woman stepped closer, finally entering the ring. She knelt and touched his side. Warmth bloomed across his ribs. The pain dulled.

“Why help me?” he asked, wary.

She stood again. “Because I hate Lord Helric more than I hate thieves.”

Jorah blinked. “You know him?”

“Know of him,” she said. “He hunts what should not be hunted. Bleeds the old woods for coin. There’s a price for that.”

He looked down at the dagger still clenched in his hand. “This blade… it’s cursed?”

She nodded. “Stolen from a fae prince. It howls when it draws blood. You’re lucky it hasn’t turned on you.”

“Can you remove it?”

“I can bury it. But you won’t survive that night alone.”

Jorah’s mouth went dry. “So what now?”

She extended a hand. “You can keep running, or you can trust me. Just once.”

He stared at her. Her hand was calloused, stained with sap and something darker. But her eyes were clear.

He took it.

They moved fast through the deep wood, cutting across trails invisible to mortal eyes. The woman—whose name, he learned, was Lira—spoke to the trees in a language like birdsong and silence. The forest responded, parting for her, hiding them from patrolling guards and worse.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked again.

She hesitated, then said, “Because you’re stupid, but not cruel. The forest doesn’t turn its back on those who flee with fear instead of malice.”

Jorah frowned. “You make it sound alive.”

“It is alive,” she snapped. “And angry. But not with you. Not yet.”

They reached a clearing with an ancient stone well choked in ivy. Lira knelt and whispered to it, then drew a pouch from her cloak. She poured out silver powder and tossed it in.

The air shimmered. A doorway opened—not a physical door, but a fracture in the world, leading somewhere colder.

“What is that?” Jorah asked.

“A path out,” she said. “But it’s not free.”

He hesitated. “How much?”

She looked at him—not like a predator, but like someone about to offer something costly. “You must give up the dagger. And your name.”

Jorah blinked. “My name?”

“Names are power,” Lira said. “They tie you to this world. If you want to vanish from Helric’s reach, truly vanish, you must leave it behind.”

He looked down at the blade. It pulsed faintly in his grip. He thought of his father, a cobbler who died in debt. Of his mother, gone before she could teach him anything but kindness. Of the city that had chewed him up and nearly spat him into a grave.

He nodded. “Take it.”

She held out a wooden box. He placed the dagger inside. It screamed—a sound only half-heard—and then was silent.

“Now your name,” she said.

He swallowed. “It’s—Jorah.”

“No longer,” she said, and closed the box. “You are Ash, now. And ash drifts free.”

Ash stepped toward the doorway. “Will I remember you?”

“Only in dreams,” she said.

He paused. “Will you remember me?”

Lira smiled, and for a moment, the forest seemed to lean closer.

“I never forget those who choose the woods over the fire.”

He stepped through.

Ash awoke in a different land—colder, clearer, with stars that hummed. His memories of the chase were foggy, but he knew he had run from something and been saved.

He became a healer in a northern village, using herbs no one else recognized. He never drew a blade again. People said his hands were blessed. They were wrong. They were simply clean, for the first time in his life.

Sometimes, when the wind turned strange, he’d feel a presence behind him—a whisper of vines and gold eyes. He’d smile, though he never turned to look.

And deep in the forest, Lira walked alone, watching the trees remember. Another soul spared. Another ember gone to ash.