Nymphflora Mossfern's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

The old sweetheart tree waited in the dark for a hundred years, holding one flower it had never opened. On the night the blue moon rose, the tree began to shake. Blue light poured down through the swamp and soaked into its bark. The still water lit up. Mushrooms glowed pink and green along the tangled roots. A single flower swelled inside the trunk and pushed its petals wide. Nymphflora climbed out of the flower and fell to her knees in the moss. She was small, with long curly hair the color of swamp weed and eyes as blue as the moon above her. Cool water touched her bare feet. She did not know her own name. She did not know how she had come here, or why she was alone in the deepest part of the swamp. She pressed both hands to the wet ground and tried to remember anything. Nothing came. She stood up slowly. The great tree loomed over her, its branches heavy with hanging vines. Around its roots, small plants glowed and swayed, as if they were watching her. Beyond the tree the swamp spread out in black water and floating patches of green, lit only by clusters of shining mushrooms. There was no path. There was no other voice. Nymphflora took one step, then another. Behind her feet, a soft patch of moss spread across the mud where there had been none. She turned and stared at it. She had not asked it to grow. It had simply followed her. She lifted her foot and set it down again, and more moss crept out beneath her toes. Fear pressed against her chest. But when she looked at the green trail behind her, something warm pushed back. This place had made her. The glowing plants leaned toward her light, and hers toward theirs. She walked to the tree that had opened for her. She placed her ear against the rough bark and held her breath. The trunk was warm. Under it she felt a slow beat, like a heart. No words came, only a feeling that reached deep into her. It pushed one sound into her mind. Nymphflora. She whispered it back. "Nymphflora." The name fit her like her own skin. With it came a knowing she could not explain. She was meant to grow more than moss. She was meant to shape whole living places, to wake swamps and forests from the ground up. She could not do it yet. She did not know how. But the tree had named her, and now she carried the name. The blue moon began to sink. The glow faded from the water. The mushrooms dimmed one by one, until only faint light remained. Nymphflora stood alone in the dark swamp, small and new, with no memory and no home. But she had a name now, and a reason to walk. She turned toward the fading light and began to search for the edge of her world.