Sylvara Nightweaver's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The whole grove thought Sylvara had fled. Now she had to haunt it. She could not walk the market as herself, and she could not reach Doran without knowing him. Why did a woodcutter swear off magic? She had no answer. Any charm she tried would feel false, and Doran would smell the lie. So she sought the one person who might know his secret. Lilith Moonwhisper had lived in the grove longer than Sylvara. The blonde witch knew every door and every grudge. She was also the last person Sylvara trusted. They had traded favors before, and each favor had a hook in it. Sylvara found her in a sunlit cottage, bent over a drying rack. Lilith crushed a cannabis sprig between two fingers and breathed it in. She did not look up. "The witch who fled," Lilith said. "Back from the dead already." "I never left." "I know. I spread half your rumor for you." Lilith smiled. "You owe me for that too." Sylvara stepped inside. "I need to know Doran. Why he hates magic. All of it." Lilith set down the sprig. Her violet eyes sharpened. "The woodcutter. Of course. You want the one man your tricks can't touch." "Will you tell me or not?" "I'll tell you." Lilith leaned against the rack. "For a price. And you won't like it." Sylvara waited. "A sorceress charmed his brother," Lilith said. "Years back. A pink vial, one drop. His brother drank love like wine and forgot everything else. Forgot to eat. Forgot to sleep. He wasted to nothing and died chasing a woman who felt no pity. Doran buried him. Then he swore no spell would ever own him the way one owned his brother." The room went quiet. Sylvara felt the floor shift under her. A pink vial. She owned one. The rumor from the market was not a lie Doran would fear. It was the exact shape of his grief. "So you see your problem," Lilith said. "He doesn't just doubt magic. He hates the woman you are." "Then I won't be her." Sylvara's mind moved fast. If she could not approach Doran as a sorceress, she would approach as something harmless. A stranger. A woman who wanted nothing from him. Lilith laughed softly. She crossed the room, opened a chest, and lifted out a costume. A green bodice, a skirt cut like leaves, thin wings that caught the light. "Then wear this," Lilith said. "A festival girl. Pretty, silly, forgettable. No one looks for a sorceress inside it." She draped it over Sylvara's arm. "My price is simple. When you have him, you tell me how it feels to win." Sylvara took the costume. The leaves brushed her wrist, cool and strange. She had her answer now. Doran's hatred had a name, and the name was her own craft. She knew why every honest approach would fail. She would have to reach him wearing someone else's face.