Willow Thornheart's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

The scream was small and high, and Willow Thornheart knew a hunter's trap made that sound. She dropped her basket and ran toward it, corset laces cutting into her ribs, brown curls whipping her face. For years she had freed rabbits and foxes from iron jaws in these woods. She wanted more than that. She wanted a place where every hunted magical creature in Lifyre could live safe, behind her walls, under her name. Today that dream met a fresh wound. She found the creature in a cage of steel teeth. It was no rabbit. Rainbow fur, a fox's face, a mane that shimmered through every color at once. The trap had bitten deep into its hind leg. Blood matted the bright hues, and the smell around it was strange and sweet, like flowers she couldn't name. Its blue eyes rolled toward her, wide with fear. "Easy," Willow whispered. "I won't hurt you." She gripped the trap's jaws and pulled. They would not budge. She wedged a fallen branch inside and threw her weight against it. The wood cracked. She tried again with a stone, prying at the hinge. Metal groaned. Then, with a snap that stung her palms, the jaws sprang open. The creature slumped free. It could not stand. Its leg hung wrong, and blood ran too fast into the leaves. Willow pressed her hand to the wound. Then she heard boots crunching through the brush, far off but coming closer. The hunter. He was returning for his catch. She had no time to argue with a man who set steel teeth in the ground. Willow gathered the creature into her arms. It weighed almost nothing, but it trembled hard against her chest. She ran, ducking low branches, until her cottage rose ahead through the trees. Ivy climbed its wooden walls. Flowers spilled from every window box. She shouldered the door open and laid the creature on her table. From a shelf she took a glass bottle. Inside, a healing draught spun with pale light. She had brewed it for emergencies and never dared waste it. She uncorked it now and tipped drops onto the torn leg. The bleeding slowed. The creature's breathing eased into something soft and steady. Its little chest rose and fell. Willow sat back, shaking, her hands stained red. The creature was alive. But it had watched a trap catch it in her own woods, steps from her door. The hunter had seen his prize vanish. He would count the blood on the leaves and know someone had taken it. She looked at the sleeping creature, then at the door she had not locked. He would come looking. And she could not run a sanctuary in secret if a hunter already knew where to knock.