Elowen knelt in the wet grass at sunrise, cutting moonpetal stems for a village girl whose fever had not broken in three days. She was the Bloomkeeper, the only healer for a stretch of farms that hugged the Elderwood, and her basket was still half empty when she heard the cry. It came from deep inside the trees, thin and shaking, not a bird and not a fox. She knew every animal sound within a day's walk. This one did not belong to any of them. She lifted her lantern from the hook on her belt. The bloom-shaped crystal at its center warmed under her thumb and threw a soft gold light between the trunks. The light always leaned toward what needed her. This morning it leaned hard, pulling her off the path and into the thorns. She found the creature in a snarl of black vines at the base of an old oak. It was the size of a lamb, with mossy green fur, small folded wings, and tiny flowers blooming along its back. A baby Floradrake. She had only ever seen grown ones, and only from far off. Its front leg was cut where the thorns had bitten in. When it saw her, it whimpered and tried to burrow deeper into the vines. "Easy," Elowen said. She sheared the thorns one by one with her belt knife, careful not to nick the small green flank. Blood beaded on her hands. The Floradrake shivered against her chest when she finally lifted it free. No mother came. No tracks led away. Someone had left it here to die, or the mother was already dead, and Elowen did not know which was worse. A small owl dropped onto a low branch above her. Bramble. Flowers grew in the moss on his head, and his yellow eyes fixed on the bundle in her arms. "There will be more," he said. "The wood is losing them faster every season." He did not explain who was taking them, or why. He did not need to. Elowen had been finding smaller signs for a year: empty nests, burned dens, snares set for things that should not be hunted. She pressed her cheek to the Floradrake's warm head and made her decision there in the thorns. "Then I need a place for them. Walls. A roof. Somewhere no one can reach them." Bramble tilted his head. From under one wing he drew a seed the size of a hen's egg, its crystal core glowing pink through golden vines. "Plant this behind the waterfall," he said. "It will grow what you need. A cottage first. Then the glass house for the ones who cannot survive outside it. Name it yourself." Elowen closed her fingers around the seed. The Floradrake had fallen asleep against her collarbone. "Bloomhaven," she said. She turned toward the waterfall with the seed in one hand and the baby in the other, and the village girl's moonpetals still uncut in the grass behind her.

By the end of the first week, the seed had done its work. A cottage stood behind the waterfall, and beside it a glass house rose in curved panes that caught the morning light. Elowen had settled the baby Floradrake inside on a bed of moss. She was mixing salve at the worktable when a heavy thud struck the outer door. She opened it and found a full-grown Floradrake on the stone path, its emerald flanks torn, black thorny vines wrapped tight around its neck and legs. The vines were moving. Bramble dropped from the eaves. "It came from the north edge of the wood," he said. "Where it walked, the ferns turned black. If the vines root here, the whole forest goes with it." Elowen crouched by the drake's head. Its amber eye rolled toward her. Sap the color of tar bubbled where the thorns bit deepest. She pressed her palm against its cheek and felt the heat of the blight under the fur. "Inside," she said. She and Bramble half-dragged, half-guided the drake through the glass house doors and onto the wide stone floor beneath the dome. Elowen lit her lantern and set it on the ground beside the creature's chest. The bloom-shaped crystal warmed and threw a steady gold light along the drake's ribs. Where the light touched, the black sap slowed. She drew the moonvine dagger from the shelf. The blade glowed pale violet. Bramble hopped onto the drake's shoulder and pointed with one wing at the thickest vine, the one wound around the throat. "Start there. Cut with the grain of the thorn. If you pull, it will bite back into the flesh." Elowen worked slowly. She slid the blade under each vine and sliced it away in one clean stroke. The vines hissed and blackened as they fell. She cut for an hour, then another. Sweat ran into her eyes. The drake breathed easier with every strand removed. When the last vine hit the floor, Elowen pulled healing blossoms from her basket and packed them into the wounds. The lantern's light brightened. Gold threads of it sank into the drake's chest and chased the black sap out through the cuts. The creature shuddered once, then let its head rest on the stone. Its breathing evened. A soft flower opened along its spine, then another. Elowen sat back on her heels and let out a breath she had been holding for hours. She was gathering the dead vines to burn when Bramble made a low sound. He was staring at the pile. In the center, a single black blossom had opened. Its petals were smooth and wet, and it was turning, slowly, toward the open door of the glass house. Elowen picked up the dagger again. "It followed the drake," she said. "Something sent it." Bramble did not answer. Outside, at the edge of the ferns, the moss had begun to darken.