Prince Elran Mistwind Elran was a kind soul— quiet, awkward and lonely, but kind. His father, king Althrond, was not. “A king does not show kindness. Kindness is a weakness, and a king must be strong!” These words and similar were drilled into Elran’s head over and over again. “You lack the moral fiber to lead. You are a shame of a prince.” Perhaps the king was right. Perhaps his father, his cold-hearted father, was right about him. And so, in order to prove his princely value, king Althrond cast out his son, prince Elran, with but one task: venture into the Frostveil Forest and defeat the witch that dwells within. Return with proof, or don’t return at all. Prove his worth or never come back. The prince gripped his crystalline sword and told himself he was a warrior. He had to be. He was not. He was a soft-spoken young man sent to face a stranger. Behind him, the gleaming stone walls and blue banners of Icehaven had shrunk to nothing. Ahead lay the frozen trees of the Frostveil Forest, and somewhere inside them, the woman he was supposed to defeat. He remembered his father's face. King Althrond had said only four words. "Prove you are worth something." No warmth. No goodbye. Elran had wanted to argue. Instead he had bowed and walked into the snow. He always did what his father asked. He hated that about himself. His father sent him to face the witch, and Elran had spent six days in the Frostveil Forest failing to want it. He was the Prince of Icehaven, and his father had told him a prince proved himself with strength, without fear. So Elran carried the crystalline sword his father gave him and the blue bow he had chosen for himself, and each morning he told himself today he would find her. On the seventh day, he did. A snow-covered cottage stood in a clearing, its windows darkened. Lanterns glowed by a weathered door and bundles of dried herbs hung nearby. Witchy tools hung from the walls, worn smooth by use; the roof blanketed in snow. It looked like a home— a ramshackle home, perhaps— but not a lair. Elran stood at the broken fence of the garden and lost his nerve. What did he know about this witch? Very little. Almost nothing. Only the rumors that his father told him or the whispered fears of the villagers. He knew not her age, her appearance, her powers, nothing at all. And yet… And yet he waited in the trees until his feet went numb. No one came out. No one was home. His father wanted a result, and a locked cottage gave him nothing. So Elran made a plan he already hated, shame twisted in his chest. He made a plan to force her out. If he wrecked what she loved, she would come. He kicked over a barrel. He tore at the garden fence and trampled the strange plants inside. Purple blooms snapped under his boots. A small blue dragonfly lifted from the wreckage, wings bright with frost, and hovered near his face. It was delicate and harmless. Elran froze, ashamed to be scaring something so small. That was when he saw the star-thistle. A single blue-silver flower stood among the ruined beds, shaped like a star, glowing with a soft light. It was beautiful, and Elran stood still, and for a moment he forgot why he had come. And then he forced himself to move. He reached for the star-plant. That was his mistake. The moment his fingers closed on it, the light flared white. The glow shot up his arm and filled his skull. His knees gave out. He heard the dragonfly's wings, close and fast, and then nothing. Elran fell face-down among the flowers he had crushed, one hand still open toward the light. The forest went quiet. His breath fogged the cold air in slow, even clouds. He had come to prove himself a warrior. Instead he lay helpless in the witch's garden, his weapon out of reach, his fate no longer his own. Somewhere in the trees, the owner of the cottage was coming home. And Elran would wake to face her exactly as he was: unarmed, guilty, and entirely at her mercy.

Elran woke in a small unfamiliar bed, warm under a wool blanket. His armor and sword were gone. A fire crackled somewhere close. He smelled dried herbs and woodsmoke. This was the witch's cottage, it had to be. He had wrecked her garden, and now he lay in her house, unarmed. The room around him was dimly lit, and across from him Elran could make out a shadowy human form cloaked in shadow. A chill ran up his spine— no doubt that dark figure was the witch, and she would no doubt want revenge for what he has done. Something climbed onto the blanket, making Elran tense up. It was a tiny thing of roots and thorns, with purple flowers sprouting from its head. It sniffed him, then wrinkled its face. "Filthy human," it said. "Rootweaver does not trust it. Rootweaver watched it break the garden." It bared little teeth, then glanced back toward the dark figure. "Can we eats it?" "Not yet," said a voice from the shadows by the wall. The voice was softer than Elran had expected, younger. The voice Ruben directed itself toward Elran. "You trampled my plant beds and grabbed the star-thistle. Bold. Or stupid. Probably stupid. Tell me your purpose for coming here while I decide what to do with you.” “I…” Elran began but he could not seem to find his words. What could he say, anyway? How could he defend his actions and, hopefully, save his skin? A girl stepped forward, no older than Elran. Turquoise hair fell in braids past her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and hard. And yet Elran had never laid his eyes upon a more breathtaking being. “Why did you come here?" she repeated. Elran opened his mouth to lie. He was a prince, sent to slay her. But the words would not come. "I was sent to kill you," he said. "I couldn't do it. So I broke your garden to force you out. I'm sorry. I've never been more sorry about anything." The girl blinked. Rootweaver hissed. "See? See? Kill-talk. Eat him now." "Quiet," she said. She looked at Elran a long moment. "I'm Elila. Get up. You broke it, you fix it. If any of those plants die because of you, I let Rootweaver have you." Elran followed her outside. The garden looked worse in daylight. Snapped stems. Crushed blooms. Roots pulled up and freezing. He knelt in the cold dirt. "I don't know what any of these are. I could kill what's left." Elila crouched beside him. She moved fast, hands sure. "Then listen. This is frostmint, the low one, you tuck the root down gentle, don't pack it, it hates being crushed, and that silver one is dreamvine, it just needs propping, look, like this." She talked without stopping, naming every plant, showing him how to hold each stem. Elran copied her. His fingers were clumsy. Hers were not. Rootweaver watched from the fence, arms crossed. When Elran set a bruised flower upright and packed the soil right, the sprite grunted. It said nothing, but it did not call him filthy again. They worked until dark. Most of the plants stood again. A few would not survive, and Elila said so plainly. "Those three are gone. You killed them. But the rest will live." Elran sat back on his heels, hands black with dirt. He had come to destroy her, and instead he had spent a day saving what he ruined. He looked at Elila by the lantern light, at her quick hands and stubborn eyes, and something in his chest turned over. He did not want to leave. "Stay tonight," Elila said, not looking at him. "You still owe the garden water in the morning."