Sylvara knelt by the stone root cellar and counted her cuttings again. Six years of searching had taught her to track every leaf. Three sprigs of starwort lay inside, wrapped in damp cloth. She still needed moonpetal fern, duskroot, and the shimmer vine, but tonight these clippings mattered most. She closed the wooden trapdoor and pressed her palm against the latch. The latch was the problem. Two nights running, something had pried it open and stolen her gatherings. Claw marks scratched the wood. Tufts of orange fur clung to the hinge. Sylvara would not lose another night's work. She carried the cuttings across the clearing to the small glass-walled shed she had built for watching. Inside, she lit a single lantern and sat with the satchel on her lap. Her cottage waited nearby, warm and locked, but sleep could wait too. Near midnight, a shape padded up to the glass. A ginger cat wearing a tiny star-stitched hat stared back at her. Its green eyes blinked, unbothered. Sylvara stood slowly. The cat tilted its head and pawed the door. She opened it. The creature trotted in, sniffed her satchel, then sat. A folded scrap of paper was tied to its collar. Sylvara untied it with careful fingers. The handwriting was small and unfamiliar. It read: Trade you. I know where the shimmer vine grows. Sylvara stared at the note, then at the cat. Her cuttings were safe. But someone in the woods knew her secret list — and knew the herb no other witch believed in. She tucked the paper into her pocket and reached for her cloak.