For three years, the Wildflower Witch had begged the forest to point her toward its most guarded secret. She wanted one thing: to become the apprentice of the Witch of the Wildflowers, and inherit her blooming magic. But no one would tell her where the old witch lived. Not the drakelings. Not the shadow wolves. Not even her own pet, the small black-and-violet fox that trotted at her heels with moonflowers blooming along its spine. Today she tried the moon elf who guarded the deep woods. Silvara Nightwhisper stood at the edge of a glowing grove, one hand resting flat against a fern the size of a door. She did not turn when the Wildflower Witch approached. Moon elves spoke to the trees without words, and she was listening to something the Wildflower Witch could not hear. "I need to find her," the Wildflower Witch said. "The Witch of the Wildflowers. You know these woods better than anyone." Silvara's glowing eyes shifted, slow and careful. "Many want her. Few should have her." She studied the fox, then the flowers curling up the Wildflower Witch's arms. "The forest does not open its throat for strangers." "Then let me earn it." The moon elf said nothing for a long moment. Around them, the mushrooms of the grove pulsed with soft light. At last she knelt and pressed her palm to the moss. The ground answered. A single vine lifted, pale and glowing, and pointed north like a finger. "The path is not a gift," Silvara said. "It is a warning. Follow it, and you leave my protection behind." Before the Wildflower Witch could thank her, laughter rippled through the grove and the leaves floated upward. A fae dropped from the air, wings like stained glass, hair drifting as though underwater. "Following a moon elf's vine?" Sylvienne Moonwhisper landed lightly and grinned. "How brave. How doomed." She circled the Wildflower Witch, luminous eyes bright with mischief. "I know where the Witch of the Wildflowers sleeps. I could save you weeks of walking. All I ask is one small promise." Silvara's hand tightened on the fern. "Do not bargain with her." "Only the first flower you grow for the old witch," Sylvienne said sweetly. "Just one. Surely that costs you nothing." The Wildflower Witch looked at the pointing vine, then at the fae's outstretched hand. The vine was slow and dangerous. The bargain was fast and cheap. Too cheap. "No," she said. "I'll take the long path." Sylvienne's smile did not fade. "As you wish." She rose into the air, leaves lifting after her. "But the first flower you grow will still be mine. You just don't know it yet." Then she was gone. The Wildflower Witch swallowed. She scooped up her fox and stepped onto the glowing vine's path. She finally knew where to go. But the fae's last words followed her north, and she did not understand them at all.