Chapter 1: The Witch’s First Claim
The air in the grove was so thick with the smell of wet earth and night-blooming jasmine that Bram felt he was breathing liquid. Above him, the branches of the ancient trees twisted into a canopy that shredded the moonlight, casting a fractured silver pattern on the ground. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, too loud in the unnatural silence. He could still feel the elders’ hands on his back, pushing him forward across the invisible boundary, their muttered blessings sounding more like apologies.
He was strong enough to split a log with three clean blows. He could carry a deer on his shoulders for a mile without breaking a sweat. But here, surrounded by the grove’s silent, watching presence, he felt like a boy. The moss under his boots felt like a sponge, and the roots seemed to shift and writhe at the edge of his vision.
“Well, you’re a sturdy one.”
The voice was a sultry whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once, brushing against his skin like silk. He spun around.
She stepped from between two great oaks as if parting a curtain. Nyx. The Harvest Witch. Her skin was painted in silvered moonlight, her form shimmering with a subtle, liquid energy. She was taller than he’d imagined, and her eyes held the ancient, cool darkness of a deep lake. She circled him, a predator assessing its due.
Bram’s mouth went dry. “The elders sent me.”
“I know what they sent me,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. She stopped in front of him, so close he could feel the strange warmth radiating from her. “Bram, the woodcutter. They whisper that you are strong, but quiet. That you watch the forest with more than a woodsman’s eye.”
He had no answer for that. It was true. He’d always felt the woods were alive, a feeling he’d never confessed to anyone.
With a speed that blurred, her hand shot up and sank into his dark, close-cropped hair. Her grip was impossibly strong. A sharp yank and his knees buckled, hitting the soft moss with a soft thud. He was on his knees before her, looking up at a face that was both terrifying and beautiful.
She leaned down, her lips hovering near the pulse hammering in his throat. He could feel her breath, cool and sweet.
“You smell of sweat and fear,” she murmured, her voice a low thrum that vibrated through his bones. Her teeth grazed his skin, a fleeting, dangerous pressure. “But I will make you burn for me before dawn.”
A shiver, one that had nothing to do with the night air, wracked his powerful frame. It wasn’t just fear. It was a dark, unwelcome curl of anticipation. She straightened, her fingers still tangled in his hair, forcing him to maintain the position.
“Get up,” she commanded, her voice losing its whisper, becoming clear and sharp.
He rose, his muscles tense.
She gestured to a massive, fallen log nearby, its interior rotted out. An old, rusted axe was buried in its side. “Your test is not what you think, woodsman. I don’t need a bull. I need a blade. That log is ironwood. Your village axe won’t scratch it. My axe there… it bites. But it’s heavy. It resists. It will fight you.”
Bram looked from the log to the axe, then back to her. “You want me to chop wood?”
“I want you to try,” she corrected, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Show me if the strength they prize you for is just in your arms, or if it’s in your will.”
He walked to the log, wrapping his hands around the rough, splintered haft of the witch’s axe. He expected it to be cold, but it was warm, almost like a living thing. He braced his feet, took a breath, and swung.
The impact was brutal. It didn’t ring; it thudded, sending a jarring shock up his arms that made his teeth rattle. The axe head bit barely a finger’s width into the impossibly dense wood. It felt like striking stone.
Nyx let out a soft, melodic laugh. “Again.”
He swung again. And again. Each impact was a fresh tremor of pain. Sweat stung his eyes, and his breath came in ragged gasps. The grove watched, silent and judging. He lost count of the swings, his world narrowing to the lift, the swing, the jarring stop.
He was so focused on the next swing, he didn’t hear her approach. Her cool hand closed over his on the haft, stilling him. Her body pressed against his back, and her voice was a whisper in his ear.
“You’re fighting the wood. You’re fighting the axe. Stop.” Her guidance was subtle, a slight shift in the angle of his wrists, a repositioning of his hips. “Feel the grain. It’s not an enemy. It’s a rhythm. Let the axe fall where it wants to go.”
He tried to clear his mind, to feel what she was saying. He focused on the pattern in the wood, not as a barrier, but as a map. He took another swing, not with brute force, but with a focused intention.
Thwack.
The axe sank deeper. A clean, solid cut.
A genuine smile touched Nyx’s lips for the first time. “There.”
In that moment, a branch snapped in the darkness beyond the grove. The sound was wrong—too sharp, too deliberate. The witch’s head snapped up, her playful demeanor vanishing. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the blackness between the trees.
“It seems our time is cut short,” she said, her voice now edged with ice. She released his hand and stepped away, her form beginning to lose its solidity, shimmering at the edges. “The grove is no longer safe. You need to leave. Now.”
“What? Why? What was that?”
“A question for another night, woodcutter.” She was fading, becoming one with the shadows and the moonlight. “Go back to your village. Tell the elders their offering was… adequate.”
Before he could form another word, she was gone. The grove was just a grove again, silent and dark. The only evidence she’d been real was the fresh notch in the ironwood log, the lingering scent of jasmine on his skin, and the cold, sharp fear that someone—or something—had been watching them. He was alone, dismissed, and the night suddenly felt infinitely more dangerous.