Mira rarely sat still.
She was always moving—pressing herbs, tending plants, folding linens, sorting books, anything to avoid the weight of stillness. But tonight, as twilight crept through the windows and the shadows clung like whispers, Mira sat by the hearth in silence.
Elora stood across from her, arms crossed tightly, heart pounding like a drum against her ribs.
"I need to know," Elora said.
Mira looked up.
Her expression was unreadable.
"You've told me to stay away from the Knights," Elora continued. "Warned me. But you've never said why."
"Elora—"
"I'm not a child. I can feel something's wrong. The way people look at me. The way they don't say things."
Mira studied her for a long moment, then motioned to the chair beside her.
Elora hesitated.
Then sat.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the fire.
Then Mira said, softly, "Because hatred has a memory longer than love."
Elora blinked.
Mira's hands rested in her lap, fingers twined together like old vines. "There was a woman once," she said. "Her name was Esme Clove. Your ancestor. Mine too. The last known matriarch of the Clove line."
Elora felt her chest tighten.
"She was powerful," Mira continued. "Connected to the land like few ever were. People said she could coax spring from winter with a touch. But then... the war came. And with it, ambition."
She looked toward the fire, not meeting Elora's eyes.
"The official history says Esme grew greedy. That she corrupted her affinity. Turned from nurturing to control. That she wanted more—power, dominion. That she twisted her bond with nature into a weapon."
Elora swallowed. "And the rest of the Cloves?"
"They were painted with the same brush. Guilt by blood. It was easier that way. Easier to burn one tree than examine the forest."
Elora's breath hitched.
"That's why people hate the name?"
"They don't hate it, they despise it to the core"
Mira sat up slowly. "After the first Hawthorne War, our family was scattered. Hunted. Those who survived changed names. Vanished. But the roots always know."
Elora closed her eyes.
Suddenly, the stares made sense.
The scratched-out names.
The warning in Mira's voice.
She opened her eyes again. "But you kept our name."
"I buried it," Mira said. "Until you came back. Until the land whispered again. Until I had no choice."
Silence settled like dust.
"The war," Elora said at last. "What happened?"
Mira's voice was low. "Many died. Not just Cloves. Knights. Winters. Barnes. Entire families torn apart. The very tree at the center of town was scorched. They sealed away what they couldn't destroy. And swore never to speak the name that started it."
Elora stared into the flames.
And saw her name burning in every one of them.
A weight sank into her chest. Heavy. Cold.
"They can't know Elora " she whispered.
Elora turned sharply. "Who?"
"The knights, the families of Hawthorne, they can't i wouldn't be able to protect you too if they knew."
"Then why did you bring me here"
Mira was silent.
The silence said everything.
"It wasn't me Elora, it was Hawthorne itself it called for us. For you"
Elora's voice cracked. "You said too"
It was Mira's turn to be quiet again.
She stood up pulling Elora for a sweet and warm hug
Another thought terrified Elora.
Devin.
He would hate her too
Being a descendant of the catalyst of the Hawthorne war
And the thought of seeing it in his eyes made something ache inside her.
Something she didn't want to name.
Never.
_________________
Elora stood outside under the porch awning, the night wind threading through her hair.
The moon was high, sharp, and indifferent. A winter sliver.
Behind her, Mira still sat in silence, the flames from the hearth flickering through the windows like shadows dancing behind memory.
She hadn't said a word since revealing Esme's name.
And Elora hadn't asked for more.
Not yet.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
It was strange—how a name could feel like both a gift and a curse. Esme Clove. That name had been stripped from the records, blacked out, torn from Hawthorne's memory like a rotten root. And now Elora had inherited it. In silence. In secret.
You don't know me, she wanted to say to the people of Hawthorne. You only know the story someone else told.
She couldn't sleep.
Not after that.
She went back inside, slipped past the stairwell, and into the library.
Mira's library was small but sacred. Every shelf carried books with cracked spines and pressed petals. Elora ran her fingers along the rows. Most titles were too worn to read. Some were handwritten volumes, journals that didn't match any known catalogue.
And one of them hummed.
Not literally.
But Elora could feel it.
She pulled it out gently.
It had no title—just a dark green cover and the faint scent of earth and ash.
Inside, the first page was scrawled with a name in beautiful, looping script:
Esme Clove.
Her throat tightened.
The entries weren't spells. They were observations. The rhythm of seasons. The movement of birds before storms. The way roots reached toward iron in the soil, as if hungry for memory.
Esme hadn't written like a tyrant.
She'd written like someone listening to the world, not trying to control it.
Elora turned page after page, feeling a strange familiarity in the voice. Like reading an echo of herself.
And then, near the back, a line stood out—underlined, as if Esme had carved it into the paper:
"They fear what roots itself beyond their reach."
Elora closed the book, heart racing.
What exactly turned Esme into what she was.
A cold tyrant.
A greedy leader.
The fear…
The fear remained.
The fear of Devin learning it.
And looking at her like she was the shadow of a war he was raised to despise.
She thought of his eyes—the calm just beneath the storm. The way he'd looked at her in the courtyard. No mockery. No fear.
What would he do if he knew?
She hadn't even had an actual conversation with him yet he was influencing her decision?
Elora didn't know.
But as she returned the book to the shelf, one thought dug deep and refused to let go:
If he ever looks at me like they all do…
I don't know if I'll survive it.
After all he means nothing to her. Just a crush.
Liar.
Something said in her.