Mornings in Westwood, for those foolish or fortunate enough to live within its enchanted boundaries, have the audacity to feel...normal.
Sunlight slants through crooked eaves and fractured stained-glass windows, casting shards of colour across the uneven cobblestones.
The town, a riot of ivy and whispered history, bathed in kaleidoscopic hues as though nothing extraordinary had unfolded in its streets just twelve hours prior.
Birds chirp from rusted gutters and vine-wrapped chimneys, oblivious—or wilfully ignorant…of the cloaked Council agents that had torn through the square the night before.
The air itself smelled like reckless comfort.
Fresh-baked cinnamon-spelled pastries waft from the bakery in golden, buttery spirals that wrap around the morning like a lullaby made of sugar and denial.
Somewhere nearby, a man argues with a monocled goose in loud, gravelly Glaswegian. The goose, unfazed, stares him down with the weary contempt of someone who'd seen a thousand battles and emerged mildly inconvenienced.
Westwood, in short, was pretending nothing had happened.
But inside the Finch cottage, normalcy had no such illusions.
Elara sits at the kitchen table as if commanding a battlefield strewn with waffles and half-solved metaphysical crises.
Her hair was an unrepentant cloud of static and dried moss.
Her cloak carried the scent of scorched spells and bad decisions.
Her boots, still faintly smoking, gave off the occasional grumble as if resenting the hex that had clung to them all night.
The soul shards pulse softly on the table before her—two fractured suns with grudges, steady as breath. Not bright. Not loud. But alive. Watching. Waiting.
Across the room, Rowan Thorne, reluctant culinary adventurer and part-time romantic complication, wrestles a stubborn waffle iron with the same grim resolve he'd once used to slay a banshee. The first batch of waffles, barely edible and possibly sentient, smoked in the sink.
"You burned the first ones," Elara mutters, not looking up.
"I'm a swordsman, not a chef," Rowan replies, flicking another onto a plate with a sigh.
"You're not even that great a swordsman," comes Moony's muffled voice, stretched across the table like an exiled emperor. Licking syrup off a stolen fork with slow, decadent precision. "You just grunt and twirl dramatically."
Rowan grunts. And twirls the spatula. Just a little.
Valen Graye leans against the fridge like he was born for noir lighting, coffee in hand, looking both amused and tired. His gaze slides from Elara to the soul shards and back again with the quiet calculation of someone who'd been reading too many cursed books.
Elara sighs and rests her head in her hands.
"We need help."
The room stills.
Moony's tongue pauses mid-lick. Rowan looks up sharply, brows drawn. Valen's brow arches…a blade of irony.
"I'm serious," Elara says, gesturing around at the burn marks, the soul shards, the waffles that now shudder when looked at directly. "We're not going to make it through the next stage of this, if we keep nearly dying every other chapter. We need support. Allies. A plan that doesn't end in blood, tears, or metaphysical combustion."
"Life isn't a story," Rowan mutters.
"Mine currently is," she replies. "And the plot twists are getting lazy."
She had been singed, cursed, hexed, nearly incinerated, being emotionally enticed by two of the most unreasonably attractive men this side of a cursed prophecy, and now she was running low on ward crystals.
So, naturally, she stands, cloak flaring behind her as if it agrees. "We're going to the market."
"The market," Rowan repeats, confused. "For...?"
"Honey. Eggs. Ward crystals. And maybe some actual perspective."
And just like that, the morning shifted.
They step out into the street together…Elara first, cloak billowing dramatically even though the wind wasn't cooperating.
Moony second, strutting slightly beside her in his stitched vest reading "WITCH'S FAMILIAR – DO NOT TOUCH," scanning the surroundings like a grizzled tax auditor.
Rowan third, flanking her on the other side, silent and watchful.
Valen had muttered about resonance loops and Isadora's cipher journal, so he had naturally stayed behind, vanishing into a pile of notes and coffee with the elegance of a retreating cat.
Westwood Market was in full bloom…though "bloom" was perhaps the wrong word for a space that defied geometry, regulation, and basic sanitation.
Stalls leaned at impossible angles. Vendors shouted prices for everything from fireproof socks to sentient ginger. One cart sold enchanted pickles that insulted your haircut. Overhead, jam jars floated in a territorial dispute with a bee swarm.
Somewhere near the centre square, a pair of scarecrows were breakdancing for coins while a haunted herb quartet sang in perfect, unsettling harmony.
Elara walked like she belonged here. Like she had always been here.
She doesn't. Not really. But today she let herself pretend.
"I'm meeting this town properly," she says under her breath. "No more just running. No more hiding. If we're going to survive this...I have to be more than just reactive. I have to root for this."
Moony snorts. "We could just become swamp witches who live forever. Raise bees. Curse the sky. Live in peace. And no one asks them for character growth."
"That's Plan C," she says.
"What's Plan B?"
"This."
They round a corner and come upon a crooked storefront wedged between a spice merchant and a stall selling prophetic ferns.
MORROW & MEND: Enchanted Repairs, Tailoring, and Slight Vengeance.
The bell above the door lets out a delicate, strangled scream as they enter.
The inside of the shop feels stitched together from velvet and unfinished sentences. Silken threads float through the air, stitching themselves into cloaks that shimmer with secrets. A mannequin in the corner poses like it had an opinion.
A tall woman with copper eyes and flame-orange hair steps out from behind a curtain. She looks like she'd just walked out of a revenge opera.
"You need a protection cloak," she says immediately, without preamble. "You reek of half-set wards, emotional decay, and residual grave magic."
Moony lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Marry her."
"Don't tempt me," Elara mutters.
"I'm Beatrix Morrow," says the woman. "The '& Mend' is on sabbatical. Don't ask. You'll cry."
She produces a cloak darker than a moonless sky, stitched with runes that pulse faintly as they settle against Elara's shoulders. The moment it touches her, it hums.
Not in comfort. Recognition.
"You'll need it in Mirrorwood," Beatrix says.
Elara blinks. "Wait…how do you know about Mirrorwood?"
Beatrix is already disappearing behind a curtain. "I read minds. Occasionally. Style is privacy And yours is crying out for help."
"Violation of privacy," Rowan mutters.
Back outside, a rain of glitter descends suddenly from the sky.
A man in a velvet coat spins beneath it, juggling enchanted songbirds and humming an opera tune that hadn't yet been written.
The birds are harmonized.
The glitter becomes confetti.
Then the confetti turns into screaming miniature ravens that dive-bomb a fruit cart.
Moony freezes. "Oh no. No, no, no."
"Who is that?"
"Fenwick Thistlewhistle. Agent of chaos. Betrayer of silence. Run."
But it is too late.
"Ah-ha!" Fenwick declares, spinning. "Elara Finch! Soul-bearer! Survivor of the Gravemoss Incident! Niece of the Unwritten Flame!"
"I…what? Wait, is that what they're calling it, Gravemoss…Unwritten Flame?"
"Call me when the Council writes you out of your own story," Fenwick whispers, flipping a coin that turns into a moth. "I have backup dancers."
And he vanishes, leaving a trail of singing birds and jazz hands behind him.
They carry on, slightly confused, a bit disconcerted.
Moony grumbles and moans.
Rowan remains focused, ever vigilant, ready for any attack, glaring at anyone that might look suspicious, lets face it...everyone in Westwood looks like that.
Elara continues her shopping, it's her coping mechanism under high stress or certain frustrations.
Then they reach the final store…a squat, crooked apothecary tucked between two buildings that should not have been structurally allowed. The sign above the door reads:
Witch, Please.
Inside, it smells like thyme, peppermint, and old heartbreak.
A girl with hex-glasses and an earnest braid blinks up from behind the counter.
"I'm Cass," she chirps out quickly. "I have read your aunt's journals, she scares me. But also…inspires me. I want in."
Moony squints. "A bit creepy and intense, on how she knows who we are, before we have even introduced ourselves."
Cass turns red. "Or I could just recommend a tea blend?"
Elara smiles gently and warmly. "Tea's good and I will keep your request in mind."
Cass hands her a velvet-wrapped vial. "For magical burnout and existential dread. Tastes like peppermint and mild sarcasm."
By the time they returned to the cottage, the sun had sunk low enough to kiss the trees.
They are all outside…Rowan cleaning his blade yet again, Valen leaning against the porch rail, Moony curled up on Elara's lap like he'd always belonged there.
"You have finally met the people of Westwood," Rowan says.
"I did." Elara looks out over the glimmering treetops. "And for the first time since I got here...I feel seen."
Valen doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
Above them, Fenwick dangles from the roof, whistling upside down.
"When the time comes, Finch," he grins, "you'll rewrite the ending."
And then he is gone. Again.
Far from Westwood, a pool ripples.
"She's gathering them," whispers a Councillor, gazing into the pool.
Another voice responds, cold and amused. "Then send the next trial."
Then dawn arrives in Westwood
The group prepares and packs.
Elara puts on her new cloak, with a few added pockets and quirks.
Rowan straps his blade to his belt.
Valen reads his compass like it owes him an answer.
Moony mutters about retiring somewhere with less destiny.
Elara kneels before the shards.
"I'll make us whole," she whispers, before placing them in a hidden pocket.
And then she steps out…towards Mirrorwood.
Where the next shard is.
Where the next chapter will begin.
And where, perhaps, the story would finally become her own…
THE END OF BOOK ONE