It was a perfectly ordinary morning—until Weedwick Castle groaned loud enough to shake Moss's teacup, spilling dew-infused tea onto her dressing gown. The living, ancient castle rarely spoke, so when it did, she listened. Weedwick preferred to communicate in subtle ways: a warm hum in the stones when pleased, an irritated creak of the rafters when displeased. This time, however, the groan was followed by a vine slithering in through the conservatory window, coiling with deliberate care before depositing a thick leaf into her lap.
Etched into the surface in curling script: "The Thornmother requests your presence for tea. Come alone."
Moss's eyes widened. "Oh roots. Nope. Not doing it. She doesn't invite people—she summons them." Her heart kicked against her ribs. "I've heard stories… she made a dryad cry just by looking at her!" She began pacing, the leaf still clutched in her hand, muttering to herself. Okay, think. Can I send a plant decoy? No, she'd notice. Can I pretend to be sick? No, she'd probably send a vine to drag me there. She turned on her heel and paced the other direction. What if I hide in the cellar for a week? No, Gary would sell me out for a handful of compost. Could I bribe her with pastries? Wait, does she even eat pastries?
Gary, the overly dramatic gourd on the windowsill, gasped so loudly he almost tipped over. "Write a will. Bequeath me your teacups. And the good pruning shears."
Bramble, her vine-creeper companion, rustled in disapproval. "Don't go. She smells like trouble. And mildew. The deep kind."
Twig, the goblin boy who'd made himself at home in the east wing, bounded into the room with a fistful of crackers. "I'll come with you. I'm good at distracting scary people with snacks."
"No," Moss said firmly, though she still paced, wringing her hands. "She said alone. And she'll know if I cheat. You'd probably end up planted in a flowerpot. And then she'd water you on a strict schedule."
Twig grinned. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Weedwick rumbled again, the sound vibrating through the floor. "She's all thorns and no petals, you know."
"Perfect," Moss muttered, standing with mock dignity. "So am I."
The deeper Moss walked into the forest, the heavier the air became—thick with the scent of damp earth, crushed leaves, and the metallic tang of distant rain. The light dimmed under arching branches twisted like cathedral ceilings, their leaves whispering as though trading gossip about her arrival. Every so often, a shadow shifted that might have been a plant leaning to get a better look at her. Somewhere overhead, something let out a slow, groaning creak, as if the forest itself was taking note.
Her heart pounded as she tried to calm herself with rambling thoughts. Why me? Is this about the ivy incident? Surely spirits don't hold grudges over ivy. Unless it was sacred ivy. Oh roots, was it sacred ivy? She imagined herself fleeing, or bargaining with a fern for safe passage, or bribing a particularly vain sunflower with compliments. Then she pictured the Thornmother's unimpressed face. None of the scenarios ended well—most ended with her being compost.
Halfway there, a squirrel-like sprite hopped onto her path, clutching a mushroom cap like an umbrella. "You're late," it said in a tiny, judgmental voice.
"I wasn't aware there was a timetable," Moss replied, glancing nervously into the trees.
The sprite sniffed. "There's always a timetable. You just never get told it until you've already missed it. Also, your shoelace is untied."
"I'm not even wearing shoes," Moss muttered, but the sprite was already gone.
Before Moss could process that, two bickering pixies zipped overhead, arguing over whether her hair was naturally green or "just moss stuck up there." A third pixie chimed in, loudly speculating that it might be a "sentient wig." Moss swatted at them with a huff. "It's both, thank you very much. And it's rude to talk about someone's hair while they can hear you!"
The ground softened beneath her boots until she stepped into a clearing that felt… aware. Sunlight fractured into golden motes, pollen drifting lazily through air so still it felt like a held breath. The edges of the space were crowded with plants that leaned forward, their leaves angled toward her as if waiting to see what she would do. Somewhere, a flower bud opened with an audible pop, startling her into muttering, "Don't do that."
At its center grew a massive, ancient rosebush shaped into a throne. The Thornmother sat upon it—part woman, part forest, with skin like polished bark streaked with faint veins of gold, vines curling from her limbs, and blossoms blooming and closing along her hair in slow, deliberate rhythm. Her eyes glowed amber-green, deep and layered, reflecting spring's vitality, summer's warmth, autumn's decay, and winter's stillness all at once.
Her gaze lingered on Moss in a way that was both assessing and oddly amused, as though she were looking at an unruly seedling that had somehow sprouted in the wrong season. In her silence, there was the weight of long observation—she knew of Moss's chaos, her refusal to grow in straight lines, and perhaps found it dangerous… but also strangely promising.
"Moss of Weedwick," the Thornmother said at last, her voice deep and resonant like the echo inside a hollow oak. "You have been busy. The Demon Realm whispers of the Bloom Witch—a name you earned after coaxing a demon fortress back to life with vines, making its battlements bloom with roses, and leaving an entire battalion ankle-deep in wildflowers overnight.
They say wherever you walk, things grow… whether you want them to or not. Even now, your influence has stretched into far forests and old groves. Saplings sprout in abandoned ruins; flowers bloom on long-forgotten graves. Some call it a blessing. Others call it a warning."
"They exaggerate," Moss replied, forcing herself into the living-wood chair that rose from the earth between them. "And sometimes compose terrible songs. One involved turnips. Don't ask."
A teacup bloomed from an unopened bud before her, already filled with emerald-colored tea that shimmered faintly. She sipped, flinching at the strange mix of sweet, bitter, and something electric that tingled down her throat.
"You cannot hide from your roots forever," the Thornmother said, her gaze so piercing Moss swore she felt her thoughts unraveling. "Your green flame stirs the old seeds—the ones even I dared not plant. Seeds that remember storms older than the mountains, and drink from rivers that no longer flow."
Moss gave a nervous laugh. "That's… poetic. Poetic usually means bad news, doesn't it?"
The Thornmother's lips curved slightly. "You fear the wrong things. It is not destruction you should dread, but growth that comes too soon."
"Right. Of course. Because accelerated growth always ends well. Ask my basil plant."
"I did," the Thornmother said calmly. "It blames you."
Moss nearly choked on her tea.
With a slow, deliberate motion, the Thornmother opened her hand to reveal a small, black seed with a faint inner glow, its surface etched with veins of deep green like lightning trapped in stone. The air seemed to grow warmer as Moss's fingers closed around it—it was heavier than any seed had a right to be, and the faint pulse beneath its shell made it feel almost alive. Moss's breath caught. It's warm. Seeds shouldn't be warm. Is it breathing? Oh no, what if it's breathing?
"Plant it when your heart is certain and your hands are steady," the Thornmother said, each word carrying the weight of ancient roots. "It will answer one truth… and demand one sacrifice. The seed will know if you lie to it."
Moss blinked rapidly. "Know if I lie? Seeds don't—well, I mean—of course you do, you're… you." She forced a shaky laugh. "Right, one truth, one sacrifice. Just a nice, normal magical ultimatum."
Her mind spiraled. One truth? One sacrifice? That could mean anything—from losing a lock of hair to sacrificing my favorite teapot… or my life. Probably my life. Or my wardrobe. Spirits always want wardrobes.
She opened her mouth to ask—something, anything—but the clearing shifted violently. The golden motes streaked into nothing, the warmth snapped into a biting chill, and her stomach lurched as though the ground had been yanked from under her. One blink later, she was standing at Weedwick's front gate, still clutching the seed.
The castle's ivy rustled, its tone almost accusing. "You've brought something home, haven't you?"
"Yes," Moss murmured, staring down at the seed, its glow pulsing faintly in time with her heartbeat. "And I'm not sure if it's a gift… or a warning. Or both. Probably both. Definitely both. And I just wanted a quiet life, Gary—not the kind where ancient plant monarchs point at me like I'm the next big thing." She began pacing again, muttering to herself. Can I plant it in someone else's garden? No, bad idea. Could I hide it in a pot of daisies and hope it forgets about me? What if I just… never plant it? Her thoughts tumbled faster, breath hitching. What if it hatches? Do seeds hatch? Do I even want to know? She gave a half-sob, half-laugh, rubbing her forehead.
Gary's voice came lazily from the windowsill. "You look like you've swallowed a wasp. Or like you've been told you're special in the way that involves dying young."
"I think I've been handed my doom!" Moss threw up her free hand. "This thing could change everything, Gary—everything! I didn't ask to catch the Thornmother's attention. I was aiming for cottagecore obscurity!"
"Good," Gary replied, smug. "You were getting boring. Also, if you die, I call dibs on your teacups. And maybe your slippers."
Moss whirled on him. "Gary!" She stomped a foot, then groaned and flopped face-first onto the nearest couch, still clutching the seed like it might escape. "I'm not ready for magical ultimatums. I'm barely ready for Monday. I wanted tea and a nap, not a destiny."