The morning began suspiciously quiet, the kind of silence that felt staged. The air was cool and carried a faint smell of damp stone and old herbs, the aroma of moss and mildew threading through the high hall. Every sound seemed magnified in the echoing chamber, even the tiny drip of water somewhere behind the walls. Sunlight pushed through the cracked stained glass, scattering shifting mosaics of green, gold, and red across Moss's jade skin like nature's own stained tattoos. Each time the light flickered, it felt as though unseen eyes were watching her.
Moss sat in Weedwick's grand hall, sipping her tea with both hands wrapped around the cup as if it were her last lifeline. The table was cluttered with half-finished sketches of garden layouts, teacups that didn't match, and one very judgmental fern.
"Almost peaceful," Moss whispered, narrowing her eyes at the stillness. "Suspiciously peaceful."
Weedwick groaned through the floorboards in response, like a giant clearing its throat. Dust shook loose from the rafters.
"Oh no," Moss muttered, clutching her teacup tighter. "Please let that not be structural. Again."
From atop the chandelier, Gary the ivy spirit dangled like a drooping cat, lazily flicking dust off with his vines. "If the ceiling caves in, it'll finally be an improvement."
Moss glared. "For once, can you not root for structural collapse?"
Before Gary could retort, the great hall doors slammed open with a violent crash. Vines burst in like a tidal wave, ripping through carpets. Light flared, hot and cold at once. Weedwick shuddered, rattling every portrait on the walls.
Two figures strode inside.
On the left came a towering spirit wrapped in roses and thorns: the Bramble Lord. He wore a crown of red roses, each petal glowing faintly like embers. His thorned staff pulsed with veins of dark energy, and as he walked, stone cracked underfoot, roots splitting the floor.
On the right drifted the ethereal Willow Matron, her trailing fronds whispering like harp strings — though if one listened too closely, they carried the faint murmur of voices, as though the willows themselves were gossiping in the breeze. Silver-green blossoms bloomed along her arms, glowing in the hall's gloom. Each step she took pulled the air cooler, beads of dew forming on the furniture, and with the dew came the earthy smell of damp soil after rain, filling the hall with both comfort and unease. Her presence was serene yet unsettling, her eyes calm but sharp — like the moon before a storm.
Their voices overlapped, thunder and wind colliding:
"I claim the Bloom Witch!"
Moss spat her tea all over the table. "Excuse me?!"
The Bramble Lord slammed his staff, vines lashing. "She is suited to the strength of my roots! I will make her feared, sharp, unyielding!"
The Willow Matron lifted a graceful hand. "No. She is whimsical, beloved, eternal. She belongs to my boughs."
Moss raised her tea-stained sleeve. "Hello? Still in the room. Also—not a prize goat!"
Gary muttered, "Debatable."
Chaos erupted. Roses burst across the floor, stabbing through the carpets, while willow fronds cascaded from the rafters, dripping dew onto Gary's vines.
"Stop redecorating!" Gary shrieked. "I just dusted!"
Twig came skidding in, wielding his wooden spoon like a broadsword. "Moss! Which side are we on? Tell me quickly so I can betray the other one!"
Moss yanked him up by the collar. "We're on the side of NOT DYING!"
The Bramble Lord leaned close, his thorns rattling like swords. "Choose me, Bloom Witch. Stand with my thorns, and the world will tremble at your power."
The Willow Matron glided nearer, fronds swaying. "Choose me. Be my branch, my blossom. Beloved. Serene. Eternal."
Moss's heart slammed against her ribs. Beloved? Eternal? Sharp? Feared? I just wanted tea, not a custody battle for my soul. Do they want me to hold up scorecards? Ten points for theatrics, minus five for setting the drapes on fire. Minus another five for terrifying my cactus.
Her hand trembled around her teacup. Gary smirked above her, muttering, "At least you'll make a dramatic bonfire." Twig whimpered under the table, loudly swearing allegiance to whoever looked strongest, his spoon rattling like a nervous dagger. Weedwick groaned deep in its bones, the portraits on the wall seeming to lean away from the chaos, their painted eyes widening in horror.
Moss swallowed hard, throat tight. "I'm not anyone's trophy. I'm Moss—messy, tea-stained, and probably about to scream."
Green fire sparked at her fingertips, flickering wildly, the heat singeing the edges of the tablecloth.
Both spirits froze. The hall went silent, save for the drip of dew and the snap of burning thorns. Moss blinked down at her hand, panic clawing her chest. Oh brilliant. Show them the one thing I don't even understand myself. Excellent survival strategy, Moss.
Gary dropped his rag. "Oh good. Now she's on fire. Just what the décor needed."
Twig yelped, dove under a rosebush, got pricked, and hopped out again with leaves in his hair. "She's glowing! Somebody get pudding! Pudding fixes everything!"
The Bramble Lord's eyes narrowed, thorns tightening like armor. "So. The flame is real."
The Willow Matron tilted her head, blossoms trembling. "Child of roots… your fire is not of us."
They might have fought harder, but Weedwick itself shuddered again, and the candles guttered. A ripple of power cut through the hall, dark and suffocating. Portraits rattled, and the walls seemed to pull back in dread, sap trickling from the frames as though even the painted gardens wept.
The front doors slammed open a second time, banging against the walls with such force that dust rained from the rafters.
A figure stepped inside — tall, horned, with eyes like burning coals. His cloak rippled like smoke, sulfur curling into the air. Every candle flame bent toward him as if drawn by fear, and the temperature dropped sharply, leaving a metallic tang on the tongue. This was Vorstag the Usurper, a rebel demon lord whispered of even in exile, who dreamed of overthrowing the Demon King and seizing the throne for himself. Unlike many demons, Vorstag's gift was domination—he could bend lesser spirits or even other demons to his will, making him one of the most feared rebels. Moss's stomach clenched tighter at the sight—she remembered flashes from her time in the Demon Realm, whispered councils where his name was spoken like a curse. He had eyed her even then, fascinated by the wild magic coiling inside her, and now she realized his plan: to twist her green fire into a weapon for his rebellion, just as the old legends spoke of a demon whose plants could burn worlds. His voice dripped venom.
"Squabbling weeds. Step aside. The Bloom Witch belongs to the Demon Realm—after all, she is a demon herself, whether she accepts it or not."
Moss's blood ran cold, stomach knotting as her teacup slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor.
The Bramble Lord bristled, thorns rattling, his roses wilting in the oppressive air. The Willow Matron's blossoms trembled, dew hissing into steam. Both spirits hissed, but they recoiled, not willing to fight this intruder.
"This is not our battle," the Willow Matron murmured, her voice like wind through dying leaves.
"For now," the Bramble Lord snarled, fading into shadow.
And just like that, they were gone.
Moss shrieked after them, "Wait—don't leave me here with HIM! Cowards!"
Gary sighed dramatically. "Wonderful. We've upgraded from houseplants to house arrest."
Spike, peering from his sunny windowsill, muttered, "Finally. Someone scarier than me."
Twig dove back under the table, whispering loudly, "I vote we surrender!"
Vorstag ignored them all, eyes locked on Moss. "Bloom Witch. Show me your flame."
A small fern on the table puffed up its fronds like a cat, squeaking, "GET AWAY FROM OUR MOSS!"
Before Moss could stop it, the fern launched itself at the demon.
"No! You'll get shredded!" Moss screamed, diving forward to shield it. Her panic ignited into fury.
Her green fire exploded outward, wrapping her in jade light. Vines erupted from Weedwick's walls, laced with flame, striking at the emissary. The demon staggered back, snarling as the castle groaned under the force.
Gary shouted over the roar, "Careful! That's the last intact curtain!"
Twig peeked out, panicked. "Aim for his kneecaps! Villains always hate that!"
Spike grumbled, "Or just burn him already, I'm trying to nap."
Moss ignored them all, clutching the rescued fern. Her voice cracked but carried through the hall:
"I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's. I'm Moss!"
Vorstag sneered, smoke curling from his robes. "We'll see. Your flame is mine to command—legend made flesh."
Weedwick shook violently, dust pouring from the rafters. Moss's flame surged higher, jade light crawling up the walls, her eyes glowing as panic and rage fused into something unstoppable.
Then, with a guttural laugh, Vorstag lashed out — a wave of dark fire colliding with her green blaze. The hall shook, portraits shrieking as sap bled from their frames. Moss braced herself, every nerve alight, heart hammering as Thornmother's cryptic words echoed in her mind: fire will bloom through you, and you must decide what to burn and what to save.