The mist came first, as it always did.
Iaon watched it curl around his ankles in the pre-dawn light, a living thing that breathed and flowed across the forest floor. Most mornings, it was simply there—the natural consequence of cool night air meeting the warmer earth. Today, something about it seemed different. The tendrils moved with purpose, almost as if they were reaching for him.
"You're falling behind," his father called from up ahead, voice low but carrying clearly through the silent forest. "The silverleaf won't wait for daydreamers."
Iaon quickened his pace, careful not to disturb the undergrowth more than necessary. Thaddeus had taught him that—how to move through the forest leaving only the faintest trace of his passing. Years of dawn excursions had made it second nature.
"Sorry," he said, catching up to where Thaddeus knelt beside a fallen log. "The mist was doing something strange."
His father glanced up, eyes crinkling at the corners. At forty-eight, Thaddeus still moved with the easy grace of a younger man, though silver had begun to thread through his dark beard. "The mist is always doing something strange, if you know how to look." He gestured to the log. "What do you see here?"
Iaon crouched beside him, examining the decaying wood. Tiny silverleaf shoots pushed up from the rotting bark, their undersides gleaming like liquid metal in the weak light. Most people would have missed them entirely.
"Second-phase growth," Iaon said, reaching for his harvesting knife. "Still drawing nutrients from the log but beginning to produce spores. Best potency for fever remedies."
Thaddeus nodded approvingly. "And how do we harvest them?"
"Cut at the base with a silver blade. Take only two-thirds of any cluster." Iaon drew the small knife his father had given him on his fourteenth birthday. "Thank the forest for its gift."
It wasn't magic, but it was something. Knowledge earned through observation and passed down through teaching.
He cut the silverleaf shoots with practiced precision, placing them carefully in the cloth-lined basket he carried. As he worked, he felt his father's eyes on him.
"Your eyes see things many practitioners miss," Thaddeus said quietly.
Iaon kept his focus on the silverleaf, not wanting his expression to betray anything. "Each person has their gifts," he echoed his father's frequent saying.
They worked in companionable silence as the forest gradually brightened around them. Birds began their morning songs, and the earliest insects hummed among the undergrowth. Iaon lost himself in the rhythm of the harvest—find, cut, thank, store. His fingers moved automatically while his mind wandered.
That was when he noticed it again. The mist behaved strangely near his hands, curling toward his fingers rather than away from their warmth. When he moved, it followed for a moment before dissipating. Probably just air currents from his movement, he reasoned, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that it was responding to him somehow.
"We should head back," Thaddeus said, interrupting his thoughts. "Your mother will be waiting, and the council meets early today."
"Another meeting about the eastern mist?" Iaon asked, closing his basket.
His father's expression grew serious. "Yes. It continues to thin despite our efforts."
The protective mist that surrounded Misthollow valley had stood for centuries, concealing their community from the outside world. More than mere fog, it confused and misdirected unwanted visitors while allowing residents to navigate freely. Its weakening was the talk of the town, with the druidic circle and witch coven proposing competing solutions.
As they turned to leave, Iaon glanced back at where they had harvested. For just a moment—so briefly he might have imagined it—he thought he saw something in the mist. Not random swirls but deliberate movements that stirred something in his mind, a feeling he couldn't quite name. He blinked, and the sensation vanished with the patterns.
"Coming?" Thaddeus called.
"Right behind you," Iaon replied, dismissing the thought. Lack of sleep was making his mind play tricks. Nothing more.
---
Misthollow awakened slowly, like a creature emerging from hibernation. As Iaon and Thaddeus walked from the forest edge toward the town center, shutters opened and chimney smoke began to rise into the morning air. The town followed the natural contours of the valley, buildings arranged in a loose spiral that grew denser toward the center.
"Good morning!" called a stout woman arranging fresh bread in her shop window. "Up with the birds as usual, I see."
"Morning, Mistress Barley," Thaddeus replied with a wave. "Any seed loaves today?"
"Just out of the oven. I'll set one aside for Elara, shall I?"
"She'd appreciate that."
Iaon watched as Mistress Barley passed her hand over one of the loaves, whispering words too soft to hear. A subtle shimmer passed through the bread—a minor preservation charm that would keep it fresh until evening. Such casual magic was everywhere in Misthollow, woven into the fabric of daily life.
They continued toward the center of town, passing the smithy where Finn's father was already at work. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil carried clearly in the morning air, punctuated occasionally by the hiss of hot metal meeting water. Finn himself stood at the bellows, pumping steadily to maintain the forge's heat. He caught Iaon's eye and nodded a greeting, unable to wave without disrupting his work.
"We'll need to split up," Thaddeus said as they reached the market square. "Can you take these cuttings to Sage? I should check in at the council chamber before the meeting."
Iaon accepted the smaller basket his father handed him. "Is Mother joining you at the council?"
"Later. She has patients this morning." Thaddeus squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you for your help today."
Iaon nodded and turned toward the Herbarium. As he crossed the market square, he passed beneath the spreading branches of the Meeting Oak. The massive tree dominated the town center, its trunk wide enough that fifteen people holding hands could barely encircle it. Council meetings took place beneath its canopy in good weather, or inside the hollow chamber within its trunk when rain fell.
The tree was old—far older than Misthollow itself. The druids claimed it had been ancient when the first settlers arrived five centuries ago. Its roots ran deep beneath the town, occasionally breaking through the soil in unexpected places. Some said the roots connected to every home in Misthollow, though Iaon suspected that was just a story meant to reinforce the community's interconnectedness.
As he passed beneath its lowest branches, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck. He looked up and froze mid-step. The nearest branch—thick as his waist and at least twelve feet above—had subtly curved downward. Toward him.
He blinked, and the branch was as it had always been, straight and immobile. Another trick of the early morning light, he told himself. Lack of sleep and an overactive imagination. Nothing more.
Still, he hurried from beneath the tree's canopy with unusual haste.
---
The Herbarium stood at the junction between the craftsmen's quarter and the healers' district, a circular building with a glass dome that allowed sunlight to reach the plants growing inside. Unlike most structures in Misthollow, it was maintained jointly by both the druidic circle and witch coven—a rare example of cooperation between the traditions.
Iaon pushed open the heavy wooden door, breathing in the familiar medley of scents—earthy soil, sharp herbs, sweet flowers, and the underlying tang of magical preservatives. The main chamber was arranged in concentric circles, with plants organized by type, magical properties, and growing conditions.
"Hello?" he called, setting his basket on the receiving counter. "Sage?"
A rustling came from the far side of the room, followed by the appearance of a slender figure from behind a tall shelf of potted plants. Not Sage, but a young woman about Iaon's age with auburn hair pulled back in a practical braid. Several strands had escaped to frame her face, and she tucked them behind her ear as she approached.
"He's in the drying room," she said. "I'm Lyra. Can I help you?"
Iaon recognized her vaguely—one of the Nightshade sisters, from the witch coven. He'd seen her at community gatherings but never spoken directly to her. The Nightshades were a prominent family, with connections to both magical schools of thought.
"I'm Iaon," he replied, gesturing to his basket. "Just delivering some silverleaf my father and I harvested this morning."
Her eyes—a deep green that reminded him of the forest after rain—lit with interest. "Dawn-harvested silverleaf? That's perfect timing. I'm working on a fever remedy that calls for it." She moved closer, examining the contents of his basket. "These are beautifully cut. Second-phase growth, if I'm not mistaken."
"You're not," Iaon confirmed, surprised by her immediate recognition. Most apprentice witches he'd encountered relied more on magical detection than visual identification. "Best potency for fever remedies."
Lyra looked up from the basket, studying him with new interest. "You know your herbs."
The observation wasn't delivered as an insult, merely a statement of fact. "Good eyes and a decent memory," he said with a shrug.
"Most magically trained people rely too heavily on sensing properties rather than truly observing," she said, gesturing to the silverleaf. "I wouldn't have known these were second-phase without checking magically, but you spotted it immediately."
The unexpected perspective shift left Iaon momentarily without a response. Before he could formulate one, the inner door opened and Sage emerged, arms full of dried lavender bundles.
"Ah, Iaon," the elderly herbalist said, nodding in greeting. "Silverleaf from Thaddeus, I presume? Excellent. Just set it there—I'll process it shortly." He turned to Lyra. "Did you find the feverfew seeds?"
"Not yet," she admitted. "I was just about to look when Iaon arrived."
"Top shelf, eastern section, blue ceramic jar," Iaon said automatically, then felt heat rise to his face when both turned to stare at him. "I helped reorganize the seed storage last autumn."
Sage chuckled. "And apparently memorized it in the process. He's right, Lyra—blue jar, eastern section. Would you fetch it while I log this delivery?"
As Lyra moved toward the eastern shelves, Sage lowered his voice. "That girl has one of the sharpest minds I've encountered in decades, but she gets lost in theoretical patterns and misses what's right in front of her. You, on the other hand, see what others miss."
Iaon nodded politely but said nothing.
After Sage recorded the delivery in the Herbarium's logbook, Iaon turned to leave. At the door, he nearly collided with Lyra returning with the seed jar.
"Sorry," they said simultaneously, then both stepped the same way, blocking each other again.
Lyra laughed, the sound unexpectedly warm. "The eternal dance of the doorway. You go first."
"Thanks," Iaon said, not quite meeting her eyes.
Instead of moving aside immediately, she tilted her head thoughtfully. "You know, sometimes I think those without magical training see clearer than those of us taught to look in certain ways." She held up the blue jar. "Case in point—I walked past this shelf three times using a finding charm instead of just looking for a blue jar."
For the second time that morning, Iaon found himself without a ready response. "I should go," he said finally. "My mother's expecting me."
"Bring more herbs sometime," Lyra called as he stepped outside. "I'd be interested in your perspective on a few things I'm working on."
The door closed behind him before he could reply, leaving him with the strange feeling that something significant had just occurred, though he couldn't have said exactly what.
---
The mist was thicker as Iaon made his way home, curling around buildings and flowing through the streets like water finding its level. This was normal for Misthollow mornings—the protective barrier that surrounded the valley often sent tendrils into the town itself, particularly when the air was still.
What wasn't normal was how it behaved around him. Twice he stopped to watch as the mist seemed to reach toward his outstretched hand, only to dissipate when he tried to touch it. A third time, he paused as the mist swirled at his feet, stirring something in his mind—not words or images exactly, but impressions. Warmth. Recognition. Welcome.
By the time he reached home—a modest cottage on the western edge of town where the buildings began to thin and the forest encroached—Iaon had almost convinced himself he was imagining things. Almost.
The cottage itself reflected his parents' blended approaches to magic. The structure had been grown rather than built, shaped over decades through druidic magic that encouraged living trees to form walls and roof. His mother's witch influences showed in the protective symbols carved into the door frame and the subtle enchantments that kept the interior comfortable regardless of outside weather.
"Is that you, Iaon?" his mother called as he entered.
Elara stood at the kitchen table, grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle. Unlike Thaddeus, who looked younger than his years, Elara wore her age openly in the silver streaks through her dark hair and the laugh lines around her eyes. She moved with deliberate precision, each gesture efficient and purposeful.
"Just me," he confirmed, hanging his cloak by the door. "Father's gone to the council meeting."
"Another discussion about the eastern mist," she said with a sigh. "Third time this week. The boundary grows thinner despite their best efforts."
Iaon began unpacking the remaining herbs from his basket. "Why can't they agree on an approach? Seems like combining methods would be more effective than arguing."
"Politics," Elara said simply. "Rowan insists the mist must be nurtured through communion with its essence. Sylvia believes it should be reinforced through binding spells and wards." She shook her head. "Both are partially right, of course, but neither will concede ground."
"If they spent half the energy working together that they spend arguing..."
Elara smiled. "Says the diplomat of the family. Perhaps you should advise the council."
Before Iaon could respond, a sharp tapping came at the window. A large raven perched on the sill, its black eyes fixed intently on him. Not an unusual sight—the bird had been visiting their home for years—but something about its gaze today seemed more focused, more aware.
"Rook's back," Iaon observed, moving to open the window.
The raven hopped inside immediately, fluttering to land on the back of a chair. It continued staring at Iaon with unnerving intensity.
"He seems interested in you today," Elara noted. "Perhaps you smell of something intriguing from the forest."
Iaon extended his hand toward the bird, which cocked its head but made no move to approach. "Just the usual herbs. Nothing special."
Yet as he turned away, he caught sight of the mist outside their window. It pressed against the glass like a living thing seeking entry. As he watched, it swirled and shifted, and something stirred in his mind—not a voice, not words, but a feeling. A pull. A connection he couldn't explain.
Then the wind shifted, and it was just mist again—formless, directionless, ordinary.
But Rook continued watching him, and Iaon couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed. Something about him, or something about the world. Or perhaps both.
He turned away from the window, pushing the thought aside. He was tired, that was all. Seeing patterns where none existed. It would pass after a good night's sleep.
It had to.