GOLDEN HEART

The forest of Valenwood did not whisper.

It watched.

Ancient oaks twisted toward the bruised sky like arthritic fingers, their bark veined with faint threads of silver magic that pulsed when moonlight touched them. Moss crawled over stone ruins long swallowed by roots and time, and somewhere deep within the undergrowth, something growled-a low, guttural sound that seemed less animal and more curse.

Lyra Ashborne tightened her grip on the satchel slung across her shoulder and forced herself not to run.

Running invited pursuit.

Grandmother Sera had always told her that.

"You carry the forest in your blood, child," the old woman would say, grinding herbs beneath her mortar. "So walk like it belongs to you."

Tonight, Lyra tried to remember that.

She had ventured farther than she ever had before-past the usual herb groves, past the brook lined with silverleaf, past the boundary stones etched with warnings villagers pretended not to see. A strange sickness had spread through Ashbourne Hollow. Crops withered overnight. Livestock were born twisted. Children woke screaming of shadows pressing against their windows.

And at the heart of it all lay a single truth whispered by the oldest villagers:

A curse had awakened.

Lyra had felt it too. Magic humming wrong beneath the soil. Roots recoiling from invisible rot. Even the wind felt brittle.

That was why she stood now in the forbidden stretch of Valenwood, searching for the only plant rumored to counter dark enchantments-the starblossom fern, a silver-veined herb that bloomed under a dying moon.

She knelt, brushing aside damp leaves, her fingers skimming over the earth.

"Come on," she murmured. "Show me."

Magic stirred beneath her skin-soft, warm, instinctive. It had always been that way with her. Plants leaned toward her touch. Seeds sprouted quicker in her presence. She never needed incantations or grimoires. The magic answered her as naturally as breath.

A faint glow flickered ahead.

Lyra's pulse quickened.

There.

Nestled between two stones lay the fern-delicate fronds shimmering like captured starlight.

Relief flooded her.

She reached forward-

The growl came again. Closer.

Lyra froze.

Slowly, she rose to her feet.

The bushes across from her trembled.

Golden eyes emerged from the dark.

Not wolf. Not bear.

The creature stepped into the clearing, and Lyra's breath left her lungs.

It was shaped like a stag, but its antlers burned with blue fire. Its body seemed carved from shadow and smoke, ribs faintly visible beneath translucent flesh. Sigils glowed along its flank-binding runes.

A cursed guardian.

The stories had been true.

Lyra swallowed. "Easy," she whispered.

The creature pawed at the ground, flame licking the air.

It was not protecting the fern.

It was guarding something deeper.

The earth trembled.

Before Lyra could react, the beast lunged.

She dove aside, rolling across damp leaves as blue fire scorched the soil where she had stood. Pain flared along her arm-heat searing through fabric.

Lyra gasped but scrambled upright.

"Stop!" she cried, instinctively raising her hand.

Magic burst from her palm-raw and golden.

The light struck the creature mid-charge.

For a heartbeat, everything went silent.

Then the beast roared-not in fury, but agony.

The sigils along its body cracked like shattering glass.

Lyra stared, horror blooming in her chest. She hadn't meant to hurt it.

The creature staggered, flames flickering wildly.

The ground beneath them split.

A fissure tore open, and from it surged a pulse of dark energy-thick, suffocating, ancient.

The cursed stag disintegrated into smoke.

Lyra stumbled backward.

The crack widened, revealing something metallic and ancient buried beneath the soil-a shard of gold etched with alchemical script.

Her pulse hammered.

This was no simple forest curse.

Something had been buried here.

Something powerful.

Before she could examine it further, the ground convulsed again.

The fissure sealed as quickly as it had opened.

Silence fell.

Lyra stood trembling, chest heaving.

The starblossom fern lay forgotten.

Her gaze lifted toward the distant capital, its spires faint against the horizon.

If something of that magnitude was stirring beneath Valenwood, no village remedy would be enough.

There was only one person rumored to understand magic that old.

The Alchemist of the Tower.

Elias Veyra.

And he was said to be as dangerous as the secrets he hoarded.

The Alchemist's Tower pierced the sky like a blade.

It rose from the heart of the capital, black stone veined with gold. Windows glowed faintly at impossible angles, shifting subtly as though the structure breathed. No one entered uninvited.

Few left unchanged.

Lyra stood at its base three days later, boots caked with travel dust.

Villagers had tried to stop her.

"Veyra is cursed himself," they'd warned. "He meddles in death."

She had come anyway.

The heavy doors bore no handle.

Lyra lifted her chin. "Elias Veyra," she called. "I need your help."

Silence.

Then the doors groaned open.

Not wide-just enough to admit one person.

She hesitated only a second before stepping inside.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

Candles ignited along the walls, one by one.

The interior spiraled upward in dizzying rings of balconies and staircases. Shelves overflowed with tomes bound in leather and metal. Glass vials shimmered with liquids of every color imaginable. Strange mechanical devices ticked softly, gears turning without visible source.

At the center of it all stood a man in a dark coat, sleeves rolled to reveal ink-stained fingers.

He did not look up from the device he was adjusting.

"You triggered three perimeter wards and disrupted a time-lock enchantment," he said calmly. "Most intruders disintegrate."

Lyra bristled. "I'm not most intruders."

Now he looked at her.

His eyes were sharp gray-cold, assessing.

Elias Veyra was younger than she expected. Late twenties, perhaps. Dark hair fell loosely around his face, and faint silver scars traced his jawline like remnants of old spellwork.

"You're from Ashbourne Hollow," he observed.

She stiffened. "How do you know that?"

"You smell like wild thyme and river clay."

Her cheeks warmed with irritation. "My village is cursed."

"Villages are often cursed," he replied flatly. "It builds character."

She stepped closer. "This is different."

That made him pause.

He studied her more intently now.

"There's something else," he murmured.

Lyra resisted the urge to fidget.

Magic flickered faintly around her skin.

His gaze sharpened.

"Interesting," he said softly.

"I didn't come to be studied," she snapped.