Joy barely slept that night.
Even after leaving the woods—reaching the familiar dirt path that led back to her cottage—her thoughts buzzed. The sigil. The whisper. That humming silence that felt more alive than empty.
She had walked into the Wildwood a curious outsider. But it had seen her. And now, something had changed.
She lit a candle and poured over her notes, flipping back to the page where she had sketched the wildflower. It hadn't wilted. Most forest blooms would have by now, but this one looked fresher than ever—almost luminous. She touched the page. It was only pencil and ink. Still, her fingers tingled.
In the morning, she tried to act normal.
She went to the village, browsed the tiny market, and bought a loaf of barley bread from old Mrs. Tamsin, who always asked too many questions. She avoided most of them with smiles and half-truths.
But when she passed the blacksmith's, James was outside, leaning against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed.
"You went in," he said simply.
Joy froze. "How do you know?"
He nodded at her satchel. "You came back different."
She blinked, confused. "Is it that obvious?"
James stepped forward, lowering his voice. "The Wildwood doesn't open to everyone. If it let you in, there's a reason."
"I didn't go far," she said quickly. "I just followed a path. Saw... something."
He raised an eyebrow. "Did it speak to you?"
Joy hesitated. "I think it did."
James looked off toward the forest, eyes narrowing. "Then it's started."
She frowned. "What has?"
He shook his head. "Not here. Not where people can hear. Come by the forge tonight. I'll tell you what I know."
Joy nodded, pulse quickening. Questions stacked in her chest like stones.
That night, when the moon was just rising and the trees whispered secrets to the wind, she found her way back to the forge. James was waiting with a lantern and a worn journal in his hand.
"What you saw," he said, handing her the book, "is older than Elderfern itself."
Joy opened it. Inside were drawings—symbols like the one on the tree, rough sketches of flowers with glowing centers, and something else. A figure cloaked in ivy.
"The forest remembers," James said quietly. "It doesn't forget those who try to take from it. Or those it chooses."
Joy looked up at him. "Why me?"
His answer was almost a whisper. "Because something's waking up. And it's calling your name."