Little Flower

Chapter One: The Mark Beneath The Willow

The wind whispered secrets through the branches of the old willow tree as twilight settled across the village of Liora. Lanterns blinked to life, one by one, casting a golden hush over the cobbled streets and ivy-covered cottages. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the scent of baked apples and thyme lingered in the cool evening air.

Elira sat beneath the willow, legs crossed, a book open in her lap and a half-carved wooden bird in her hand. The chisel trembled as she worked, more from the cold than from uncertainty. Her dark curls were tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and the sleeves of her faded linen dress were pushed up to her elbows. She hummed as she carved, a melody that came to her in dreams but never left when she woke.

“Your hands will go stiff if you sit in the cold any longer.”

Elira looked up to see Maelis, the old healer, standing at the edge of the garden path, her shawl wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders. Her eyes, sharp despite her age, flicked down to Elira’s left wrist.

Elira instinctively pulled her sleeve down, hiding the faint flower-shaped mark etched into her skin — like a scar, or something older. Something deeper.

“I’ll come inside soon,” Elira replied, her voice quiet but steady. “Just a few more lines.”

“You say that every night,” Maelis muttered, though without true irritation. “Dreamers and stargazers — all cursed with cold fingers and warm hearts.”

Elira smiled faintly, but her gaze wandered back to the mark beneath her sleeve. She had no memory of how it came to be. It had been there for as long as she could remember, pulsing faintly with warmth during storms or when she stood near wildflowers in bloom.

“Come now,” Maelis said more gently. “I’ve made nettle tea, and Old Ben brought honey from the valley hives. A bit sweet for my liking, but you’ll enjoy it.”

With a reluctant nod, Elira tucked the carving knife and wooden bird into her satchel and followed Maelis inside the stone cottage. The familiar scent of dried herbs, parchment, and honeyed bread wrapped around her like a comforting shawl.

The hearth crackled softly, and the room glowed with warm light. A cat stretched lazily on the windowsill, purring without opening its eyes.

Elira settled into her usual chair as Maelis poured the tea. The old woman moved with practiced grace, her hands steady despite the years.

“Did you have the dream again?” she asked without looking up.

Elira hesitated. “Yes.”

Maelis finally turned to face her, eyes narrowing. “The same as before?”

Elira nodded slowly. “The same field. The same voice. It says, 'Bloom, child. The roots remember.' And then... everything turns to ash.”

The silence that followed was too heavy for such a small room. Even the fire seemed to quiet.

Maelis set down her cup. “It’s growing stronger. The dreams. The mark. The wind speaks to you more often, doesn’t it?”

Elira flinched. “You always say the wind talks to everyone.”

“Yes,” Maelis said softly. “But not everyone listens.”

Before Elira could reply, a sudden gust rattled the shutters. The cat leapt from the sill with a yowl, and the flames in the hearth danced wildly.

“Elira,” Maelis said, standing slowly, “go and fetch the water jug from the well.”

“Now?”

“Yes. There’s something in the air tonight. I want to see if it reacts to you... away from the house.”

Though confused, Elira obeyed. She grabbed her cloak from the peg by the door and stepped into the night, the chill nipping at her skin. The village was unusually quiet — even the usual owl hoots and fox cries were absent.

As she neared the well, the wind picked up, swirling leaves in ghostly spirals. Elira paused, suddenly unsure. The moon slipped behind a cloud, and the world dimmed.

Then she heard it.

Bloom, child.

The voice echoed as if from beneath the earth. The air shimmered. Elira dropped the jug.

She turned — and saw it. A faint glow beneath her skin, just where the mark lay. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Her breath caught.

Suddenly, from the darkness near the edge of the woods, a low growl erupted.

Something moved. Something wrong.

A creature stepped into view — half-shadow, half-flesh, its body like smoke twisted into muscle. Its eyes burned like coals, and it stared directly at her.

Elira stumbled backward, heart racing. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t run.

Then, just as the creature lunged, a flash of silver streaked through the air.

The beast howled as a blade struck it across the shoulder, smoke peeling from its wound. A man in a tattered cloak stepped between Elira and the creature, sword raised.

“Stay behind me!” he barked.

She did. Frozen, wide-eyed.

With a swift motion, the stranger drove his blade through the creature’s chest. It gave a final hiss before dissolving into smoke.

The man turned to her, breath heaving. “You’re the girl with the mark.”

Elira took a step back. “How do you know about that?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said grimly. “For a long time.”

“Who are you?”

He sheathed the sword and knelt, looking up at her with storm-grey eyes. “A knight. Or what’s left of one.”

Elira’s hands trembled. “Why are you here?”

“To protect the flower before the forest burns.”

Before she could ask what that meant, Maelis appeared at the top of the path, eyes narrowed, staff in hand.

“Took you long enough,” she said to the knight.