Ashes and Moonlight

The village of Luthen was small enough to fit inside a single breath of the Wilderwood. Its cottages were strung together by dirt lanes and crooked fences, where goats often wandered freer than the children. At dawn, mist curled like pale ribbons between the thatched roofs, carrying the scent of wet soil and pine.

To most, it was a quiet place. Forgettable. A place where nothing of consequence could ever happen.

To Elara Veylen, it was a prison of silence.

She stood at the edge of the healer’s cottage (her home) listening to the rasping cough of the old miller inside. The sound scraped against her bones. Every wheeze reminded her that she should simply mix herbs, crush roots, and prepare poultices as her mother had taught her. That was the safe way. The ordinary way.

But the ordinary way was too slow.

“Elara.” Her mother’s voice was low, strained from hours without rest. Alenya Veylen knelt beside the miller’s straw bed, a damp cloth pressed to his forehead. Sweat soaked through his linen tunic, and his lips trembled as if he were whispering to ghosts.

Elara hesitated, fingers tightening around the satchel of herbs at her side. She knew what her mother meant without saying it: do not. Not again.

But the miller’s chest rattled, a sound like dying embers in a hearth. Elara’s pulse quickened, her gaze straying to the window where the moon still lingered pale against the early morning sky. Its light spilled faintly across the room. She could feel it, humming, stirring in her blood.

If she reached for it, if she dared—

“Elara,” her mother warned again, sharper now.

The girl’s throat tightened. She looked at the man’s ashen face, the purple shade beneath his eyes, and something inside her rebelled. To watch him die when she could save him—it was unbearable.

She drew a breath and whispered, “Forgive me, Mother.”

Her hands hovered over the miller’s chest. A heat that wasn’t heat flared beneath her skin, racing down her arms, and the faintest glow bloomed between her palms. Silver, soft, like moonlight caught in water. The room shifted, shadows curling away as though wary of what she summoned.

The miller jerked, gasping. His chest lifted under the shimmer, the rattling in his lungs fading as warmth spread into him. His breathing steadied, color returning slowly to his cheeks.

Elara exhaled shakily. Relief surged, but it was chased swiftly by dread.

Her mother’s hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her hard enough to sting. “What have you done?”

“I saved him!” Elara’s voice cracked. “He would’ve died. You saw—”

“You fool!” Alenya hissed. Her eyes darted toward the window, toward the village beyond. “Do you want the whole kingdom at our door? Do you want the Inquisitors to burn us alive?”

The glow faded from Elara’s hands, leaving only trembling fingers and a hollow ache in her chest. The miller stirred faintly, whispering his thanks before drifting into a peaceful sleep.

Alenya pressed her lips together, face pale with fear. “Moonfire,” she spat the word like poison. “The gift of the heretics. I told you to bury it. To never touch it again.”

Elara swallowed hard, guilt knotting in her stomach. She had promised—years ago, when the first sparks had appeared under the moonlight, when her mother had begged her to keep them hidden. But promises meant nothing when someone’s life was slipping away.

“They’ll never know,” Elara whispered, though even as the words left her lips, she felt the lie in them. Power never went unnoticed.

Her mother turned away, shoulders tense. “Pray you are right.”

By midmorning, the miller’s recovery had already stirred whispers. He walked through the square with color in his face, declaring the healer’s cottage had performed a miracle. Villagers paused at their work, curious and murmuring.

Elara kept her head down as she fetched water from the well, but she could feel the weight of their stares. Not suspicion—not yet. Only awe. But awe was a dangerous spark. In awe came questions, and questions traveled faster than fire.

As she pulled the bucket up, a voice cut through the bustle.

“Elara.”

She stiffened. The blacksmith’s son, Rowan, leaned against the well’s stone rim. His smile was crooked, his eyes curious in a way that made her uneasy. “Word is, your mother’s touch cured the miller. But folk are saying it was you.”

Her grip on the rope tightened. “They’re mistaken.”

“Are they?” Rowan tilted his head, watching her too closely. “Strange thing, though. That glow folk claimed to see through the shutter cracks. Like moonlight dancing.”

Fear prickled her spine. She forced a laugh, shaking her head. “Stories. You know how people love to make tales.”

Rowan studied her for a long moment before shrugging. “Maybe so. Still… if the Inquisitors heard such tales, I wonder what they’d think.”

He left with a careless wave, but his words lingered like a shadow.

That night, Elara sat awake by the fire, staring at her hands. Pale, ordinary. But she could feel it beneath the skin: the restless current of moonfire, aching to be called again.

She remembered the miller’s face, colorless and fading, and how it had changed under her touch. How right it had felt to use her gift.

And yet—her mother’s terror had been real. The stories of the Inquisitors were no myth. They scoured the kingdom for any sign of the old magics, branding those who wielded them as heretics. Most were never seen again.

Elara clenched her fists. She was no heretic. She was a healer.

A howl cut through the silence. Wolves in the Wilderwood. She crossed to the window, peering out into the silver-drenched forest. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw something move between the trees—not an animal, but a figure cloaked in shadow.

Her chest tightened.

She whispered a silent vow to herself: she would keep her power hidden. She would protect her mother. She would not draw attention again.

But deep down, she knew the vow was already broken. The spark had been lit. And sparks always found a way to become fire.

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