As we stepped into the Forest of the Forgotten, the air changed. It thinned, lighter than it should have been, moving in slow, spiraling currents even though no wind stirred the branches. The air slid across my skin and through my ribs as though it could feel me entering.
It recognized me.
It made me want to hit something. Hard.
Briar led us deeper with steady, confident steps. She moved like someone returning home after years away. She trailed her fingers along the bark of a towering trunk.
"How are you?" she asked gently to a tree glowing a soft, vibrant green.
To another, darker in hue, she murmured, "I know it has been too long. The world has been too quiet."
She was not joking. She was not performing. She was greeting them.
"Briar, who are you talking to?" I asked. "Not trying to be rude, but no tree I know talks."
"You do not know many trees, then," she replied plainly.
I snorted. "I do not know any trees. Serlane was buildings and dirt. The trees there vanished decades ago."
She slowed. Turned. Her eyes softened.
"A world without trees sounds like a world that does not know itself."
Her words hit me like a fist.
"It does not," I muttered.
We continued forward, and the forest moved with us, not shifting, not walking, but responding. Branches bent in faint attention. The ground gave a soft humming beneath our feet.
"Why is this forest…" I started.
"It was here long before Celentra was ever named," Briar said, her voice no louder than a ripple across water, "and it will be here long after we are gone."
She placed her palm against the trunk of a great ancient tree. Light pulsed beneath the bark like a heartbeat.
"This forest is a soul of memory," she whispered, eyes bright. "And it was my first real home."
"You cannot just say that and not tell me what you mean."
I stopped walking and looked around.
These trees were massive. Some as wide as taverns, others small and twisted like old cabins. Bright yellow mushrooms curled up their trunks in winding ribbons. Clusters of vivid purple flowers lined the path, growing over roots shaped unmistakably like six chairs and a table.
"All in due time, Sahora," Briar said, settling herself on one of the root-carved seats. "Show a little patience. We are among friends."
Her voice held a calming melody she did not fully sing.
"I found this forest when I was a young woman," Briar said, and the others instinctively took seats around her. "I remember that night with both grief and joy. My wet skirts slapped against my ankles," she began, "each step grounding me and stealing more of the night's warmth."
She shivered, and her memory unfolded aloud, the forest listening.
Briar's Memory
Run.
My mother's voice echoed sharp and frantic in my mind, as unforgettable now as it was then.
It had been weeks since I saw her. Weeks since that night.
Guards descended on us with torches and slurs, spitting hatred into the shadows.
"Stupid Eyglantian rats, always scuttling into our cities. We will eradicate your existence from this earth."
Their voices rose into a roar.
Then the fire started.
Instinct flared through me. I lifted my hands to bend the flames, to control them as my mother taught me, but she yanked me back, nails digging into my arm.
"If they find out you can control more than water," she whispered, terrified, "they will kill you."
So we ran.
We ran until our lungs tore and our feet bled, until pounding hooves thundered behind us.
"Keep running," she cried. "Even if you lose me."
Her voice shook with fear.
So I ran. Even when I heard the screams. Even when I knew they were hers.
I ran while she stayed behind.
Pain ripped through my chest at the memory. My breath halted. I forced myself to inhale again.
My mother was gone.
For four years, she had been training me in secret, teaching me to control my magic. We came to Paesuna for me, so I could learn to master my fire.
If we had not come to Paesuna, she would still be here.
The rain was relentless, the earth slick beneath my feet. Each step was heavier than the last.
When I entered the glowing green forest, I reminded myself: she wanted me to run. She wanted me to survive. Even if that meant surviving without her.
I found a wide tree and sank down beside it, settling into the cold, wet ground. For a moment, I let myself be still. I let the world fall away. I let myself be her daughter again.
"Soulborn, why do you weep?" said a voice that was not a voice at all.
My heart stuttered. I drew in a sharp breath and scrambled to my feet, scanning the glowing canopy.
No one stood there.
I was alone.
"Soulborn," the voice hummed, "you were just resting on me. Please, rest. You have come far. We wish to know what has brought you to my home."
"What? Who are you?" I spun in a slow circle. Still nothing.
"We are the breath that remains after all are taken. We are the ground beneath your feet. We are here to soothe the pain you hold in your chest."
"How?" The word slipped out before I could stop it.
"First, tell me why you weep," the tree said.
"My mother," I whispered. "She is gone. We were hunted just because of who we are."
"And who are you?" No judgment. Only curiosity.
"Eyglantian."
I braced for disgust, for fear, for the hatred always waiting on others' tongues.
Instead, the tree brightened, warm green light pulsing in its bark.
"Oh, we love the Eyglantian people," it said gently. "Still connected to their roots."
"You are the first I have heard say that." Something forbidden and tender bloomed inside my chest.
"Only because the rest cannot feel the world," it replied. "Come into our canopy and let us tell you a story."
I glanced upward. "I cannot climb like that."
"You do not need to climb."
A braided bed of leaves descended slowly, landing at my feet.
"What? Why?"
"We are the trees that remember. Please, join us, and let us tell you a story."
Still aching. Still scared. I climbed into the woven bed and lay down.
It lifted me into the air and carried me into the canopy. Rain dripped gently from the leaves, but the water felt calming.
"Sleep now, Soulborn," the forest murmured. "And we will tell you a tale."
I trusted it. For some reason, I trusted it. And let myself drift into sleep.
When my eyes opened, I stood in an endless forest, deep and humming with life. As I walked, I heard a voice.
My mother's voice.
"Briar must never know of her powers," she said, walking with Theresa.
"Mother!" I cried, sprinting toward her, but when I reached her, she vanished through me like mist.
"It is only a memory, child," the tree whispered. "She is not here."
"Why would you show me this?" I demanded. "I know she did not tell me until I was older."
"Watch now, Soulborn," the forest insisted. "And you will know."
My mother held a tiny bundle. Me.
"Theresa, she is meant to be more powerful than any known mage," my mother whispered, voice trembling.
"That power will need knowledge, Irene," Theresa said gently. "She must learn."
"But that power could kill her. I do not want to lose my baby."
She pushed curls from my infant's face. Her voice cracked.
"You risk losing her more if she does not know what to do," Theresa warned.
"I would rather she be safe," my mother pleaded. "Why would Ilina do this to us?"
"Briar is a gift," Theresa said. "Ilina has always blessed your family. Always watched over you."
"How is a death sentence to a newborn a gift?" My mother's words were steel.
"It is not a death sentence," Theresa said softly. "You said yourself, Briar is meant to change the world."
"But at what cost?" My mother's voice broke.
"That is for the Fates to reveal when the time is right."
My mother looked down at me, eyes soft, voice trembling.
"My little Briar," she whispered. "May you be strong as the trees, may you breathe joy, may you hold wisdom that can move mountains, and may you always walk knowing I love you, even when my heart no longer beats."
The dream faded.
I woke with my chest heaving, tears streaming down my cheeks. I ached for my mother's arms, and as if hearing that longing, a long branch moved gently and wrapped around me, holding me close.
"She would be proud of you, Soulborn," the tree murmured. "You are so much more than this world is ready for."
As Briar finished telling us her memory, the forest hummed. As if every tree had been holding its breath. As if the roots themselves were exhaling after centuries of silence.
The sound was not loud, no great roar, no echoing chant. Just a low, resonant vibration that pressed into my bones, soft as a heartbeat rediscovering how to beat.
Briar wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, though the tears still glimmered there, tracing silver lines down her skin. The forest answered her grief with light, soft pulses shimmering through the bark around us, warm and alive.
No one spoke. Not Ami. Not Cyrus. Not Castor, whose jaw trembled in a way I had never seen. Not Oliver, who watched Briar as if seeing the truth of her for the first time.
The forest, the soul of it, spoke instead.
A single leaf drifted down from above, glowing faintly as it settled into Briar's waiting palm. She held it like an old promise.
"This forest remembers everything," she whispered. "Even what I tried to forget."
Her words rippled through the clearing, and the air shifted, lighter, brighter, almost fragile.
I stepped forward before I meant to, drawn in by something ancient thrumming in the soil.
"Briar," I began, but the words snagged in my throat. "Why do the trees call you Soulborn?"
She turned to me with a smile that was both old and impossibly young.
"Because that is what I am. Soulborn are rare. And the world names us before we name ourselves."
"That is not an answer," I said softly, though I was not sure I wanted the truth.
"It is the only one I have." Her gaze drifted up to the glowing branches. "But the forest knows more. In time, you will understand."
A cold prickle traveled down my spine.
"What is it with this world and souls?" I muttered. "Why does everything have to be so serious? Why does every tree and god and shard insist on telling me fate-sized secrets? I am tired of the weight this world carries. Show me something good. Something worth redeeming."
Briar stood, slow and graceful, her feet sinking into moss that brightened beneath her steps. She approached me, not threatening, not pitying, but with the steadiness of someone who had already seen the end of my path.
"Sometimes," she whispered, "the best way to find your way is to go alone."
Before I could respond, thick branches unfurled from behind me, curling around my waist and lifting me gently off the forest floor.
"What the, hey, Briar!"
"We will see you on the other side," she said, stepping back as the tree carried me upward.
Ami and Cyrus exchanged a look, nodding once before following Briar deeper into the shimmering green. Castor fell into step beside her instantly, protective, anchored to her like the gravity of a planet.
Oliver stayed. Of course he did.
He sank down onto the root-seat next to where I dangled ungracefully, his expression caught between defeated and amused.
"I am pretty sure," he said dryly, "we are going to be far behind them."
I glared down at him. "Ugh. Why did you stay?"
He looked up at me, eyes steady, voice steady, presence steady, in a world that was anything but.
"Because I go where you go," he said quietly. "Even if that means getting left behind."
The forest hummed again, this time soft as a sigh.
And for the first time since we stepped into the Forest of the Forgotten, I understood.
It did not just recognize Briar. It recognized me.
And it was not done with either of us yet.