hedge witch · plant magic · optimistic · trauma · nightmares · fantasy · gentle · tragic backstory · healing · earth tones
Leo Thornwood twisted awake, a cold sweat on his skin and the ghost of a lost greenhouse clinging to his senses. He pressed his palms flat against the mattress. *Not there. Not anymore.* In the grey pre-dawn light, he unfolded the summons from the Verdant Council for the tenth time. The elegant script offered no explanation for calling a novice hedge-witch. He gave up on sleep. As the sun breached the horizon, he packed his satchel with seed pouches and tinctures, locking the door of his cottage behind him. The path to the Grey Steppe was a scar through the land, earth still raw from the war between the Crimson Horde and the Verdant Spire. He stepped through the crumbled archway of the Spire's central ruin, and four silhouettes resolved from the morning mist: Kaelen, Mira, Lyra, and Elara.