---
The knock came at dusk—three hard raps against the Thornbrook door. Not frantic. Not polite. The sound of finality.
Elia opened it slowly, her heart already knowing who stood there.
It was Elder Grinn and two men from the village council, their cloaks damp from the thawing snow, boots thick with mud. Behind them, two young boys lingered awkwardly,
holding empty sacks.
"Where is your sister?" Grinn asked.
Elia didn't answer. Her mother appeared behind her, face pale and drawn.
"We've received word," Grinn said.
"A child claims she saw Mara Thornbrook floating above her bed. Said she heard voices coming from her mouth that weren't her own."
Elia's jaw tightened. "You're acting on a dream?"
"Three dreams," he corrected. "Three children. All saw the same."
"She's a child herself."
Grinn stepped forward. "Then we'll ask her a few questions. If she's innocent, she has nothing to fear."
The boys entered, already moving to search.
Mara sat by the hearth, arms wrapped around her knees. She didn't flinch as they entered. She didn't even look up.
One of the councilmen opened a cabinet. Another lifted the edge of a rug. Elia felt sick. This wasn't a search. It was a performance.
Then came the gasp.
One of the boys held something in his hand—a small figure, carved from wood, wrapped in twine. A charm. A protection ward.
"I made that," Elia said sharply. "It's not witchcraft. It's for sleep. For protection."
Grinn turned to her slowly.
"And why would your sister need protection?"
Elia glanced at Mara. The girl still hadn't moved.
"Because people keep knocking on our door with lies in their mouths," she said.
Grinn stepped closer.
"You carved this?"
"Yes."
"Then the suspicion falls to you."
Her mother made a soft noise—part gasp, part sob.
Grinn turned to the others. "We'll need to bring the girl for further questioning."
"She's done nothing," Elia said.
"We don't decide that. God does."
They reached for Mara. Elia stepped in front of her.
And then: "Enough."
Everyone froze.
Thorne stood in the doorway, eyes dark and jaw clenched. Behind him, snow drifted softly down like ash.
"You're making arrests based on dreams and dolls," he said.
"If you take her, you'll answer for it."
Grinn's gaze narrowed.
"You speak dangerously, boy."
Thorne didn't move.
"So do you."
A beat of silence.
Then Grinn turned.
"We'll return tomorrow—with authority."
And just like that, they were gone.
Later that night, Elia sat with Thorne in the woods behind the house, her hands wrapped around a cup of weak tea, her breath white in the air.
"You can't keep doing that," she whispered. "They'll come for you too."
"I don't care."
"You should."
He looked at her, and there was no fear in his eyes—only fire.
"I won't let them touch you," he said. "Not you. Not Mara."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to fall into him and never look up.
But belief was dangerous. And love, in Eldhollow, was just another kind of rope.
Still, when his hand brushed hers, she didn't pull away.
And above them, the moon hung low and watching—like a judge waiting to pass sentence.
---
By morning, word had spread.
The Thornbrook girl had been spared—for now. But the council would return. That much was certain. And when they did, there would be no pretending it was a visit. It would be a trial.
Elia spent the early hours grinding roots into powder, her hands automatic, her mind somewhere darker. The fire was low again. It always went low lately, like it knew something was coming and didn't want to waste the heat.
A knock. Sharp. Urgent.
Elia grabbed the knife by the door before she opened it.
It was Agnes Marrow.
The midwife stepped in without invitation, eyes scanning the room with a speed that betrayed her calm. "They're preparing the gallows," she said.
Elia froze. "For who?"
Agnes hesitated. "They'll say it's for whoever's guilty. But we both know what that means."
Silence. Then Elia set the knife down slowly.
"You were in that house when Ailin died," she said. "You left the herbs."
"I did."
Agnes didn't deny it. "And then someone found them and twisted it. I tried to take them back, but—"
"You let them plant it on me."
"I had no choice." Her voice cracked then—just slightly.
"They asked if you'd visited. If you'd touched the boy. If I'd seen anything strange. I said no. That was all I could offer."
Elia stepped closer. "You studied under my grandmother. You know what this is. You know I'm not what they say."
"I also know what they need to believe. They don't want truth, Elia. They want closure. Something to blame."
"Then let them blame you."
A pause.
Agnes didn't flinch. "I'm already halfway in the fire. I just don't plan to burn unless I have to."
Another silence. Then, quietly, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"Give this to Mara tonight. Boil it in milk. If her visions keep worsening, she'll speak in her sleep again—and if the wrong ears hear what she says…"
Elia took the bundle. "Then what?"
Agnes met her eyes. "Then you run."
That night, the wind howled through Eldhollow like a warning.
Thorne arrived just after moonrise, his hands shaking from the cold, his cloak heavy with frost.
"I saw them," he said as he stepped inside. "They've set the trial for two nights from now. They're calling it an 'inquiry.' But the rope's already tied."
Elia stirred the milk slowly. "They'll never call it what it is."
"No. But they'll still hang you."
She didn't answer. She just kept stirring.
Mara sat on the mat by the fire, still as always, her eyes distant. She hadn't spoken in hours. Her silence felt louder than the wind.
Elia poured the milk into a small clay cup and held it out to Mara. "Drink."
The girl obeyed.
Thorne watched her carefully. "You think it'll help?"
"No," Elia said.
"I think it'll buy us time."
Outside, the trees groaned under the weight of winter.
Inside, the three of them sat in the flickering firelight, shadows dancing across the walls like ghosts waiting for the smoke to clear.
Above them, the moon was almost full.
Watching.
Waiting.
---
The village slept uneasily that night.
Even the dogs didn't bark.
Elia walked the tree line alone, hood up, hands jammed deep into her cloak. The woods behind Thornbrook always calmed her—but tonight they felt different. Too quiet. Too aware.
She stopped by the old well, long dried, rimmed with frost and moss.
"You should be inside," came a voice behind her.
She turned. Thorne stood a few paces back, lantern in hand. His face was tight, his shoulders tense.
"So should you," she said.
"I went to see Agnes."
That stopped her. "Why?"
"She told me something surprising."
Elia crossed her arms. "Let me guess. That I'm cursed. Or that I seduced a demon under a full moon."
"No," he said. "That you're going to leave."
Silence.
She didn't answer.
Thorne stepped closer, his boots crunching frozen leaves.
"I don't blame you," he said. "I'd run too, if I could. If I wasn't—"
"—tied to your father?" she finished.
"To everything," he admitted.
"To him. To this place. To what I thought I could fix."
She looked down.
"I can't wait for you to decide who you are, Thorne. I don't have that time."
"I've already decided."
He set the lantern down and closed the distance between them.
"I chose you the moment you knocked on my door with a fevered child in your arms and begged me not to tell. The moment you stayed when it would've been easier to vanish."
Elia's throat tightened.
She hadn't come out here to cry.
But his hands reached for hers, warm and certain.
"You're not alone," he said.
"I can't be your ruin," she whispered.
"Then let me be yours."
She kissed him.
No more hesitation.
No more pretending the fire between them was anything less than real.
It wasn't a kiss of safety, or promise. It was a kiss of now—raw, unguarded, the kind that happens when you don't know if you'll see the morning.
They sank into the moss beside the well, the cold biting at their edges, but their bodies pulling closer. For a little while, the world was only heartbeats and breath and skin.
No gallows. No whispers. No guilt.
Only this moment. Only them.
Later, as they lay wrapped in his cloak, Elia rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat.
"We don't get to keep this," she said softly.
"I know."
"But I'll remember it," she said. "When they come. When it ends."
Thorne pulled her closer. "Then I'll give you more to remember."
---
To Be Continued...