Flora stood waist-deep in the forest spring, letting the currents tug gently at her fingers. She had hoped the cleansing would bring clarity. Instead, her thoughts only grew murkier.

  The Withering. Camdyn. His questions.

  Flora paused, then turned slowly. An Elder Nymph stood at the water’s edge, her presence sharp and unyielding. Others lingered in the shadows beyond, watching in silence.

  “You’ve revealed yourself to them.”

  “Only to one.” she corrected.

  “It always begins with one. The others always follow.”

  “I’ve done nothing to betray the Balance—”

  “You speak with him,” another nymph stepped forward, voice low with accusation. “You spared him. That is against our purpose. We are meant to preserve, not to interfere.”

  “I spared his life no more than I spared the stag’s.”

  “To compare the two is to suggest the human’s life holds worth.”

  “I believe it does.”

  “Look around you, child,” the Elder hissed. “Look at the ruin they’ve left behind. Look at what they did to your ancestors. They forced us into hiding, buried us beneath stone and silence for centuries. And now they return with the same rot and ruin. They are a curse upon these lands.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I believe the Withering runs deeper than that. This is beyond man’s doing. This decay—it’s not of this earth. It’s a sickness. And if a cure is to be found, I believe it lies in unity. With us and with them. I’ve seen it now. Humans can want to change. They can want to heal.”

  “Their kind is deceptive,” the Elder spat. “They wear many faces. Kindness to mask ambition. Remorse to bait sympathy. And when the mask slips, it’s always the same: fire, steel, and ruin.”

  “Perhaps. But if division breeds corruption… then maybe the rift between man and magic is the unbalance. The root of the decay. Maybe our purpose isn’t just to preserve nature, but to mend the harmony between all who live within it. Between us and them.”

  The forest erupted in a chorus of hisses.

  “To help man is to betray Mother,” one spat.

  “And turning a blind eye isn’t?” Flora shot back.

  “You are splintering,” the Elder said bitterly. “Turning inward. Seeking a name. Becoming like them.”

  Flora’s hands clenched at her sides, but her voice remained steady. “No, not becoming. Thinking like them. Choosing to understand. When fear urges us to hate, and the past demands we hide, I choose a different path. One that heals, not one that repeats the same wounds.”

  A heavy silence settled over the glade, thick as a gathering storm.

  “I haven’t abandoned Mother,” she added quietly. “I am doing her will.”

  Finally, the Elder spoke. “You tread dangerous ground, at risk of losing yourself. One step too far, Flora—” she said the name like a curse, “—and you will not be welcomed back.”

  Flora bowed her head, neither accepting nor defying. “I only go where the Balance leads me.”