“It suffers a profound soul-stagnation.” “A… what?” Baron Volkov’s jowls quivered. His face, usually a practiced mask of haughty indifference, crumpled into a mosaic of disbelief and outrage. “What in the name of the Blighted Root did you just…?” “Its root-system cannot draw the vital essence from the earth. Its spiritual conduits are choked.” Elara Vance, outwardly composed, barely glanced at the Baron. Her gloved fingers traced the rough, crimson bark of the ancient Thorn-Tree, a specimen whose gnarled branches once guarded the very foundations of Volkov Manor. Decay, a creeping grey blight, now mottled the once-vibrant thorns, like pox on an old man’s skin. Volkov seemed to swell. His face flushed a venomous plum. He wanted to thunder a retort, to demand proper terminology from this — this hedge-witch, this apothecary. But the manor’s few remaining staff darted past, their hushed whispers carrying a hint of the family’s dwindling fortunes. He dared not lose his aristocratic composure, not entirely. Elara felt the tree’s suffering. It was a familiar ache, a slow, internal rot that echoed her own struggles. She had seen such reactions countless times from the so-called nobility, their eyes blind to the living magic around them, their minds fixated on gold and superficial grandeur. Their ignorance was a predictable, aggravating constant. “Spiritual health, Baron, is paramount. For all living things. The flow of life, of vital essence, must be unimpeded. You understand this, of course.” Her tone remained neutral, almost clinical, but a razor-sharp edge lurked beneath the calm. Volkov choked back a scoff. He smoothed the velvet of his waistcoat. A practiced smirk tugged at his lips, concealed by a raised hand. *Foolish woman. Utterly mad, and thankfully, cheap.* It had cost a significant sum to acquire this ‘botanist,’ a practitioner from the remote, unfashionable southern marches, rather than one of the Grand Coven’s exorbitantly priced Magus-Healers. A calculated risk, he had told himself. He intended to blame her, of course. Let her tinker. When the tree inevitably withered, he would claim negligence, demand a full restitution for her paltry fee, and then simply have the cursed thing chopped down. It had become an unsightly monument to his decaying power, a reminder of the Volkov line’s faltering grip on the land. A perfect scapegoat, this pale, slender woman. “This Thorn-Tree is an ancient ward,” Volkov said, his voice laced with feigned concern. He lowered his heavy brows, adopting an earnest, if somewhat strained, expression. “It stands as a testament to our lineage. Can you truly mend it, mistress? Restore its… vigor?” His plan was brutally simple. Accuse her, recoup his losses, then remove the ailing symbol. A neat solution to a bothersome problem. “Consider it done,” Elara replied, her voice soft, yet firm. “The initial treatment is not overly complex. Its core problem, simply put, is that it cannot properly commune with the earth after absorbing what it has. It starves, even as it tries to feed. Roots, meant to delve deep, are struggling.” She swept her gaze across the manicured, yet oddly barren, grounds surrounding the manor. A frown creased her brow. “When these ancient root-systems cannot draw sustenance, they begin to die from the crown. Most of the lesser wards surrounding the manor already show signs of this decline.” “So, what is this ‘treatment process’ you speak of?” Volkov asked, a reluctant curiosity warring with his disdain. He visually dissected Elara, from the mud-splashed hem of her trousers to the calloused fingers peeking from her worn leather gloves. A faint, earthy scent clung to her, a mix of rich loam and something sharper, alchemical. He found her appearance… unrefined. Dirt smudged her cheekbone, and her usually restrained dark hair, escaping its braid, looked like tendrils of dried moss. Filthy. She possessed no appeal, no gentle grace befitting a lady. Just another dying thing, standing before him. Yet, her eyes, though often downcast, held a surprising, discomfiting clarity when they met his. “Baron,” Elara began. “Yes, yes,” Volkov answered, too quickly, as if startled from a private thought. “All of the earth around the primary root structure, and indeed, around the lesser wards, must be replaced. With purified Aether-Loam.” “All of it?” Volkov sputtered, his jaw dropping. “Precisely. This contaminated soil is the very genesis of the problem. The trees cannot absorb the earth’s blessing. By the way…” Elara’s gaze sharpened, piercing his carefully constructed facade. “You conserved resources during your recent ‘renovations,’ did you not?” Elara walked a slow circle around the Baron, a dubious expression on her face. “Did you inter anything… here?” “What are you implying?” Volkov’s voice was a strained whisper. “I heard the manor recently saw extensive refurbishment. New stone, perhaps? Or older, crumbling sections replaced?” Volkov’s shoulders hunched, almost imperceptibly. “Left-over masonry?” Elara mused aloud. Her voice was low, almost a murmur against the rustle of dead leaves. “Or bags of arcane plaster? Discarded elemental stabilizers?” “Or, perhaps, all of it?” Volkov wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip, his eyes darting away from her unnervingly direct gaze. *How could she possibly know?* To shave off a percentage of the exorbitant waste disposal fees, the manor’s workmen had simply interred the construction refuse – chunks of old foundation, discarded spell-sanded plaster, even the broken vessels of minor, lesser arcane foci – into the outermost reaches of the manor grounds, where they believed no one would look. No one, apparently, save this quiet, sharp-eyed botanist. “When those materials meet the groundwater and the natural magic of the soil,” Elara explained, her voice devoid of inflection, “they solidify, fester. They corrupt the earth itself. The root-systems cannot penetrate, cannot draw life, and thus, they rot. Once we begin the excavation, everything will be revealed. I will send you a detailed estimate by day’s end.” Elara offered a ghost of an innocent smile, dabbing a smudge of dirt from her cheek with a scrap of crimson silk tied around her wrist. But her eyes, cold and flint-hard, held no warmth. “Of course, I will also have to dispatch an immediate report to the Grand Coven regarding the interred arcane waste.” Volkov lurched forward, his composure shattering. “D-doctor Vance, please, you must listen to me…” “You were quite pleased to have saved your duchy’s coin, were you not?” Her eyes held his, unrelenting. “Now, you will reimburse the Coven double, perhaps triple, the fine for the desecration of the natural magics. As I said, proper flow of essence is vital, Baron. For plants, and for those who stand over them.” Elara turned away, a quiet satisfaction settling in her gut. She sighed, knowing her sole apprentice back at the Thornwood Apothecary would chide her for the politics of it all, for the delay. Yet, the prosperity and reputation of her sanctuary, her vital work, depended on such encounters. It was a necessary evil. “I am a healer of ancient flora,” Elara said, turning back to face him, a sweet, saccharine smile pasted on her lips. “I am unmatched in restoring their vigor. But I am also quite adept at excising… harmful elements.” *Especially those like you,* she thought, the words unspoken, yet clear in her gaze. Dozens of minor wards, centuries-old root-spirits, slowly dying due to this man’s petty greed, and he dared speak of the Thorn-Tree as a symbol. These were the very individuals who would raze an ancient grove to fuel a single, lavish bonfire, then complain when the rains failed. “Do visit the Thornwood Apothecary more often, Baron. We are always accepting new patrons.” The forced smile remained, unnervingly bright. Elara Vance made her living in the scattered, isolated villages and fading manors of the Southern Reach, a region where the wild magic of the land was often neglected, abused, or forgotten. Her reputation, though quiet, was slowly spreading. She carried her tools — pruning shears crafted for ancient bark, small vials of alchemical reagents, rune-etched trowels, climbing ropes — strapped to her back, often spending days clambering through forgotten ruins or deep within blighted groves. This physicality, this intimate, hands-on work with the earth, often led people to view Elara as little more than a peculiar, wild-haired reclusive, unworthy of the title ‘healer.’ Many clients, particularly the lesser nobility, sought out a ‘female’ botanist precisely because they expected cheaper rates, a less formal approach than a male Magus. They often tried to exploit her perceived vulnerability. Elara, nearing her thirtieth year, had grown accustomed to such treatment, to the veiled contempt beneath their requests for aid. Each encounter, however, fueled a quiet, burning resolve. She walked the winding, overgrown path leading away from Volkov Manor, the salty tang of the distant Whispering Coast on the air. A faint, emerald glow pulsed from the tiny compass amulet at her neck, guiding her back to the Thornwood Apothecary. The chime of her crystal communicator, tucked into her belt, startled her. She lifted it, a faint blue light flickering across her fingers. “Elara Vance.” “Mistress,” a youthful voice, her apprentice Theron, crackled on the other end. “If you don’t return within the next quarter-hour, I will be forced to unseal the Ravenwood Heart chamber.” ---

Crimson Thorns and Buried Lies