Morning sunlight spilled unevenly across the floorboards of Willowgrove, dappling through warped windows and half-torn curtains. Dust hung in the beams like lazy ghosts. Somewhere in the back room, the old pipes groaned with the effort of remembering they were once useful.

  Tazien crouched low beside the parlor hearth, a rag clutched in one hand and a scrub brush in the other.

  “You know,” he muttered, “this would go faster if the floorboards weren’t trying to die mid-polish.”

  “They’re not dying,” Ilyari corrected from the doorway, hands on her hips. “They’re just… very tired.”

  “I can hear them splintering in protest.”

  She rolled her eyes and stepped inside with a tin basin of soapy water, setting it down near the threadbare rug. Her braid was looped into a crown today, held by a simple silver pin. The sleeves of her worn blouse were rolled high. “Come on. The craftsman is supposed to be here before midday.”

  Tazien scrubbed a little harder. “Great. Nothing says ‘worthy of restoration’ like two children scrubbing a floor that wheezes when you look at it.”

  A knock sounded.

  Both of them froze.

  Then another—measured, firm, not unkind. The kind of knock that belonged to a man who expected his presence to be met with purpose.

  Ilyari stood, wiped her palms on a cloth, and went to the door.

  Standing just beyond the threshold was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a slate-gray traveling coat dusted with road grit. His beard was neatly trimmed and touched with silver at the edges. His eyes—one a sharp steel-blue, the other a glimmering golden prosthetic—scanned her in a single pass, assessing without condescension.

  “Ilyari Aierenbane?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. And this is my brother, Tazien.”

  The man inclined his head. “Galen Thorne, artisan and estate craftsman. My wife mentioned you’d be expecting me.”

  He stepped inside, boots thudding against the warped threshold. He paused at once, frowning—not at them, but at the creak that echoed up from beneath his step.

  “You’ve tried polishing,” he said, eyes sweeping the room. “But that smell—rot. This floor’s past its prime.”

  Tazien stepped beside his sister. “We figured that. Some of the boards are soft enough to push through with a spoon.”

  Galen gave a dry grunt. “I’m assuming you’ve got a caretaker or guardian who oversees all this?”

  The siblings exchanged a glance.

  “No,” Ilyari said carefully. “We manage the property ourselves.”

  Galen raised a brow. “You’re what, fifteen? Sixteen?”

  “Fifteen,” she said. “And he’s thirteen.”

  The craftsman whistled low. “Royal kids. Running a property like this. No staff. No budget.” He looked around again, slower this time. “And yet, the house is still standing.”

  He stepped into the drawing room. “More than that—it’s standing too well.”

  Ilyari followed him. “What do you mean?”

  He crouched near the wall and knocked twice against the baseboard. The sound echoed faintly—not hollow, but wrong. Galen frowned deeper.

  “The wood’s rotten through,” he said. “Worse in some spots than others. I’ve seen enough collapsed manors to know the signs. But here…” He ran his hand across the plaster, brushing away a smear of dust. “The walls should’ve cracked. The support beams should’ve bowed. But this place is still holding. Like something’s reinforcing it.”

  Tazien scratched the back of his neck. “We thought maybe the structure was just... built well.”

  Galen gave him a look. “Built well centuries ago. By mortal hands. No timber lasts this long in this condition unless it’s been reinforced.” He glanced back at the floor. “Or bound.”

  Ilyari’s eyes narrowed. “You think the house is using mana?”

  “Not just mana,” Galen said. “Old mana. Something subtle. Something laced through the foundation. The very bones of the place.”

  He stood and brushed his hands off. “I’ll need to bring six men. Just for the ground floor. Maybe eight if I want it done before the season’s out. And that’s just assuming nothing collapses when we pull up the worst planks.”

  “And the bath?” Ilyari asked.

  He gave her a tired smile. “We’ll look. But the walls around it may need stabilizing. You’ve got wood-rot and pressure decay. That kind of thing turns a bathtub into a sinkhole.”

  Ilyari winced.

  “I’d recommend you both keep to the outer garden or that workshop wing in the back,” Galen continued. “We’ll mark any unsafe paths with chalk glyphs as we go.”

  “Good,” Tazien said, slapping his palms together. “Laileeih’s due for pruning anyway. And I need to make sure WynData doesn’t try to rearrange the tool shelf again.”

  Galen blinked. “Is that a pet?”

  “Sort of,” Ilyari muttered. “It’s... complicated.”

  He gave her a long look, then laughed. “You’re either the most resourceful pair I’ve seen in decades, or the most cursed.”

  “Maybe both,” she said lightly.

  He nodded. “I’ll be back with the crew by sundown. Keep out of the way. And—” his eyes flicked once more to the walls “—if the place hums? Don’t ignore it. Mana like this doesn’t stay quiet forever.”

  Then he was gone.

  The door swung shut behind him, leaving Ilyari and Tazien standing in the middle of Willowgrove’s parlor—floor scuffed, dust heavy in the air, but for the first time... hopeful.

  Tazien exhaled and looked toward the back hallway. “So... garden?”

  Ilyari smiled. “Garden.”

  The east garden of Willowgrove was a mess of bramble knots, wild nettle, and creeping vines that had claimed half the trellis and all of the walkway. Ilyari hacked steadily at a cluster of thorn-streaked ivy, sweat prickling at her temples despite the morning breeze. Tazien was already at work with the pruning shears, muttering curses at every vine that dared lash back.

  “This one’s trying to eat me,” he declared, yanking a stubborn root free and nearly toppling over.

  “That’s your fault for naming Laileeih and encouraging her bad behavior,” Ilyari said without turning.

  “Laileeih listens,” Tazien argued. “These other vines are just feral freeloaders.”

  At that moment, Laileeih—the vine Tazien had famously re-coded and partially tamed—stirred on the nearby wall. A few of the newcomers among her branches shifted in curiosity, rustling gently in the wind. As if on cue, a bright bud near her crown twitched.

  “Easy,” Tazien said cautiously. “We’ve got company coming. No hugging the help.”

  From the main gate, the sound of bootsteps echoed up the path.

  Twelve men approached, their tool bags slung over shoulders, wearing the practical tunics and reinforced gloves of seasoned craftsfolk. At their lead was Galen Thorne, his coat rolled at the elbows, and a confident gleam in his eye.

  “You weren’t kidding,” he called to Ilyari as he reached the garden. “The place is a jungle.”

  “It’s better than it was,” she said, straightening with her garden blade tucked under one arm. “We’ve been working our way around it.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He surveyed the yard and nodded. “I managed to bring a few extra hands. Word’s spread that the old Willowgrove is waking up again. Everyone wants their name on the restoration—whether it’s legend or lunacy.”

  Tazien, still gripping his shears, raised a brow. “That explains the sudden enthusiasm.”

  Galen chuckled. “That, and the rumors about the manor being held up by haunted glyphs and divine spite.”

  “Laileeih likes that version,” Tazien said, nudging the vine with his foot. “Makes her sound important.”

  As if hearing him, Laileeih trembled faintly—then one of her tallest flowers, tightly budded since her re-rooting, slowly bloomed.

  The petals curled open with a gentle unfurling, revealing a glimmering crystal nestled within the flower’s center. It shimmered with shifting rainbow hues, glowing softly.

  And then, with a soft pop, the crystal dropped from the blossom and hit the soil with a muffled thunk.

  Ilyari and Tazien froze.

  The men behind Galen stopped talking.

  Laileeih gave a little shake, proud and tremulous—and then sagged. Her vines drooped, leaves curling slightly inward like she’d expelled the last of her strength.

  “…Did she just lay an egg?” Tazien whispered.

  “It looks like a mana crystal,” Ilyari said carefully, kneeling. “But I’ve never seen one like that.”

  “She’s never done this before,” Tazien muttered. “Is it… a seed?”

  “It might be a parasite,” he added more seriously. “Or… I don’t know. Something else.”

  “Don’t insult her,” Ilyari warned, eyes narrowing.

  “I’m just saying if it sprouts legs, I’m chopping it in half.”

  Ilyari grabbed a stick and gently rolled the crystal-like object onto a clean cloth, wrapping it as delicately as if it were breakable. She didn’t touch it directly—out of both caution and respect. Laileeih gave no protest, but she didn’t lift her leaves again either.

  “I’ll put it in a box,” she said. “We’ll ask someone later.”

  “Preferably someone who isn’t terrified of sentient plants,” Tazien added.

  She nodded and turned toward the house.

  Galen finally exhaled. “Well. That was the strangest welcome I’ve ever seen from a garden.”

  “Welcome to Willowgrove,” Tazien said, shouldering his shears. “It’s charming. And potentially cursed.”

  “I’m not ruling that out,” Galen replied. “Alright, men—get the tools. Focus on the lower floor for now. Start with the eastern parlor and the bath corridor. We’ll see how deep the rot goes.”

  “What about the vines?” one of the younger workers asked, eyeing Laileeih warily.

  Galen pointed. “You touch the big one, and she might curse your lineage. So steer clear unless you’re ready to be adopted.”

  The men chuckled uneasily but obeyed.

  Ilyari returned from the house with the wrapped crystal safely boxed and marked.

  “We’ll be in the garden and the workshop,” she told Galen. “Out of your way.”

  He nodded, already snapping orders to his team. “And I’ll let you know if the house tries to bite us.”

  Tazien gave him a two-finger salute. “Good luck.”

  And with that, the siblings returned to their tools, hacking through the overgrowth toward the garden gate, while the manor’s heartbeat seemed to stir beneath their feet—quiet, waiting, and full of secrets yet to bloom.

  By late afternoon, the last of the outer vines had been trimmed back enough to expose the crumbled stone arch of the east garden entrance. Ilyari wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her glove, while Tazien, still brandishing the short scythe like a knight with a very itchy shield arm, kicked aside a knotted bramble.

  “There,” he said, panting. “Should be clear now.”

  “Almost,” Ilyari murmured, stepping forward. She leaned her weight into one last tug, ripping away the final tangle of ivy and revealing the rusted latch on the wrought-iron gate.

  The gate moaned as it creaked open, leaves drifting from its hinges like dust shaken from old bones.

  They stepped through.

  The air changed immediately—cooler, stiller, tinged with an earthy fragrance of loam and something almost sweet.

  Towering evergreens lined the outer edge of the hidden courtyard, a protective ring that had shielded the entire area from outside view. At the base of the wall, thick ivy and veins of poison oak still clung stubbornly, pulsing with the vibrant chaos of untamed magic.

  “Careful there,” Tazien warned, slicing away a trail with his scythe. “The ivy’s grown into the stone. I think it’s destabilized part of the eastern wall.”

  Ilyari knelt to inspect the cracks that spidered down from the top. “We’ll need to reinforce it when the workers leave.”

  He nodded grimly. “Definitely not today’s project.”

  Together, they passed beneath the leafy arch and stepped into the lost garden.

  It was not a ruin—it was sleeping.

  There were neat rows once—stone paths overtaken now by green, flowerbeds turned to wild mounds. But the pattern was there. Beneath the tangle of vines and overgrown roots, they could see what it had been.

  Patches of mint, lemon balm, and feverfew sprang up between the cobblestones. Sage and chamomile spilled from raised beds, tangled with wild sweetgrass and creeping thyme. Old herb markers, faded and moss-covered, jutted from the soil at odd angles.

  “Peppermint,” Ilyari whispered, kneeling. “And—is that hyssop?”

  “And horehound,” Tazien added, crouching near a thick patch. “And that—stars, that’s wild red valerian. I didn’t even think that still grew in the city.”

  They moved carefully through the rows, heads ducked under trellises now heavy with curled, dried vines. Some still bore clusters of seed pods. Others had twisted into knots so dense they’d need a saw to reclaim the frames.

  And then they reached it.

  The heart of the garden.

  In the center stood a stone fountain—wide and elegant, carved with spiraling floral motifs. It was ringed by cracked marble benches and flanked by ancient planters, half-crushed by root systems gone feral.

  But the fountain… it was still running.

  Sort of.

  Every few moments, a thick black ooze would trickle sluggishly from the center spout, glistening in the light before dripping into the mossy basin below.

  Tazien took a cautious step forward. “That’s not water.”

  “No,” Ilyari said, peering closer. “It’s mold. Mana mold. Not malevolent… but it needs purification.”

  He sniffed. “Smells like fermented ink and old socks.”

  “Lovely,” she muttered.

  They circled the fountain slowly, studying the twisted runes carved beneath the lip. Most were too eroded to read. Others looked… wrong. Like someone had started to rewrite them with unstable code and lost control halfway through.

  A few vines crept toward the basin, but none dared climb it.

  “We’ll deal with that later,” Ilyari said firmly.

  They turned their attention back to the rows of herbs. A massive patch of calendula flourished in one corner. Dotted along the edges were traces of lavender, bee balm, and even goldenrod.

  “I think this was a tea and tonic garden,” Ilyari murmured. “An apothecary space.”

  Tazien pointed to a structure at the far end of the garden—half-buried in flowering vines and bramble. “That looks like an old shed. Or—”

  “—A workhouse,” she finished, eyes lighting up. “An herbal apothecary.”

  They ran to it, ducking under low-hanging branches. The door was arched, framed in aged cedar and iron, but sealed tight. The handle wouldn’t budge. The windows were clouded, covered in dust and grime, the glass too thick to see through clearly.

  “We’ll need tools to open it,” Tazien muttered. “And probably a purification charm if the inside’s like the fountain.”

  “Tomorrow,” Ilyari agreed. “But today…”

  She knelt, pulling a small satchel from her belt. With careful hands, she gathered bundles of thyme, sage, and spearmint. “Dinner tonight,” she said. “And maybe tea. A little something warm.”

  “Willowgrove tea,” Tazien said, helping her. “The first batch in decades.”

  They filled the satchel together, walking slowly back through the hidden garden, their path clearer now but still wild.

  Behind them, the fountain trickled another slow drop of dark mana into its basin.

  Tazien crouched near the fountain’s edge, his fingertips brushing one of the half-wilted sprigs of thyme that had somehow survived the overgrowth. “Did Sulan-Kai know this was here?” he asked, glancing toward the apothecary. “All this—herbs, the fountain, the garden… it’s practically a hidden estate.”

  Ilyari stepped over a patch of wild chamomile, the air rich with its apple-sweet scent. “I doubt it. He wanted to bury us, not give us four acres of medicinal teas and noble-grade ingredients.”

  “So… insult by accident?” Tazien grinned. “I’ll take it.”

  “I suspect the insult was very much intentional,” Ilyari said dryly, pushing open the workshop door with her hip. “The result, however, is on us to define.”

  They stepped into the dim interior of the workshop, sunlight slanting through cracked panes and illuminating the worn counters and long-disused hanging racks. The air smelled of dust, old wood, and possibility.

  Tazien dropped the bundle of gathered herbs onto one of the side tables, then moved to the corner where a salvaged mana drive and assorted code panels waited.

  Ilyari, meanwhile, hung the rosemary, sage, mint, and chamomile along the drying wires by the window, her hands moving with gentle precision. She took out her sketchpad and let her pencil glide—sketching bodices inspired by the sharp leaves of yarrow, skirts that mimicked the bell-shaped drop of lavender blooms, and sashes wrapped like thyme stems in bloom.

  Tazien glanced up from his coding, eyeing her latest design. “Those look good. Real good.”

  She didn’t look up. “I think I’ve got a new direction for the middle dress in the Thorne set. Coral poppy-inspired sleeves and a wrap braid across the back. It’ll look like it’s growing.”

  Tazien gave a low whistle, then leaned back against the workbench. “Just don’t use the fountain mold as inspiration.”

  Ilyari arched a brow, then turned the page.

  On the next was a pair of fuzzy, fluffy hand muffs.

  “Too late,” she said with a smirk. “I call them Thorne Mosswarmers. Keeps the chill off your fingers during the spring morning drafts.”

  Tazien groaned. “You’re impossible. You’re always thinking the best of things.”

  “I’m brilliant,” she replied.

  “You’re dangerous with fabric.”

  “And you’re dangerous with overconfident code.”

  He laughed, booting up the drive again with a flick of his mana-spark pen. The soft hum of the panel came to life.

  Then Ilyari’s pencil stilled. She stared at the next blank page.

  Tazien looked over. “You alright?”

  She didn’t answer at first.

  “Almost anything,” she said at last.

  Tazien blinked. “Huh?”

  “I can find the best in almost anything.”

  Her voice was quiet, but her brows furrowed at the thought. She didn’t say Caedin’s name.

  Tazien’s fingers hovered above the glyph panel, then dropped gently back to his side.

  He didn’t press.

  Instead, he reached over, carefully moved the mold-inspired sketch aside, and placed a clean sheet in front of her.

  “Then let’s find better,” he said.

  is Willowgrove hiding?! ??

  What do you think the shadow in Ilyari’s dream really is?

  And that crystal Laileeih dropped? Friend? Foe? Something else entirely?

  strange way this estate seems to be watching them back.