The Badger's Bother

Honestly, you’d think after centuries of being the undisputed queen of thorny doom and gloom, I’d be accustomed to a bit of peace and quiet. But no. Not even the encroaching rot of my own beloved Blackwood could dampen the spirits of the eternally optimistic. And by ‘eternally optimistic,’ I mean Lily. She was supposed to be back in her village, presumably weaving daisy chains and humming jaunty tunes, but there she was, practically skipping beside me, her knapsack practically bursting with what I assumed were more cheerful herbs.

"Isn't it just *fascinating*, Amy?" she chirped, gesturing with a hand that was probably still sticky from some delightful berry she'd foraged. "The way the mosses cling to the ancient oaks! It’s like they’re holding onto stories!"

I grunted, swatting away a cobweb that seemed to be actively plotting my demise. "They're holding onto dampness, Lily. Which is precisely what's making my brambles droop. And frankly, I’m less interested in mossy tales and more interested in not turning into a dried-up twig myself." My magic, or what was left of it, felt like a weak tea these days, diluted and flavourless. The once vibrant, menacing thorns that had been my pride and joy now looked like sad, limp spaghetti.