The Crossroads of Thorns

The air in Blackwood had gone from a crisp, spooky chill to a damp, mildewy sigh. Even the colossal moon, usually so good at giving everything a dramatic, eerie glow, seemed to be squinting, like it had a bit of dust in its eye. My brambles, my magnificent, terrifyingly thorny brambles, were looking less magnificent and more… droopy. Like a sad, forgotten salad. It was enough to make a Thorn Witch want to just curl up and become one with a particularly thorny patch.

“Oh, for the love of withered petals,” I muttered, poking a limp vine with the tip of my boot. It didn’t even flinch. Pathetic. Blackwood was supposed to be the stuff of nightmares, a tangled labyrinth of doom and gloom. Now, it felt more like a slightly neglected public garden. My magic, which usually hummed through me like a swarm of very opinionated bees, was more like a single, tired bumblebee buzzing a mournful tune.

And then, of course, there was Lily. The girl was like a ray of sunshine beamed directly into a particularly dark cave. She’d waltzed into my woods a few days ago, all bright eyes and determined chin, looking for a cure for some blight that was making her village look as sickly as my prize-winning roses. I’d tried to scare her off, naturally. Threw a few phantom brambles her way, whispered some ominous warnings that probably sounded more like I had a frog in my throat. But no. Lily, bless her relentlessly cheerful soul, just kept on coming.