Chapter 16: Magical Experiments
The stillness of the tree house settled like velvet over worn wood. Candlelight pooled in the hollows between books, gilding the spines where they lay scattered across the table in gentle disarray, volumes cracked open to reveal their secrets, covers kissed by time and touched by hands long turned to dust. The air held the scent of old paper and beeswax, lavender drying on the beams above, and something deeper, the green smell of living wood that pulsed slow and ancient through the very bones of the dwelling.
Oren sat with the book, Skyward Kin: The Æthelweave of the Eldertree spread before him, his fingers tracing the looping calligraphy that wound across pages yellow with age. The words seemed to shift in the candlelight, dancing at the edges of comprehension, and he found himself reading the same passage three times over, his mind unable to settle. Around him, the hush of the dwelling was interrupted only by the soft whisper of turning pages and the feathered sigh of flames consuming their wax with patient devotion.
Lost to the world, Oren drifted in stories where roots breathed, and branches remembered every sorrow and song, and an evolved Anglo-Saxon city stretched woven and suspended between the Eldertrees. Yet beneath the wonder, unease threaded through him like a river beneath ice. Lisera’s words on the ridge sat heavy in his chest, unspoken but present, pressing against his ribs with each careful breath.
From the stairs above, Tavik had settled into watch, back pressed to the wall, legs stretched across two steps to block the passage. His chin rested on his chest, arms crossed, breathing deep and even in the particular rhythm of a warrior’s rest, the kind that could snap to waking at the smallest sound. Even in sleep, he’d positioned himself between the loft where Nix rested and whatever might approach from below. The tether hummed beneath his awareness, a quiet chord that sang of Nix’s continued peace, steady as a heartbeat, calm as breath.
Rarely did Tavik surrender so wholly to sleep, and even rarer still in so public a sprawl. Yet here, in this small room carved from the heart of an ancient tree, exhaustion had finally claimed him.
Bran stood by the hearth, a mug cradled between his palms, the warmth seeping through ceramic into cold fingers. He glanced up at his brother’s sleeping form, silhouetted against the warm glow spilling from the loft above, and his mouth curved with fondness. “He’s finally stopped moving.”
Oren’s lips twitched as he glanced up from his book, shadows flickering across his face where the candle flame danced. “Let him rest. He’s earned every moment of it.”
A gentle warmth bloomed in Oren’s chest, quiet and sure. The knowledge that Nix slept undisturbed above, heart and mind untroubled, filled him with gratitude that had no words.
Bran returned to his own treasure, unable to resist the pull of discovery. Hearth of the Burrowbacks: Recipes for Sanctuary lay open on the table where he’d left it, the aged pages creaking softly as he turned them with careful fingers, as if the book itself might crumble at too rough a touch. His breath caught when he stumbled upon a faded illustration, colours muted by time but still vivid enough to stir wonder: star-pale bread dotted with mushrooms that seemed to glow even in the painting, their caps silvered with an inner luminescence.
He read aloud, voice barely above a whisper, reverent in the hush. “Starveil Grain Bread with Lumisilk Mushrooms and Celestial Honey.” His finger traced beneath the words as if to anchor them to the world. “For homes that seek to remember the sky’s blessing, and tables that yearn for laughter in the gloaming.”
He paused, awe gleaming in his eyes as he read the description beneath, each ingredient a small poem unto itself. “Lumisilk mushrooms only grow where moonlight pools thick on old stones, and Celestial Honey is harvested from the combs of Cloudbees at the turning of the last Starfall.” His voice carried the weight of wonder. “How extraordinary.”
Oren’s eyes lifted from his own reading, curiosity sparked. “Sounds like something from a story.”
“It sounds like magic you could taste,” Bran murmured, already moving towards the cupboards, driven by the healer’s impulse to see, to touch, to verify. “Worth seeing if the tree house has such things.”
He opened the first cupboard, expecting the dried herbs and simple stores they’d glimpsed earlier. His hands stilled, breath catching in his throat. Everything the recipe required sat waiting, arranged as if by careful hands: mushrooms silvered with gentle phosphorescence, a jar of honey the colour of first dawn, star-pale flour sealed in an earthenware vessel that felt warm beneath his fingers. He could have sworn these cupboards had held only common stores moments before, yet here they were, ingredients that should have been impossible to find, waiting as if the house itself had anticipated his need.
Bran stared at the contents, pulse quickening. Then, slowly, he turned back to the recipe book lying open on the table. The pages seemed to glow faintly in the low light, the ink catching the candlelight in ways that made the letters shimmer and dance. A curious warmth spread through his chest, wonder and something else, something that whispered of possibility.
He gathered what he needed, hands moving with the sureness of long practice, though his heart beat faster with each item set upon the table. Flour that smelled of summer meadows. Mushrooms cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, their caps glimmering like captured starlight. Honey thick and golden, pooling like liquid amber when he tilted the jar. The recipe’s words seemed to breathe on the page, alive in ways he couldn’t articulate, the ink pulsing with a rhythm that matched his own heartbeat.
Bran’s eyes tracked the lines of the recipe, but the words themselves began to tremble, letters quivering as if stirred by an unseen wind. Then, slowly, impossibly, they began to unfurl from the page. Words unspooled like ribbons of luminescent ink, rising in a gentle spiral, their glow catching in the low eaves and painting the wooden beams with soft, shifting light. Each lifted letter left a faint trail of shimmer in the air; a waltz of language suspended in the stillness.
Bran’s breath stilled in his throat, wonder threading through him like water through cupped hands. His own hands, almost of their own accord, began to tingle, a radiant warmth flooding through his palms, curious and insistent, as though the book’s magic had seeped beneath his skin and pooled there, waiting for direction.
Without thought, without conscious decision, he pressed his palms above the array of gathered ingredients. Star-pale flour dusted the table. Glistening mushrooms caught the candlelight. Honey the colour of dawn waited in its jar. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness behind his eyelids, he imagined the bread as the recipe described: golden and soft, speckled with shimmering fungi, crowned in a lattice of spun amber, warm enough to banish every cold thing, every shadowed worry.
The warmth in his hands intensified, flooding upwards in a rush that stole his breath. Leaf-green light, bright and alive, poured from his fingers in a gentle stream, washing over the ingredients with tender purpose. The air itself seemed to sing, a high, sweet note that thrummed in his bones.
The ingredients lifted.
Flour spiralled upwards, caught in currents of emerald glow. The mushrooms dissolved into threads of silver light, weaving through the mixture with liquid grace. Honey unfurled in ribbons of gold, spinning and merging, each element dancing with the others in harmonies beyond hearing. The aroma of baked bread filled the room, rich and warm and impossibly sweet, mingling with the scent of wildflowers and distant meadows, of safety and hearth and home.
A finished loaf took shape mid-air, whole and perfect, haloed in soft green radiance. The crust gleamed golden-brown, speckled with luminous mushrooms that pulsed with gentle light, crowned with a lattice of honey that caught the candlelight and scattered it in a thousand tiny stars. For a heartbeat, it hung suspended, impossibly beautiful, a creation born of magic and intent and the ancient generosity of the tree house itself.
Then it settled softly onto the waiting board, barely disturbing the air, the emerald glow fading to a whisper before disappearing entirely.
Bran stared at his hands, fingers splayed, trembling with the aftermath of power. The warmth was fading now, leaving only the ghost of sensation and the sharp, undeniable knowledge that something fundamental had shifted within him.
Oren gasped, his book sliding from his lap, pages fluttering as it hit the floor with a soft thump. “Bran.” His voice came out breathless, wonder and alarm warring in his tone. “How did you do that? That wasn’t...did you see what you just did?”
Bran turned his hands over, studying them as if they belonged to a stranger. The lines of his palms seemed deeper in the candlelight, etched with shadow and possibility. “I don’t know.” Words snagged on his tongue, inadequate for the enormity of what had just occurred. “It was as if the recipe wanted to be made. The words rose, and I just...” He trailed off, bewildered and quietly thrilled in equal measure.
Oren rose from his chair, crossing the small space in three strides. He stared at the bread, steam still rising from its golden crust, the lattice of honey gleaming like amber caught in sunlight. “That was really magic. Proper, honest-to-stars magic.”
Bran looked back at his eldest brother, mouth falling open, then at his hands as if they might offer some explanation, some map to the territory he’d just entered. Then his gaze returned to Oren, searching for understanding in familiar features. “I don’t understand how. It just happened.”
Movement on the stairs. Tavik stirred, his warrior’s instincts pulling him from sleep at the sound of raised voices. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, blinking against the candlelight. “What just happened?” His gaze moved between Oren and Bran’s startled faces, trying to parse the energy that thrummed through the room, thick and strange and undeniably present.
Bran opened his mouth, then shut it again, searching the rafters as if answers might be strewn amongst the fairy lights and dried herbs hanging there. Oren, cheeks flushed with wonder and something close to disbelief, managed a tentative laugh. “It’s not what you think, Tavik. Or maybe it’s exactly what you think.” He gestured at the table. “Bran did magic. Proper, honest-to-stars magic. The bread...he made it float. It baked itself in the air.”
Tavik descended the last few steps, stockinged feet silent on the wooden floor, and edged closer to the table. His eyes tracked from the glowing bread to his younger brother’s face, sceptical frown softening into something like awe. “You conjured supper from thin air?” A glimmer of respect warmed his usually gruff features. “That’s not kitchen craft, brother. That’s something out of legend.”
Bran rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish yet delighted in equal measure, the emotions warring across his face. “I just followed the recipe. The words rose up, and everything else followed.” He gestured helplessly at the book, still lying open, the pages now ordinary once more. “It was like the book was waiting for someone to listen properly.”
Tavik’s mouth quirked, the hint of a smile breaking through. “Well, if the food’s truly enchanted, there’s only one thing for it.” He leaned over the bread, inhaling deeply. “Let’s taste what magic feels like on the tongue.”
Oren hesitated, the sensible note creeping into his voice even as wonder danced in his gaze. “Shouldn’t we examine it first? Make sure it’s safe? Magic food isn’t exactly everyday fare.”
Bran grinned, already reaching for the plates stacked beside the hearth, the healer’s caution abandoned in favour of curiosity. “Afraid of a little star-bread, Oren?”
Tavik joined in, nudging Oren with a crooked smile. “It might turn your ears pointier, but that’s the risk of supper with mages, isn’t it?”
With a fond shake of his head, Oren relented, watching as Bran portioned out the bread with careful hands. Each slice gleamed softly in the dim light, the mushrooms within pulsing with faint luminescence, the honey lattice catching the candlelight and scattering it like captured stars. The aroma that rose from the cut loaf was intoxicating, warm and sweet and wholesome, carrying notes of meadow grass and summer rain and something ineffable, a scent that spoke of home and safety and belonging.
Bran paused, knife hovering over the last portion. “Shall we wake Nix?”
Tavik stilled, head tilted as if listening to a distant melody only he could hear. Through the tether, he sensed Nix’s deep sleep, the steady rhythm of healing, the particular quality of rest that came after long exhaustion. “Best not. The tether’s quiet. Nix is still mending, truly resting. Let him sleep.” His voice was certain. “He’ll have his taste when he wakes.”
So, they sat, three brothers around the low table, the candlelight painting their faces in shades of gold and amber. Hands hovered over plates crowned with the magical loaf, steam curling upwards in lazy spirals. Bran raised his slice in a silent toast, a gesture both solemn and playful, and after a beat, Oren and Tavik followed suit.
They each took a tentative bite.
Tavik’s eyes widened, delight blooming across his features like sunrise breaking over distant peaks. “By the stones.” The words came out reverent, hushed with wonder. “This is glorious. Warmth and moonlight, right on the tongue.”
Oren chewed slowly, savouring not just the taste but the sensation that followed. Flavour spread through his mouth, rich and complex, sweet honey mingling with the earthy depth of mushrooms and the wholesome comfort of bread. But beneath that, something else unfurled within him, a gentle unfurling deep in his chest, as if a forgotten door inside had been nudged open after years of being sealed shut. His elvish nature stirred, responding to the magic woven into the bread, awakening further.
He glanced at his brothers and saw the same astonishment mirrored there, wonder and confusion and the dawning realization that they had crossed some threshold without meaning to. The air around them thrummed with quiet power, the hearth’s light twisting a little brighter, the shadows retreating into the corners where they belonged. Was it only fancy, or did they seem taller, more themselves, more present in their own skin, as they ate?
They finished in reverent silence, the meal leaving them aglow, a warmth settling in their bellies and bones that had nothing to do with temperature. A feeling of kinship and possibility shimmered in the very air between them, unspoken but deeply felt. In the hush that followed, plates empty and hands still warm from holding enchanted bread, all three knew without speaking: something had changed, irrevocably and completely. The blessing of the bread had woven them closer still, brothers in wonder and new-found magic.
The hush lingered, soft and silvered, as if the world itself paused to listen, holding its breath in anticipation. Oren, still tracing the lingering warmth of star-bread along his tongue, the taste of honey and moonlight clinging to his teeth, leaned forward. His voice emerged low and careful, barely disturbing the stillness. “Tavik, can you feel it? The tether to Nix? Is it different now?”
Tavik closed his eyes, settling back in his chair, shoulders loosening as he let the question guide him inward. His breath came gentle and steady, measured in the way he’d learned during long watches, when stillness meant survival. Inward he turned, sinking past the quiet of his own thoughts, past the weight of exhaustion and the echo of Lisera’s words, searching for the thread that bound him to the loft above.
It shimmered at the edge of his mind’s eye, clearer than it had ever been before. A slender cord of silken light, spun with more vigour than he’d felt since the cliffs, pulsing with life. The thread no longer felt fragile or uncertain; it sang with new strength, thrumming like a plucked string. The pulse of Nix’s heart travelled along it, slow but fierce, steady as drums in the deep, and in the spaces between beats, Tavik glimpsed colours blooming around the wound that had haunted them both: storm-grey at the ragged edges, fading inward to a hopeful green at the core, tender and new. The tether felt alive, singing with possibility, humming with potential he hadn’t dared imagine, and Tavik let himself be held by its quiet strength.
Bran, ever the gentle guide, set his hand lightly on Tavik’s shoulder, grounding him with warmth and presence. “Imagine it, Tavik.” His voice was soft, coaxing, shaped by years of healer’s training and the patience required to mend what was broken. “Picture the tether mending itself, knitting whole around Nix’s wound. Let the healing flow through you. See if you can guide it.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Tavik sent his will down the shining cord, conjuring the image of fibres weaving together with careful precision, skin closing over the hollow in Nix’s chest, the ache easing with each pulse of green light. He imagined the wound as something that could be touched, could be soothed, could be healed by intention and care.
At once, a sharp pain flickered through his own chest, swift and bright and immediate. A shiver of heat and pressure bloomed beneath his ribs, as though the wound had found him instead, as though in touching Nix’s pain he’d claimed it for his own. He gasped, bowing his head, a bead of sweat gleaming on his brow, his breath coming short and fast.
“Careful,” Oren cautioned, his voice threaded with concern, one hand reaching out as if to steady his brother. “Don’t give too much all at once. Let it move through you, but only as much as you can bear.”
Tavik heeded the warning, slackening his grip on the healing current, picturing the magic gentling to a trickle rather than a flood. A soft, cooling tide instead of a torrent. The pain faded, replaced by a steady warmth that spread through his chest like sunlight through leaves, comforting and sure. The tether pulsed beneath his awareness, stronger and more supple than before, no longer a fragile thread but something that could bear weight, could carry hope.
With a start, Tavik opened his eyes. Wonder lit his features, transforming his usually serious face into something younger, more vulnerable, and for a heartbeat the room seemed full of the stillness and awe of new knowing, a bond deepened, a door opened, the healing truly begun.
Oren lingered in the afterglow of the star-bread, marvelling at the quiet storm Bran had conjured from flour and light and secrets old as roots. The taste haunted the air still, a memory of starlit dew and distant song threading through the scent of beeswax and lavender. It seemed to him that every breath in the tree house shimmered with unseen magic, the ancient wood humming approval beneath their feet, the very walls leaning in to listen. He traced a finger along the rim of his empty plate, gaze drifting to his brothers, and let wonder fill the gentle hollow left by silence.
“We could experiment,” Oren ventured softly, voice cloaked in the quiet, careful not to disturb the peace but unable to contain the curiosity kindling in his chest. “See what the bread has woken in us. Test the boundaries, find what gifts might help us as we tread deeper into the Eldertree Forest.” His eyes swept the tree house, taking in the warm lamplight that flickered across low beams, the faint motes that danced in the golden air like curious spirits eavesdropping on their plans. “But gently. This place is alive, and we are guests beneath its boughs. We should mark our limits, learn our boundaries, be respectful of the magic that shelters us.”
Tavik, brow furrowed in earnest longing, nodded slowly. “I want to understand the tether.” His voice was quiet but certain, shaped by need. “Nix is a part of me now, but I barely know what that means, not truly. If I could listen better, heal more...” His words trailed off like a leaf spinning on a gentle breeze, hope glinting in his eyes, fragile and fierce.
Bran leaned forward, eyes alight with mischief and yearning both. “I want to try more spells. Not just bread.” His hands gestured expansively, painting pictures in the air. “If one recipe held magic, what else might these books contain? Think what we could learn here, if we dared.”
Oren’s laughter was soft, a ripple across still water. “We must rest as well as reach, Bran. Magic thrives when the vessel is whole, and the forest will give us lessons whether we seek them or not.” His voice was gentle yet firm, the steadying hand of an elder brother who’d learned caution through too many close calls. “Let’s not burn ourselves up chasing what’s meant to grow slowly.”
Bran, undeterred, pulled a face, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. “Listen to Oren, always the sensible one. Next you’ll be telling us to eat our greens and go to bed at dusk.” His jest was warm, laughter weaving between the beams like a bright ribbon, a moment of levity that eased the weight they all carried.
Yet mid-chuckle, Bran’s mirth faded. His gaze fixed, awestruck, on something that sat on Oren’s head like a crown, and his breath caught audibly. “Wait. Look at that.” His voice had softened, reverence colouring every word. “There’s light. Lines of it, on your head.”
Tavik squinted, leaning closer to see. His breath caught. “He’s right. Oren, you’re crowned.”
Startled, Oren rose from his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath him. He turned to the warped bit of mirror propped by the window, its surface mottled with age but still serviceable. In the reflection, faint vertical lines shimmered across his head like a crown wrought from moonbeam and mist, delicate filaments of light that pulsed with each heartbeat, rising from his scalp in a gentle corona. The lines trembled with every breath, lighting his dark hair with an otherworldly glow that seemed both part of him and separate, a blessing written in luminescence.
He touched his hair, half expecting to feel heat or weight, some tangible proof of the transformation. But there was only the fine shiver of magic, a whisper of power that danced away from his fingertips. Meeting his brothers’ wide-eyed stares in the glass, he whispered, “It’s real. I can see it too.”
Bran circled him slowly, looking up at his tall brother, his eyes roving over the phenomenon with a healer’s precision and a younger brother’s irrepressible delight. “You’re taller,” he declared, though his tone carried mock outrage. “This isn’t fair, Oren. You were already the long-legs of the family. Now you’ll be bumping your head on every doorway in MirMarnia.”
Oren straightened instinctively, testing the truth of it. He did feel changed, broader in chest, longer in limb, the world a fraction smaller around him. The ceiling, which had been comfortably distant before, now felt closer, the beams within easier reach. “Well.” His mouth quirked. “Perhaps it’s the bread’s blessing. Or forest mischief. Either way, I’ll watch my head for your sake, Bran.”
Tavik’s smile was soft and shimmering, wonder threading through his usually guarded features. The tether in his heart thrummed in time with the hush, singing of Nix’s continued rest, of possibility unfolding. “We are not who we were,” he said, the words shaped with care, heavy with meaning. “And perhaps, by dawn, we’ll discover what we might yet become.”
