Liora Thristlefoot

Moonlight draped the forest in silver, thin and cold, catching on dew-heavy leaves and the pale caps of night-blooming flowers. Liora moved through the underbrush with practiced ease, bare fingers brushing past thorns that never seemed to cut her. Her boots sank softly into the loam, every step deliberate, unhurried. This was her hour—the veil thinned, the herbs awake and potent, magic humming quietly beneath the soil.

She crouched near a cluster of starwort, its petals faintly luminous, and murmured an old charm under her breath. The plant yielded easily to her touch. Into her satchel it went, alongside dried moon fennel and a sprig of wolfbane she kept more out of spite than necessity.

Then— Crunch.

Not an animal. Too heavy. Too careless.

Liora froze, ears twitching beneath the brim of her witch’s hat. Another step followed, measured this time, closer than she liked. The forest shifted around her, birds falling silent as if holding their breath. Her spine straightened slowly as she rose to her feet, hand resting lightly at her hip where a charm-stone hung warm against her palm.

A hunter.

Of course.

She didn’t turn right away. Let them hear her breathing. Let them wonder. When she did finally pivot, moonlight caught her brown skin and pale hair in stark contrast, curls slipping free around her face like defiance made flesh. Her amber eyes fixed on the figure between the trees—female, armed, exactly where she didn’t belong.

Liora clicked her tongue, unimpressed.

“You’ve got two problems,” she said coolly, voice smooth as polished bone. “One—you’re loud. Two—you’re standing on ground that does not welcome you.”

She took a single step forward, not aggressive, not fearful—simply claiming the space. The bells on her hat chimed softly, a warning disguised as ornament.

“If you’re here for plants,” she continued, eyes narrowing slightly, “you’ll poison yourself before dawn. If you’re here for me…” A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips. “Well. I’d advise reconsidering. I’m not the sort that begs.”

Her gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, entirely unbothered by steel or posture. The forest seemed to lean toward her, listening.

“So,” Liora finished, tilting her head just enough to be mocking, “are you lost, hunter… or just foolish enough to follow rumors into the dark?”

The forest answered before Liora finished speaking.

A flicker of movement—too sudden, too deliberate—cut through the silvered air, and instinct snapped through her spine like a struck match. The magic rope lashed forward, hissing as it struck the earth where her feet had been a breath before.

Liora was already gone.

She pivoted sharply, boots digging into damp soil as she leapt back, the hem of her skirts flaring. The rope struck nothing but leaves and loam, its enchantment sputtering in frustration. A short, incredulous laugh tore from her throat.

“Oh, no,” she snapped, eyes blazing. “Not again.”

She moved fast—far faster than she looked capable of. A charm slipped from her fingers and shattered against the ground, releasing a sharp burst of kinetic force that sent debris and air outward in a concussive wave. Liora surged forward through it, teeth bared, ears flattened beneath her hat.

The distance closed in a heartbeat.

Her elbow drove hard, precise, knocking breath loose, and she twisted away before steel could properly find her. A knife flashed in her hand—not swung wildly, but guided with intention. She slashed once, clean and ruthless, across the hunter’s midsection.

Not fatal.

But deep enough.

Blood darkened fabric immediately, spreading warm and undeniable as Liora shoved her back with both hands, magic flaring just long enough to send her stumbling into the roots behind her. The forest seemed to recoil with the impact.

Liora stood there, chest heaving, curls clinging to her temples, eyes bright with fury rather than fear. The blade remained in her grip, steady, unwavering.

She didn’t advance.

She didn’t flee.

Instead, she spoke—voice low, venomously calm.

“I told you,” she said, stepping just close enough to be unmistakably threatening, “I do not get taken.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the wound, then back to the hunter’s face, unrepentant.

“Now listen carefully,” Liora continued, pointing the blade downward. “You walk away. You bleed. You live.” A pause—sharp, deliberate. “Or you try again, and I stop being merciful.”

The bells on her hat chimed softly as the forest settled around them, tense and watchful.

Liora turned first.

She took three steps—then four—boots sinking softly into moss as the forest slowly exhaled around her. The night began to reclaim its quiet, insects daring to resume their chorus now that violence had passed.

Then—

A sharp, involuntary sound cut through the dark.

A pained breath. A wince that couldn’t be swallowed down.

Liora stopped dead.

Her jaw tightened. Her ears flicked back, irritated, conflicted, and she dragged a hand down her face with a sharp exhale. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she muttered viciously—to herself more than anyone. “Stupid. Sentimental. Weak.”

She pivoted on her heel, curls swinging as she stormed back toward the hunter, boots crunching with renewed impatience. The sight of her—still upright, still bleeding, still stubborn enough not to collapse—only fueled Liora’s temper.

“Don’t,” Liora snapped immediately, voice sharp as a cracked bell. “Don’t you dare try to stand on your own like some tragic ballad heroine. You’ll fall, crack your skull, and then I’ll have two problems.”

She stepped in close, hooking an arm under the hunter’s shoulder with more force than gentleness, her other hand pressing briefly—but deliberately—against the woman’s side, careful to avoid making the wound worse.

“Gods above and below,” she hissed, hauling her upright, “I warned you. Loud, reckless, magic-rope-throwing idiot.”

The forest seemed to close in as Liora adjusted her grip, muttering under her breath as she began guiding them through the trees. Her pace was brisk, purposeful, irritation radiating from her like heat.

“You hunters are all the same,” she continued, scolding openly now. “Chasing rumors, bleeding all over sacred ground, and acting shocked when it bites back.” A sharp glance sideways. “And don’t think this means I forgive you. I’m helping because I don’t feel like scrubbing blood out of moss tomorrow.”

The trees parted just enough to reveal it—a small, crooked home nestled against the roots of an ancient oak. Lantern light glowed faintly through the windows, warm and defiant against the cold night.

Liora huffed as she maneuvered them toward the door. “In. Quietly,” she ordered. “If you pass out on my floor, I swear I’ll let the spirits deal with you.”

She fumbled for the latch with one hand, still supporting the hunter with the other, muttering one last curse beneath her breath.

“Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”

Yet she didn’t let go.

Liora shoved the door closed with her heel and guided the hunter the last few steps inside, the warmth of the cottage wrapping around them in a sharp contrast to the cold forest night. Dried herbs hung from the rafters, bundles of lavender and sage swaying faintly as the door latched shut.

“Sit,” Liora ordered, steering her firmly onto the narrow couch before she could argue or wobble again. “And don’t move. If you bleed on the cushions, I will make you regret surviving.”

She released her abruptly and turned away, already muttering under her breath as she crossed the room. “Unbelievable. Absolutely fucking unbelievable. Traps, ropes, blood everywhere—on a solstice week, no less.”

Liora yanked open a cabinet, glass jars clinking sharply as she rummaged through them. Her ears flicked with irritation as she grabbed a handful of dried herbs—silverleaf, woundwort, something darker and bitter she hesitated over before adding anyway.

“You hunters,” she continued, voice carrying clearly through the small space, “charge into places you don’t understand and then look shocked when it hurts.” She dropped the herbs onto the counter with a sharp thud. “And you—of all people—decide to throw magic at me like I haven’t spent decades learning how to dodge worse.”

She filled a kettle with water, movements brisk and practiced, then set it over the fire. Flames licked up eagerly, reflecting in her eyes as she crushed the herbs with a mortar, grinding them down with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.

“Honestly,” she went on, grinding harder, “do you have any idea how annoying it is to save someone who was actively trying to drag you off in irons?”

The kettle began to steam. Liora poured the water carefully, the scent of sharp, earthy bitterness filling the room as the tea darkened. She stirred it once, then twice, lips pressed into a thin line.

She finally glanced back over her shoulder, gaze sharp but no longer murderous—just irritated, assessing. “Drink it when I give it to you,” she said flatly. “It’ll hurt going down. That’s how you’ll know it’s working.”

She turned back to the counter, grabbing clean cloth and a small vial, voice dropping just enough to sound like a warning rather than an insult.

“And don’t get any ideas,” Liora added. “You’re here because I decided you didn’t deserve to die in my woods. Don’t make me reconsider.”

Yet despite the venom in her words, her hands moved with careful precision—measured, knowledgeable, already preparing to tend the wound she had caused.

Liora crossed the room with the bundle of crushed herbs wrapped in clean cloth, her steps firm, expression set in something between irritation and grim responsibility. She stopped in front of the couch, eyes flicking once to the darkened fabric at the hunter’s midsection before she clicked her tongue.

“Gods, that’s going to scar,” she muttered. “Serves you right.”

She crouched without ceremony and pressed the herbal poultice against the wound, firm and unyielding. The mixture was cool at first, then sharply warm as the magic threaded through it, the scent bitter and earthen. Liora held it there with practiced pressure, one hand steady, the other braced against the couch.

“Don’t,” she warned flatly when the hunter shifted even slightly. “If you jerk away, I’ll press harder out of spite.”

Her ears twitched as she watched closely, eyes narrowing in concentration rather than cruelty now. The herbs darkened faintly as they did their work, drawing the bleeding to heel, stitching skin together in slow, stubborn increments.

After a moment, she straightened with a soft exhale and reached for the mug she’d left steaming on the table.

“Tea,” she said, turning back. “And before you say anything—yes, it tastes awful. No, you don’t get a choice.”

She sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, and lifted the mug carefully. One hand supported the hunter’s back just enough to keep her upright, fingers firm but not unkind.

“Slow,” Liora instructed, tilting the cup just enough. “If you choke, I’m not explaining that to the spirits.”

The scent of bitter herbs and smoke filled the space between them as she held the mug steady, watching every swallow with sharp focus. When it was done, she pulled it away and set it aside, gaze lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“There,” she said quietly. Then, louder—sharper—“Congratulations. You’re officially alive because I decided not to be cruel tonight.”

She leaned back, folding her arms, studying the hunter with an expression that was no longer outright hostile—but far from gentle.

“Don’t mistake this,” Liora added. “You’re not forgiven. You’re just… not dying.”

And for now, apparently, that was enough.