The night felt more oppressive, gloomier, and colder than any Aluriel could remember. Clouds obscured the moons, cloaking the forest in an eerie glow. The towering firs, which until recently had simply borne silent witness to her failures, now seemed to lean inward, looming upon her. Almost as if to judge her. As if they remembered what she’d done. The chill bit through her clothing, worming its way into her bones; the powdery snow clung to her cloak like a blanket as it landed. Every sound reminded her of her newfound vulnerability: the distant snap of a twig, the furtive rustle of unseen creatures, the clumps of snow gently falling from the branches above. Each sent a jolt of fear running through her spine. The whispers intruding into her mind reminded her of her own madness. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind conjured flashbacks of her crime.

Perhaps the forest, too, was now afraid of her.

There were no celebrations for her birthday, like there had been for every other elf stepping across the threshold of adulthood. No drinking elven wine until she fell over, no dancing around fires until dawn, no songs or poetry to fill her ears with joy.

Her previous birthdays had all been celebrations anyway. Even though it was not me they were celebrating. Midwinter, they called it. A time of singing and fire, of poetry and promise. A day the elves marked with joy, with wine, with lanterns raised to honour the stars, with bonfires set ablaze to defy the longest night.

This year, no lanterns. No bonfires burned for her. She had been marched out of her mother’s home, far enough that she could no longer even hear their songs or revelry.

Instead, on the day she’d turned forty, officially an adult by elven custom, Aluriel sat huddled in the hollow of a fallen tree, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Why couldn’t