A fourth red robe appears on the beach, each a splash of blood in an expanse of seafoam. The Sylweth are gathering for their morning supplications. Only four. My chest tightens, and I press my hand against it, willing my heart to slow. Four isn’t enough. I’m running out of time. Maerla squeezes herself beside me, her warm cheek brushing mine as she peers out. “How many do you see, Isora?” She smells of orange and vanilla, the scent of daphne oil. I glance at her neck. It’s smooth and unmottled. Relief loosens my breath. She risks everything extracting oil from the toxic bush, but this Choosing is her last chance. I’m a year younger, so I chose a safer path; I’ve bathed in sweet violet. “Four.” I keep my voice steady, but Maerla’s breath hitches. “More may still come,” I say. “It won’t matter,” she says, her voice brittle. “There’s too many of us.” She steps away, her aqua robe flaring around her legs. “I’m getting ready. If I’m not chosen this time … that’s it.” “They’ll select us” I try to sound certain. For her. For myself. She whirls and draws close, eyes flashing. “Are you? We’re too old.” She clutches my hand. “Let’s leave tonight. Please. I have a terrible feeling about this Choosing.” Maerla dreams of escape, of going home. Unlike her, I have no memory of life before the Thornveilkin brought me to Sylthar—the hamlet tucked along a beach on the edge of the Witherwood. She remembers her family, a house in the mountains. For me, the world beyond the Witherwood feels like a myth. “The Choosing gives us a chance,” I say. “If you run before you’re immortal, you’ll die in the woods.”

@Issy McCann "Will they?" imperfect edit :)