Entry Fourteen: Ashroots and Embermilk

The clearing was soft, the air thick with the lingering scent of smoke—sweeter now, as if it had settled and become something else. Beneath the canopy, the ground was scarred, the earth blackened by a fire that had come and gone, leaving the land untouched yet changed.

The trees around the clearing seemed to bend in on themselves, their trunks twisted and gnarled. The roots, exposed in places where the fire had eaten away the soil, were like the remains of some great beast—dark and jagged, but alive with an unseen pulse. They hum faintly, a sound so quiet it almost feels like the air itself is vibrating.

It was here I found the Ashroots.

They grew thick and twisted in the remnants of the fire, reaching upwards from the soil like dark fingers. Their bark was scarred and blackened, but from the heart of each root, pale flowers bloomed—each one delicate, as though it might crumble at a breath. Their petals were the color of moonlight, but they exuded a faint glow, and their sap—this was what drew me closer.

I knelt beside the roots, my fingers brushing the flowers’ stems. The sap that leaked from the blooms was a pale liquid, thick and sticky, glowing softly in the dim light. It was called embermilk, a substance known only in the deepest, oldest parts of the forest. It was said to be the gift of fire—born in its wake, used in rituals of remembrance and rebirth.

But there was a warning that came with it: never touch it with your tongue.

The forest seemed to tremble as I reached for a bloom, its petals trembling like a heartbeat. The sap dripped slowly into my palm, warm despite the chill in the air. As I gathered it, I felt a shiver run through me, as though something in the land was watching, remembering. There was a presence here—one not seen but felt.

I lifted the flower and the sap, and for a moment, a whispered name passed through my thoughts—a name I could not place, but one that echoed through the clearing like a voice I once knew.

The embermilk glowed faintly as I left, tucked carefully into my fieldbook. I wasn’t sure if it was a gift, or a warning, but something about this place made me feel both full and empty — as if the fire had burned away more than the land. That sense lingered, echoing what I felt walking through Velharyn — Burnt into the Root, where scorched earth remembers the flame and roots drink deeply from the silence it left behind.

I left the Ashroots behind, unsure if I was meant to remember or forget. But in my heart, the embermilk stirred, as though it was waiting for something I was not yet ready to see.

Keywords

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