Born as a Witch Chapter 2: First brew

There was a warmth in her hands that she had always known but never questioned. It ca when she touched living things such as saplings, moss, the soft fur of a deer’s flank. It pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of sothing old sleeping beneath her skin. She’d never called it magic. It was simply part of her.

One quiet evening, after a day spent wandering deeper than usual, Lira returned with her apron full of leaves. So were familiar as nettles, wild mint, yarrow. Others were new to her, with silver-tinged edges or violet stems that seed to hum faintly when the sun set. She had begun to sense the forest differently now, as if so plants whispered to her, drawing her toward them with sothing gentler than speech.

She placed the leaves carefully on a worn wooden board and began to sort them as she always did. But this ti, her fingertips tingled. The warmth in her palms awakened as she handled a soft-leafed plant with spiral veins. The scent that rose from it was not strong, but... deep. Like mory.

A thought arrived without invitation: Infuse it.

Not just with water. With the warmth. With the green shimr she had sotis seen curl around her fingers when she pressed her palms to the earth and wished for healing.

She set water to boil in her iron pot and chose a cracked ceramic cup, one her brother had once brought with a sheepish shrug. "Trash from a tavern," he had muttered. It was missing a handle, but she liked the weight of it in her hand.

When the water hissed into the cup and she dropped the leaves inside, she cupped her hands over the rim. No words but just breath, intention, and the quiet pulse of her strange warmth.

The water shimred. Just a flicker.

And then the scent rose, full and green and new, stronger than it should have been. The steam made her head spin with calm. She sipped once and felt sothing settle in her chest like moss covering a wound.

The next morning, she returned to that sa patch of forest, seeking the spiraled leaves. She found more. And others. And soon, her ho was lined with bundles of herbs, so strung from the ceiling like sleeping bats, others tucked into clay pots she’d made herself.

She tested them in combinations, soft teas for sleep, bitter ones that woke her mind, blends that ward her bones when the cold crept in too early. So made her dreams clearer. So brought whispers of voices she didn’t know.

And all of them, all, took in her touch. The warmth flowed easily now, especially when she focused. It wasn’t just power, it was relationship. She offered her energy, her breath, her gratitude. The plants gave their essence in return.

What she made was not potion, not yet. Not spell. It was sothing gentler, deeper. The start of a language.

And she began to write it down.

On bark, on scraps of torn pages her brother had left. Diagrams of leaves. Notes on slls. The taste of a new blend. How her hands felt while stirring. Whether the forest had gone quiet or sung louder.

A SECRET BOOK OF GREEN.

She didn’t know it yet, but this would beco the root of everything to co. Before spells, before curses, before the na she would one day be feared by, there was a girl and her tea.

Days began to fold into one another, marked not by calendars or clocks but by the rhythm of steam rising from a cup. Lira brewed sothing every day now, sotis several tis. She no longer followed curiosity alone; she followed the sense in her fingers. A tingling warmth, a pulse of knowing. She’d touch a sprig of sothing green, or run her hand over moss, and feel it, yes or no. It was never wrong.

She started making lists in her head. Which leaves cald her. Which lifted a fog from her mind. Which made her dreams bright and strange.

As her knowledge deepened, so did her ho.

Bundles of herbs now hung in thick rows from the rafters, lavender, nettle, mugwort, wormwood. So she nad herself, when no na ca to mind. She carved them into bark tags and tied them with forest twine. A small pot was always bubbling on the hearth. It might be tea, or broth, or sothing between the two. Her cauldron, found dented and half-buried under a tree root long ago, now never went cold.

She lived mostly on mushroom soup, thick and brown and seasoned with wild garlic or green pepper leaves. The mushrooms were never random, her hands told her which ones to pick. If they felt empty, cold, or sharp to the touch, she left them alone. If they welcod her, pulsing with soft energy, she harvested them with a quiet thank-you.

So made her feel sharper. So made her body lighter. So gave her strange dreams, images of won with glowing hands, or forests that breathed, or voices that ca from the wind. She began to write those dreams down, too.

Her house, once just a few half-sunken boards, was now a small patchwork cottage. The walls were built from old planks dragged from forest ruins, patched with moss, clay, and wattle. Vines had started to climb its sides. Her bed was moss-stuffed sackcloth layered with furs. Shelves of broken books lined one wall, their pages marked with twine or feathers. The air always slled of herb smoke, pine, and mushrooms.

Her brother ca less often now.

When he did, he never stepped into the house. He stood at the edge of the trees, silent and stiff, sotis holding a small parcel, a cracked jar of salt, a square of cheese, the corner of a torn cloak.

He would call softly, never more than once. She always heard him.

"Here. Found this."

Sotis he brought food or tools. Once, a dull knife she sharpened with stone and will. He never looked long at the house. His eyes flickered, once, to the hanging bundles of herbs and the green shimr of light at her fingertips, then away.

"You shouldn’t go too far. Stay in the forest," he always said, like a warning etched into stone. "They’ll know if you cross the boundary. It’s safer here."

Then he’d disappear before she could ask where he lived, or how their parents were, or why he looked afraid when he saw her smile.

She no longer cried when he left.

She would go back to her work.. She had begun to whisper words when she brewed now, not spells exactly, but sothing like invitations. Gratitude. Harmony.

The herbs responded. Stronger scent. More vivid color. She had no teacher but her own senses, and the dreams. The dreams had beco clearer, voices guiding her hand. She sotis woke with the knowledge of a new blend, or a warning: Don’t use the red-veined leaf with wormwood. Wait until the moon is full to gather dreamgrass.

Her hands were no longer just warm, they were vessels of sothing living.

And though she was still alone, the loneliness had dulled. The forest felt closer. Not empty, but aware. Watching, perhaps even listening.

And sowhere in her bones, she felt the hum of a question forming, quiet and insistent:

What more can I beco?