I stood at the edge of the clearing and realized, with a sinking feeling, that I had absolutely no idea which direction I'd come from.
The forest looked the same in every direction—old trees, dense undergrowth, the kind of uniform darkness that arrives quickly once the canopy starts blocking the last of the evening light. I had been so absorbed in my small experiment with the saplings that I'd stopped paying attention to where I was. Now the light was wrong, the shadows were long, and nothing looked familiar.
I came from the north, I thought. Probably. Maybe.
I picked a direction and started walking, keeping my pace steady. The gymnast in me cataloged the terrain automatically: a root here, a soft patch there, a branch at head height that would catch someone not paying attention. I ducked it without breaking stride. Okay. Walk in a straight line. If it was north before, keep it north now. Don't spiral.
But the trees had a way of bending a straight line without you noticing, and after ten minutes, I wasn't confident I'd maintained any direction at all. The light was fading faster than I'd like. My legs ached with the specific deep fatigue of someone who had spent hours channeling something their body wasn't used to—the Wood element had apparently been drawing on my physical reserves all afternoon.
I should have asked, I thought. Whether using power costs energy. Basic question. I just assumed it was like thinking.
I stopped and leaned against a trunk, pressing my back to the bark. The forest was quieter now than it had been during the exercise; the crashing and shouting of other apprentices had long since faded. I was genuinely alone, and it was getting dark.
Right. Don't panic. Think.
The saplings. I had made them in a rough cluster around the clearing, which meant they were close together and identifiable. I reached out with the green awareness in my chest—not demanding, but asking—and felt for the particular quality of very young, recently grown wood. It was faint, but there was a directional pull to it, steady as a compass needle.
That way. Roughly.
I pushed off from the trunk and moved in that direction, slower now, more careful. Then I heard voices. Not Chancellor Archer. Not Instructor Nicole. Not anyone calling my name.
"That girl must be around here somewhere," a male voice said. The tones were low and conspiratorial. I stopped moving and held completely still.
"Let's burn the little trees. Easier to find her that way."
A cold thread ran down my spine.
"Today we'll have some fun with her."
There were three of them—I could make out three distinct silhouettes moving through the trees about forty meters to my left. Two in red, one in blue. Fire and Water elements. Whatever I could do with wood and vines was not going to be particularly useful in a direct confrontation.
I looked up. The tree I was standing beside was old and wide-branched. I grabbed the lowest branch, tested it, and went up—quietly, quickly, with the muscle memory of someone who had spent years treating bars and beams as extensions of her own body. I settled into a fork twelve feet up and pulled my green clothing into the shadow of the trunk.
Below me, the three figures moved closer.
"After I take her, I'll marry her this week. Take responsibility that way."
"But we said we'd share—"
"Change of plans. Water puts out fire. Don't forget that."