Prince Erik, The Healer

The forest had always been a place of secret murmurs, a living tapestry of scent and sound that most in the kingdom chose to ignore. To Prince Erik, however, the Whispering Woods had become a second home—a realm where the ordinary rules of the palace dissolved into the rhythm of wind, bark, and bone. It had begun when he was twelve, the year his father, King Aric, sent him down a winding path to meet the old seer and healer known as Elsinka.
Elsinka was not a woman of great stature, nor was she cloaked in the usual trappings of power. She was a head full of silver hair, a mantle of faded wool, and eyes that seemed to flicker with the light of a thousand fireflies. She had lived a hundred years—perhaps more, for time in the woods flowed differently—and she had learned to make peace with everything the forest offered. “The woods give us what we need, and we give them what they lack,” she would say, her voice as smooth as the river stones. “Every tree, every cave, every overhang is a house for the soul. When night falls, I choose where to rest, not because I am lost, but because the forest invites me to be many things at once.”

The first night Erik spent with her, they settled beneath the canopy of an ancient oak whose branches stretched like the arms of a giant. The moon filtered through leaves in silver ribbons, and the air was thick with the fragrant perfume of pine and moss. Elsinka lay a simple mat of woven reeds at Erik’s feet and began to speak of herbs.
“Listen,” she whispered, pointing to a cluster of violet leaves that grew in the shade of the oak. “These are Lysandra; they calm a heart that trembles too fast.” She plucked a leaf, crushed it between her thumb and forefinger, and pressed the juice onto Erik’s wrist. The coolness was immediate, a soft wave that settled the restless thrum of his young blood.

From that night onward, the prince learned to read the language of the forest. He learned that the sharp, piney scent rising from a fern indicated a root of Grynn—the one that could knit fractured bones. He learned that the rustle of a dry leaf in a dry branch was not merely a sound but a warning: a predator, a storm, a sorrow yet to come. He learned that the wind, when it brushed his cheek, carried whispers of things to come, a future draped in mist and possibility.
Elsinka moved with a grace that belied her age. She would glide from the oak’s canopy to a hidden cave, then to a low, moss covered lean to beside a babbling brook, each time carrying a sack of herbs as if it were an extension of her own body. Erik often found himself sprinting after her, breathless, his cheeks flushed with effort. “You must learn to keep pace,” she would chide, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. “Otherwise, the forest will outpace you, and you will become a leaf blown away, never to return.”

The prince’s transformation was not sudden but cumulative. The first time he stitched a torn tendon on a wounded fawn using a poultice of crushed Ruinleaf and honey, his heart swelled with a pride that eclipsed any accolade he had ever received in the grand hall. The second time he coaxed a frightened rabbit back into its burrow by humming a low lullaby that matched the rhythm of the night wind, he realized that his royal blood did not make him a ruler—it made him a steward.
It was during one of those full moon nights, when the sky was a black tapestry speckled with iron bright stars, that Elsika led Erik to a clearing he had never seen before. In the centre stood a stone altar, ancient and moss covered, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the moonlight. Elsinka set a small, amber bottle on the altar and turned to Erik, eyes glittering. “You have learned how to listen, Erik. Now you must learn how to see.”
She poured a thin, shimmering liquid into a shallow bowl and handed it to him. The potion smelled of wild rosemary, rain on stone, and something else—something that felt like a promise. “Drink,” she said. “Let the forest show you what lies ahead.”

Erik lifted the bowl to his lips. The liquid was cool, and as it passed his tongue, a wave of lightheadedness surged through his veins. His breath stilled, and the world dissolved into a veil of silver mist.
First, a vision of a maiden appeared. She stood in front a city of stone, piles of rocks that reached for the sky, her hair ann obsidian cascade that caught the faintest light, her eyes twin pools of deep black. She wore a dress of woven moon silk, embroidered with luminous threads that traced constellations across the fabric. She turned her gaze to Erik, and in that instant, the distance between them vanished. He felt as though he were standing beside her, the air humming with a silent invitation. Her smile was both a promise and a question—would he dare to follow her beyond the veil of his known world?
The vision shifted. He found himself on a high plateau overlooking a valley that stretched for miles. Verdant trees rose like cathedral columns, their canopies interlaced with vines that glittered with dew. Rivers—clear, swift, and singing—wove through the land, feeding tranquil lakes that mirrored the sky. Yet, beyond this pastoral serenity, two great volcanoes dominated the horizon. They belched ash and smoke, their peaks a dark crown against the sun. The air trembled, and a low rumble resonated through Erik’s bones, a reminder that beauty and danger were twins born of the same earth.

When the vision faded, Erik’s knees were weak, but his heart thundered with an unfamiliar rhythm. Elsinka stood before him, her hands folded in her lap, her face solemn yet kind.
“This,” she said softly, “is a glimpse of your future. The maiden you saw is the spirit of the valley you will one day walk, a guardian of the land you will inhabit. The valley itself, cradled between volcanoes, is a place of great bounty and great peril. You will be called upon to heal, to lead, and to choose which fire to nurture and which to extinguish.”
Erik’s voice trembled. “Will I ever see her again?” he asked, eyes searching the depths of the old woman’s ancient gaze.
Elsinka smiled, a gentle curve that seemed to lift the very leaves around them. “You already have, child. She lives in every heartbeat of the forest, in every rustle of leaf, in every star that crowns the night. When you learn to listen, you will see her wherever you go. And when your path leads you to the valley, you will meet her as she wishes to be met. The two of you will walk along, as decreed by the gods above.”