It had been a season since the party had last walked beneath Ailbhe Moss-Crowned’s trees. Back then, the grove had been choking beneath the curse of a rot-hag that nested inside an ancient oak, turning deer rabid and blackening the roots. Together, they had burned the hag’s heartwood and freed the forest from its sickness.

Now the woods felt alive again. Birds sang from high branches, foxes watched from fern-shadow, and blue fireflies drifted between the mossy stones. As the party approached the old druid ruin, Ailbhe stepped from beneath the trees, towering and broad-shouldered, her wild hair braided with flowers and bone charms.

Her face softened into a warm smile.

“Well now… my friends return.”

She opened her arms and welcomed them into the grove without question.

That evening, beneath a shelter of woven branches, she cooked for them over a stone fire: venison stew, roasted roots, honeyed bread, and berries soaked in mead. A deer rested nearby without fear, and a robin perched on her shoulder as she stirred the pot with a wooden spoon almost the size of a sword.

Ailbhe sat beside the fire, huge and comfortable in the golden light, watching them with quiet affection.

“So then,” she said, filling their bowls, “what trouble has the world thrown at you since you last wandered into my woods?”