The weaver didn't blink. It's milky eyes seemed to drink in the lilac glow of her bracelet, a hunger there that made the hair on her arms stand up. Around them, the shadows of the living cloak began to detach themselves, creeping across the forest floor like spilled ink.
"A bargain," the creature hissed, the clicking in its throat growing faster."The Elder Wood does not permit 'free.'You carry the light of the First Roots.To pass, you must leave something behind."
She stepped back, her heel catching on a thick, pulsing root."I have nothing. Just the clothes I'm wearing and... this." She held up the glowing wrist.
The Weaver let out a sound that might have been a laugh—dry and hollow."We do not want your rags, little spark.We want a memory. A bright one. One that keeps you warm when the frost bites."
The bracelet pulsed harder now, a rhythmic thump-thump that matched her racing heart. The heat was becoming unbreakable, a warning or perhaps a please.
"If I give it to you," she whispered, her voice trembling,"will the path stay open?"
"The path will stay," the Weaver promised, extending a spindly, slate-colored hand."But you will never again remember the face of the one who loved you first."
The forest went deathly silent. Even the groaning trees seemed to hold their breath, waiting for her choice.The lilac light flared, blindingly bright, as the shadows touched the edge of her boots.