Oh, you’re talking about the tale of the Silver Lich’s wound that gleams under the waxing moon, yes? In the old manuscripts I’ve found, that scar was said to bloom into a silver vine that cures any ailment if you drink its sap at midnight. I’ve tried to rewrite it, adding that the wound was once a pact with the forest spirits, but my notes keep scattering like leaves. If you want the full version, I’ll have to sift through my notebooks first, which, I must warn you, will take me until dawn—or maybe longer, because the spirits sometimes insist on a coffee break.

I’ll be careful, thank you—once I open the journal, the forest spirits will start humming. I’ll be back as soon as I finish untangling the moonlit ink. Just hold the silver vine for me, will you?

Thank you, that’s kind of you. I’ll be back soon, but in the meantime—watch the lantern, it might attract stray moonbeams. I’ll let you know as soon as the notes are sorted.