The morning light came through the trees like gold spilled on the forest floor, but it brought no warmth. Not for Liora. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by rustling leaves or a distant crow. A stillness had fallen over Elderwood not peaceful, but waiting, like the world was holding its breath for something hidden to wake up.
Liora stood just outside the cottage. She held her shawl tight around her shoulders and looked into the woods as if waiting for the trees to speak. The silver feather now hung from a leather cord around her neck. Its weight grounded her, though she didn't know how. Alwen's ring was snug on her finger too snug, as if it had always been hers. When she pressed her thumb against it, the metal pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat trying to match her own. The forest, her breath, even the morning all of it felt slightly off, like the world had shifted by a second and everything now buzzed with strange tension.
Ysolde didn't speak as she made the tea, but Liora could feel the silence watching her, like another pair of eyes. The world had changed. Any innocence she had left had burned away with Alwen's memory.
Tomas was late.
She thought he would return early, ask more questions, or share what he had learned from the village. But morning had passed, and he was still gone.
The woods felt different now. They no longer felt safe. The trees, once calm and quiet, now stood tall and serious. Their branches looked like tangled whispers. The usual birdsong was faint, like they were afraid. Even the wind seemed nervous. Liora felt this change deep in her body, like the forest was hiding something old and wild. Every step she took felt louder, and the moss underfoot no longer comforted her. It felt like a quiet warning.
She turned when the door creaked behind her. Ysolde stepped out, holding a steaming mug, and handed it to her without speaking.
Liora took the mug, warming her hands. "Do you think they know?"
Ysolde didn't ask who. She already knew.
"The council always knows more than they say. That's how they keep control. Secrets are their power, passed around like sacred objects. They hide truth in half spoken prophecies and rules disguised as tradition. They use silence and fear to stay in charge." Liora remembered how the council looked at the village gatherings, how they avoided questions with practiced smiles. To them, knowledge wasn't to be shared it was a chain. And anyone who pulled too hard was called reckless. Dangerous. Alwen had pulled too hard. And now Liora, heart burning and mind opening, was pulling too.
Liora sipped the tea. It tasted like rosemary and ash. "What happens when shadows start to speak?" Her voice was quiet but serious, like the question had waited a long time. The fire popped sharply in the hearth. Ysolde didn't speak at once. Her eyes flickered, not with fear, but with old memories.
"Then it means they've been listening," she said. "And if they speak, child, it's because they've decided it's time to be heard. Shadows don't wake without a reason. And neither should you."
Liora put the mug down slowly, her fingers shaking.
Ysolde looked at her closely. "Then the ones in power try to silence them," she said in a low voice. "They call them dangerous. Twist their voices into threats. Because when shadows speak, they reveal old truths. Truths that tear apart comfort and control." She leaned in, the firelight showing the lines on her face. "That's when fear becomes law, and silence becomes the only way to survive."
Liora's stomach turned. "And if the shadows won't be silenced?"
Ysolde's face didn't soften. "Then the storm begins, not outside the village but inside it. And it doesn't end quietly."
There was a bitterness in her voice that Liora hadn't heard before. It wasn't just fear it was pain. Old pain. Ysolde wasn't just talking about others. She was remembering her own wounds. Wounds made by silence. By watching truth be buried.
"I saw something," Liora said softly. "In the mirror last night. Not my reflection. Something behind it. Like a flame moving through water. I felt watched."
Ysolde didn't react much, but she reached out and gently brushed Liora's hair aside. "You're becoming. And becoming is never quiet. It calls things. Things that remember. Things that wait."
Liora's heart skipped. "Wait for what?"
Ysolde didn't answer.
Later that day, Liora walked to the ruins beyond Elderwood. They weren't on any map, but she knew where they were. Her father had taken her there once when she was little and told her stories about an old library buried by roots and rain.
She walked carefully through the underbrush. Her boots were wet with morning dew. The trees seemed to lean in closer, their branches touching her hair like ghostly fingers.
The ruins rose ahead, jagged and broken. Vines crawled through cracks. Birds nested in the hollow remains of what had once been knowledge.
Liora moved slowly, with respect. Her fingers touched moss covered stones. Something deep under her feet hummed old magic, weak with time but still alive.
She found a doorway half-buried in the dirt. Stones with runes circled it. She knelt and pressed her palm to the center stone.
It pulsed.
Not with light but with memory.
She closed her eyes and let it in.
The vision struck her like the wind knocked from her chest. It stole her breath and anchored her soul in a moment not her own. For a heartbeat, she wasn't just watching, she was there, standing in Alwen's place, feeling the same fury, the same heartbreak. The weight of a hundred unsaid words crushed her ribs, and the sorrow that burned in her throat tasted like ash. The past wasn't a story anymore. It was a wound, freshly opened and bleeding through her.
A girl no, a woman stood where Liora now knelt. Alwen. Younger than she had imagined. Her hair braided thick, her eyes glowing with fire and power. She was shouting, her voice carried by wind, though the words were blurred.
Then came fire. Not burning flames, but golden light. Bright, overwhelming, consuming.
People ran. Screamed. A child was pulled from Alwen's arms. Hands dragged her back. But she did not scream. She stood in the fire like a statue made of sorrow and rage.
And then, everything fell apart.
Liora gasped and stumbled back. The world slowly came back.
Her hands shook. Her legs felt weak.
But the memory stayed.
Alwen hadn't just been lost to fire. She had been betrayed.
It was night by the time Liora returned to the cottage. Tomas was there, pacing, his cloak wet with mist.
"You scared me," he said, looking relieved when he saw her. "Where were you?"
She wanted to lie, but she didn't.
"I went to the ruins. I saw her."
He didn't ask who. "You saw something?"
"More than something. A memory. Burned into the stones. Alwen didn't die in the fire. She walked into it because they left her no choice."
Tomas looked down, his jaw tight. "People are talking, Liora. Your name being whispered in the square. They're scared."
"Of me?"
"Of what you might become."
Liora nodded, her eyes dark. "Then let them be afraid."
Tomas stepped closer. "You're not alone. Whatever happens, I'll be with you."
She wanted to believe him.
She wanted someone she could trust with the weight she carried someone who wouldn't flinch at the cracks in her soul or turn away when the truth grew too heavy to hold. She longed for arms that wouldn't loosen when shadows pressed in, for eyes that saw her not as a danger, but as a girl trying to stay whole. Beneath her quiet strength was a heart begging not to be abandoned again not this time, not when everything was breaking.
But the forest had taught her promises only matter if they survive the silence.
That night, Liora woke to scratching sounds.
It came from the walls. Soft and steady. Like claws on stone.
She lit the lantern beside her bed and stood up slowly.
The noise stopped. She put her ear to the wall nothing then she heard whispers.
Not from the room but from below. From the earth.
She wrapped herself in her cloak and went downstairs. Ysolde wasn't in her chair. The fire was cold.
The whispers led her to the cellar door.
She had never been allowed down there. Ysolde always said that was where old things slept.
The door creaked as it opened. The air was damp and musty.
Liora walked down the stairs. The lantern's light threw long shadows that danced like memories.
The stone floor at the bottom was wet. The walls were marked with chalk and spells. Shelves held jars filled with herbs, feathers, bones. In the corner sat a trunk with a broken latch.
She walked toward it, barely breathing.
The whispers grew louder.
She knelt and opened the trunk.
Books. Dozens. Handwritten. Some pages were so old they crumbled when touched. And under them a mask.
Black as night. Carved with strange symbols. As she reached for it, something cold touched her wrist.
She looked up.
Eyes stared through the slats in the cellar wall.
Not human. Not kind. She didn't scream. She couldn't. The eyes blinked once. Then vanished.