Before first light, the group slipped through the south gate of Elderglen, cloaked in mist. Snora kept her hood low, clutching her satchel of herbs and charms. Roman had packed light—bread, flint, and a dagger he barely knew how to use. Thorn carried a hammer slung across his back, and Elia, ever composed, had a pack full of secrets she refused to share.
The road to Graythorn was overgrown and forgotten, winding through the Bramblewood. As they walked, the birdsong faded. Fog curled around the trees like fingers.
Snora paused. "Do you feel that?"
Roman looked around. "Feel what?"
"Something's… watching."
Elia grinned. "That would be him."
A lute's soft strumming drifted through the fog, followed by humming.
Out stepped a boy with wild curls, mismatched boots, and a grin too wide for someone alone in cursed woods.
"Evening—no, morning. Depends where the sun is," he said. "Name's Merric. Bard, storyteller, occasional troublemaker. I've been expecting you."
Roman blinked. "Expecting us?"
Merric tapped his temple. "Dreamed of you. All five, standing before the sealed gate. One has a key. One has a song. One carries a burden. One hides a name. One…" He paused, looking at Snora. "One can hear what others can't."
The group fell silent.
"Prophecy?" Thorn muttered.
Merric shrugged. "Call it what you like. All I know is Graythorn woke up two nights ago. Lights in the towers. Whispers in the trees. And something very, very old wants out."
They continued together, the five of them, deeper into the Bramblewood.
And far behind them, in the highest tower of Elderglen Castle, a hooded figure watched their trail through a spyglass.
"They've gone," the watcher whispered. "Just as foretold."
A second voice, cold and ancient, replied from the shadows:
"Then the game begins."