Chapter Four — Whispers of the Forest
The forest waited, dark and endless.
Christin's cloak clung to her as she pushed through the trees, breath clouding in the cold night air. The moon hung pale between shifting clouds, painting the ground in shards of silver. Every branch seemed to whisper her name, every rustle of leaves a warning.
Still, she didn't stop.
The palace lights were far behind now — faint, golden ghosts on the horizon. She told herself she should feel free, but the ache in her chest only deepened with every step.
You did it, she whispered to herself. You're finally gone.
But the words sounded hollow in the quiet.
Somewhere behind her, an owl cried. Then silence — too complete, too sudden. The kind of silence that made her skin crawl.
She adjusted the satchel on her shoulder and kept moving, careful to avoid the thorned underbrush. The forest was ancient — older than the kingdom, older even than the stories whispered in the servants' quarters.
Her mother used to warn her of it.
"Never stray into the Blackwood, little one. The trees remember things men have forgotten."
Christin had thought it only a tale meant to frighten children. But now, beneath the heavy branches, she wasn't so sure. The air felt alive — heavy, almost listening.
And then she heard it.
A faint sound, far off at first — a dragging, uneven movement through the undergrowth. Then another. Closer.
She stopped, heart pounding. "Who's there?"
No answer.
The wind stirred, carrying a scent that wasn't earth or rain — something metallic. Old. Wrong.
The forest around her darkened, shadows bleeding into one another. Between the trees, something moved. Not an animal. Not quite human. Its shape was twisted, wrong at the edges, as if the night itself had taken form.
Christin's breath caught. "No…"
The creature hissed, eyes glowing like coals.
She stumbled back, clutching the locket at her throat. Her fingers tingled — the same warmth she'd felt when she healed the rose. But this time, it burned hotter, like fire beneath her skin.
"Stay away!" she cried.
The air around her pulsed — and suddenly, the ground beneath the creature shuddered. Vines burst through the soil, wrapping around its limbs, dragging it down with a screech that shattered the quiet.
Then silence again.
Christin fell to her knees, gasping. The vines wilted, curling back into the earth as if ashamed of what they'd done. Her hands glowed faintly, golden light flickering like dying embers before fading.
"What… what am I?" she whispered.
From the shadows, unseen, another figure watched.
King Leroy stood at the edge of the clearing, his cloak blending with the darkness. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes — cold and gray — were fixed on her trembling form.
He'd followed her, though he told himself he hadn't meant to.
He'd told himself he didn't care.
But he'd felt it — the ripple in the air when her magic flared. Ancient energy. Forbidden energy.
"Impossible," he murmured.
The creature she'd subdued — a Wraithling, one of the night's lost souls — should not have appeared this close to the palace. Nor should a human girl have been able to destroy it.
He stepped forward silently. Branches bent away from him as though the forest itself feared his presence.
Christin spun at the movement, dagger trembling in her hand. "You again!"
"Put that away," Leroy said, his voice as cold as the night air. "It won't help you."
She didn't lower it. "Were you following me?"
"I warned you," he said simply. "The night listens."
"I didn't need your warning," she snapped. "I can take care of myself."
He glanced at the creature's remains — the dark mist already fading into the soil. "Clearly."
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for your help."
"You didn't need to." His tone held no emotion. "You were loud enough to wake every shadow from here to the mountains."
"Then why are you here?" she demanded.
Leroy's gaze lingered on her for a long, unreadable moment. "Because something far worse than that thing you just killed has begun to stir. And whether I like it or not, it's drawn to you."
Her stomach twisted. "Drawn to me? Why?"
"That," he said, turning slightly away, "is what I intend to find out."
"I don't want your protection," she said, her voice trembling. "I just want to be free."
"Freedom is a word mortals use when they don't understand what's hunting them," Leroy said quietly.
The wind rose, stirring his cloak, scattering the scent of ash and frost. "You've crossed into ancient ground, Princess. The Blackwood remembers blood — and yours sings too loudly."
She stepped back, clutching the locket. "If you think I'm going back—"
"I don't care where you go," he interrupted, his voice like steel. "But if you stay here tonight, you won't see morning."
Her breath caught. His tone carried no threat, no mercy — only truth.
She looked past him, to the endless dark between the trees. For the first time, freedom looked like a cage of its own.
Reluctantly, she nodded. "Fine. I'll go with you."
"Good," he said. "Because whether you believe it or not, the forest already knows your name."
He turned, striding ahead without looking back.
Christin hesitated — one glance toward the shadows that had almost devoured her — and then followed. The moonlight caught in her hair, in the shimmer of her mismatched eyes, and for a moment, Leroy glanced over his shoulder.
No expression showed on his face. But something in his gaze lingered — something he'd never admit, even to himself.
Pity. Curiosity. Or perhaps recognition.
As they disappeared into the trees, the forest seemed to close behind them, whispering softly in a language older than time.
And somewhere, far beneath the roots, something ancient stirred — listening.