The village of Eldhollow was still asleep when she returned.
Mist curled around the cobblestones like fingers. Lanterns flickered low. The scent of ash and bread hung faintly in the air, but no doors creaked open. No dogs barked. No voices stirred.
Only one person saw her.
Her grandmother.
She stood on the porch wrapped in her gray shawl, unmoving — like a carving in the wood.
Aryn's boots left wet prints across the stones. Her skirt was torn. Her hands scraped. She said nothing as she stepped up.
Neither did the old woman.
Only when the door swung open did her voice rise, soft and sharp.
"You were out long."
Aryn didn't meet her eyes.
"I slipped. Near the glade. Got turned around."
A lie.
She could walk that path blindfolded.
Her grandmother didn't press her further, merely watching her with silent acknowledgement...
Then her voice came again:
"Wash up. You're bleeding."
---
Aryn obeyed without a word.
In the basin, the water turned pink as it came in contact with her scraped palms. She scrubbed the dirt from her face, changed into dry clothes and sat near the hearth, arms wrapped tightly around her body, chin atop her knees.
Neither of them spoke.
The fire crackled.
Outside, the moonlight slowly dimmed, and pale streaks of gray morning crept across the floor.
Morning arrived without permission.
She hadn't slept.
---
They sat through breakfast like ghosts.
The eggs were cold. The tea left untouched, had changed from a warm feel to a cold, thick liquid. The air hung thick with things neither of them wanted to name. Her grandmother watched her between sips — not accusing, not soft — just... studying.
Waiting.
Aryn stirred her spoon but didn't lift it.
Then, softly, like she was speaking to the room itself, her grandmother's voice broke the thick silence:
"The forest's older now. Meaner."
"There was a time the wind only carried leaves with it… not whispers."
Aryn froze.
But the old woman just sipped her tea.
And then, casually:
"Did you get what you went for?"
Aryn blinked. "What?"
"The herbs. You went to the glade, didn't you?"
There was no sharpness in her tone. Just certainty.
"Silverleaf and nightshade," Aryn said slowly. "Enough for Old mother Elza's tincture."
"Where are they?"
Her eyes shifted subconsciously toward the door…
Then she froze...
The basket was there!
Propped neatly beside the frame. Mud-smeared. Damp. But whole.
Her stomach dropped.
She hadn't brought it home.
She'd thrown it. Remembered the leaves flying, the handle slipping from her hand, the weight of fear in her chest as she ran—
But now it was here...
Waiting.
"Dropped them," she said softly. "Fog was thick."
Her grandmother's gaze followed hers — just for a moment. Then back to her cup.
She didn't say anything.
But her fingers had gone still.
---
Sleep didn't come easy that day.
Even beneath the quilt, even with the shutters drawn and the lantern turned low, Aryn's nerves stayed awake. Her head and body buzzed as if still running. Her thoughts raced, restless, haunted.
She turned once.
Then again.
Finally, she whispered an old protective charm her mother had taught her. Something simple. Childish, even.
Eventually, she slipped under.
---
She dreamed of the forest.
But not the one she knew.
This forest was older. Wilder. Meaner. The trees stretched impossibly tall, their bark curling like skin. Moonlight bled from between the branches — thin, silver veins that shook as though alive.
She was barefoot.
Running.
She didn't know why. Her breath came in shallow bursts, feet slapping continuously on the wet ground. She wasn't being chased.
But something was waiting ahead.
The deeper she went, the more the branches curled in around her, like fingers tightening around an object.
She turned round a corner.
Then she saw him...
---
Kael.
He stood tall beneath a tree with branches shaped like a claw. Moonlight draped over his shoulders like a mantle. His face was clearer now — cut with shadow and silver. A faint scar across one brow. Eyes glowing. Like frost under firelight.
He wasn't hiding what he was anymore.
One hand was clawed. His shoulder shimmered — fur folding into skin. And on his collarbone, that rune pulsed again — lit from within.
Blood streaked down his chest.
It wasn't red.
It was darker. Thicker. Heavier.
Still, he didn't move.
"You've already been marked," he said.
She tried to speak, but her mouth was dry. Words failed her.
"You carry the blood of those who cursed me."
"You carry the key."
Her breath hitched.
She took a step back.
The forest held its breath.
Then he moved — calm, steady, like he already knew how far she'd retreat.
She backed away again.
And fell.
---
Cold engulfed her.
Water. Black and icy, rushing into her mouth and ears. She kicked — but something wrapped around her ankles. Vines...
No... Hands... Claws.
She flailed... gasped.
Opened her mouth to scream—
---
Just then, she woke.
Gasping. Soaked.
Her blanket was twisted around her legs. Her shirt clung to her back. Her hands were clenched.
She opened one. Her left.
A single leaf lay there.
Silver-edged.
Still wet.
She hadn't brought it back...
She was certain...
---
She stumbled to the washbasin, her heart racing.
Splashed her face with water. Again. Again.
Lifted her eyes to the mirror.
Then she froze.
Just beneath her collarbone, through the damp fabric of her shirt—
A mark.
Faint.
Blue.
A curl of lines, thorned and looping like a sun trapped in a cage.
The same rune from the scroll beneath the floorboards.
The same one that had burned on Kael's skin.
"No...!!!"
She grabbed a towel and scrubbed.
Hard.
Her skin reddened.
But the mark remained.
"This can't be real…"
---
"It's real."
She spun.
Her grandmother stood in the doorway.
Still.
Watching.
Her eyes drifted to the mark.
And her face—which was always-composed, which was always-unshaken—changed.
Not from surprise.
Not from horror.
But from something else... fear!
Real fear!
Old fear...
She stepped forward, reached out—but didn't touch.
Her hand hovered above the mark.
Then fell back to her side.
"Gods help us," she whispered.
Aryn couldn't speak.
Could barely breathe.
Her grandmother's voice dropped low. Like something dug out from the roots of an old, buried tree.
"It's starting again..."
"They've found you."