Elowen ran.
The forest twisted around her, branches clawing at her arms, roots grabbing at her ankles. But she didn't stop. She couldn't. Not with that shadow overhead—watching, following, searching.
The second mark now lived inside her, hot and silent. The fire had burned truth into her blood, and now the forest responded to her in strange ways. Trees leaned aside for her path. Ash drifted backward, revealing the trail behind her. She wasn't sure whether it was guidance—or a trap.
The Stillwoods had no loyalty. Only secrets.
Eventually, her legs gave out. She collapsed beneath a towering tree with bark like pale velvet, her breath coming in broken gasps. Around her, the mist thickened, dimming the grey light until the world looked like a faded painting.
The third mark.
Dream.
But there were no signs of sleep. No visions. Only exhaustion and silence.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, just for a moment—
And the forest vanished.
She stood in a world of white.
No trees. No sky. No floor beneath her feet.
Just endless white mist, swirling like breath.
"Am I dreaming?" she asked aloud.
But the voice that answered was her own.
"You've always been dreaming, Elowen."
She turned and saw herself—but older. Taller. Her hair silver like moonlight, her arms covered in glowing marks from shoulder to fingertip. Her eyes were sharp, knowing.
This version of her didn't look lost. She looked dangerous.
Elowen stepped back. "What is this place?"
"The root of the dream," the older self said. "Where your blood and mind meet. Where the last mark hides."
"Why is it here?"
"Because dreams are the only place the god cannot touch. Not fully. Not yet."
Elowen looked down at her hands. "Then what do I need to do?"
"Look inward."
The dream around her twisted.
Suddenly, she stood in a dark hallway lit by flickering candles. The walls were smooth and black—stone, but alive. Whispers danced through the air like smoke.
She recognized this place. Somehow.
She stepped forward, and the walls began to move—showing her images like glass:
—Her mother's face, tired but smiling.
—A red moon rising above a crumbling tower.
—A baby wrapped in royal blue, hidden in a tree's hollow.
—A figure in gold armor whispering her name.
—A mask. Cracked. Laughing. Burning.
Then came the voices.
So many.
They did not belong to her, but they all said the same thing:
"He is coming. He is coming. He wears the sky. He wears the name. He wants the blood."
Her hands gripped her head. The voices grew louder. The candles burned higher. She fell to her knees in the dream corridor as pain surged through her again.
"Stop!" she cried. "I don't want to see anymore!"
But the hallway cracked. Splintered. Shattered—
And from the broken stone, a single black flower grew.
Thorned. Gleaming. Waiting.
She reached out, afraid.
The moment her fingers touched it, the petals unfurled and a small, glowing mark floated into the air—a spiral of stars wrapped in a ring of thorns. It flew toward her, sinking into her forehead like light into water.
Her eyes widened. Her mind went silent.
The third mark had awakened.
Elowen snapped awake.
She was lying beneath the dreamroot tree. Her arms were burning—but not in pain. The marks on her body had changed—no longer scars, but glowing sigils, softly pulsing with silver, white, and shadow.
The forest was no longer watching.
It was listening.
And far away, the masked god stood beneath a sky that did not move, feeling the stir in the wind.
"She remembers."
He turned toward the heart of the forest.
"Then let the hunt begin."