The Stillwoods had changed.
Elowen noticed it the moment she stepped from beneath the dreamroot. The air had thickened, not with mist but with intention. The forest was no longer merely alive—it was aware. Watching her. Whispering to her. The marks on her skin, now fully awakened, glowed faintly even in the daylight that never shifted.
She had the three blood marks: Bone, Flame, and Dream.
But there was a fourth. She could feel it—out there—pulling at her like a hook inside her chest. It whispered in a voice that didn't use words. A rhythm older than speech. A truth buried so deep, the forest itself refused to name it.
She had to find it.
But the path had changed.
Gone were the twisted roots and wandering trails. Before her now stretched a long, narrow corridor of pale trees. Each one stripped bare. No leaves. No birds. No sound.
Just silence.
And a silver light falling from above, though the sky could not be seen.
She stepped into the corridor.
And the wind began to hum.
"This is the Moon-Eater's Path," came a voice behind her.
Elowen turned sharply, hands raised in defense—but it was only a child. A boy, no older than ten, with eyes too bright and skin too pale. He wore no shoes. His feet left no print in the soil.
"Elowen," he said softly. "I've been waiting."
She frowned. "You know my name?"
He nodded. "The forest tells me everything. I'm its memory."
"Are you… alive?"
The boy tilted his head. "Not the way you are."
"What is the Moon-Eater?"
His smile vanished. "Something that once was a god… but ate too much of the moon and forgot who it used to be."
"That makes no sense."
"It will."
He turned and began walking down the path. "Come. The Moon-Eater left pieces of itself behind. Bones of the god it used to be. You'll need them if you want to face him."
Elowen hesitated, then followed.
As they walked, the path began to warp.
Trees melted into shapes—faces, hands, screaming mouths. The boy ignored them. Elowen did not. She could feel them watching. Judging.
"Why does it feel like I've been here before?" she whispered.
"Because part of you never left," the boy said.
They reached a clearing.
In the center stood a tall stone altar, cracked down the middle. Bones were scattered across its surface—large bones, blackened at the tips, pulsing faintly with moonlight.
Elowen stepped toward them, but the air grew heavy. Her marks flared in warning.
From the trees came a low growl.
Not beast. Not spirit.
Something worse.
A creature crawled into the light—long and thin, with too many joints and no face. Its mouth stretched across where its eyes should have been. It moved like smoke—but it bled shadows as it came.
"The Eater's echo," said the boy. "A piece of its hunger."
It lunged.
Elowen raised her hands, and the marks burned in unison—bone, fire, dream. Magic surged through her veins, wild and clumsy, but awake. She slammed her palms to the earth.
The ground screamed.
Vines of ash and bone erupted from the soil, catching the creature mid-air. Fire burst through them, wrapping the echo in burning threads. Then came silence—and the beast was gone.
Ash.
Elowen staggered.
The boy smiled. "You're learning."
She turned to the altar, still pulsing.
"I'm ready," she said.
She reached out and touched the largest bone.
Pain flared through her.
But she didn't scream.
She let it in.
And the final mark—the Moon-Eater's Mark—etched itself onto her spine. Cold. Ancient. And terribly quiet.
When she looked up again, the boy was gone.
So was the altar.
Only the path remained.
And now… it was leading somewhere.
Far away, beneath the unmoving sky, the god in the golden mask felt the fourth mark awaken.
He placed his hand over his heart.
"So. She is truly mine."
But his eyes glowed with something colder than joy.
"Then let her come. Let her try."
He turned to the obsidian gate that led into the Hollow Between Worlds.
And he opened it.