The path led Elowen into silence.
Not the gentle hush of wind or the absence of birdsong—but true silence. One that pressed against her skin and filled her ears like water. Even her footsteps made no sound now. The trees here were older, cracked with age, leaning inward as though guarding some forgotten secret.
She could feel it again.
A presence.
Watching.
Breathing.
Waiting.
Her marks pulsed beneath her skin—the bone, the flame, the dream, and now, the moon-eater's sigil that curled like a serpent down her spine. They whispered different things. Pulled her in different directions. But one voice cut through them all.
"Come, daughter."
She didn't remember her mother's voice. Or her father's.
But this voice—it coiled with something cruel. Something ancient.
She followed it anyway.
At the heart of the grove, she found it.
A tree—if it could still be called that—twisted and blackened, rising like a gnarled tower. Its bark was scorched, and a deep hollow split its middle, wide enough for a person to step inside. The roots formed a spiral around its base, etched with glowing glyphs. It smelled like burnt air and old blood.
She stepped closer.
"Come inside, child of the broken flame…"
Elowen hesitated. Her hand trembled. But the wind pushed her forward—not harshly, but firmly, like the hand of fate nudging her into place.
She stepped into the hollow.
And the world vanished.
There was no light here. No ground. No up or down.
Just a space between spaces.
A place between memory and magic.
And yet she stood on something—something solid and warm, like stone that remembered the sun. The whispers returned in full force. But now they took shape—figures of smoke and shadow, dancing around her like ghosts.
They chanted her name. Not "Elowen"—but something older. Something forgotten.
"Aenelria…"
Her breath caught in her throat.
"You are not the first," said one of the shadows. "But you may be the last."
"What am I?" she asked. Her voice sounded far away.
The shadows pressed closer. One reached out and touched her chest—right where the flame mark burned.
"You are the ember of a fallen line. The last tongue of fire from a god-born bloodline. Pain awakened you. But pain alone is not enough."
"You must remember."
Elowen shook her head. "I… I don't want to remember."
But the tree did not care.
It poured memory into her—like water into a cracked cup.
Suddenly, she saw it again:
A castle wreathed in moonlight.
A cradle hidden beneath a blood-red tapestry.
A masked man in gold robes, raising a blade over her crib.
A scream.
A forest catching fire.
And above it all—the voice of her mother, broken and defiant:
"She will not be yours, God-Kin! Let the forest hide her. Let the blood remember."
The visions shattered.
Elowen dropped to her knees, gasping.
Tears streamed down her face, not from sorrow—but from pain too old to name.
"He tried to kill me."
"He did," the voices whispered. "And when he failed, he cursed the land to keep you still, to keep you unawakened."
"The forest was not your prison," one of the spirits said. "It was your cradle."
She stood, slow and shaking.
"I want to remember all of it," she said, voice hoarse.
"Then take the gift," they replied.
From the dark, a shard of glass rose. No larger than a dagger. But inside it swirled her memories, her power, her pain.
She took it.
It burned through her palm—vanishing as it touched her skin.
And then... she was outside the hollow again.
The tree behind her was gone.
But the glyphs on her hands were glowing brighter than ever.
And in the distance—
She saw a flicker of golden light.
He was awake now too.
Far beyond the Stillwoods, the god with the golden mask stood beneath a sky that did not turn.
His hand hovered over a cracked mirror.
"She remembers."
A thin smile cut across his face.
"Let her come."