CHAPTER ONE: Whispers in the Mist
Some mornings, the mist remembers things that people forget. It drifts down from the mountains like a breath caught between worlds, whispering secrets into sleeping windows, curling through cracks of stone and dream. The villagers say it is the breath of Elaris itself, that if you listen long enough, you might hear the mountain speak your name.
Mornings in Elaris always smell like pine and rain. The mist creeps through our windows before dawn, brushing against my skin as if it's trying to tell me a secret I'm not yet meant to understand. I sit by the window every morning anyway, pretending I'm waiting for something—or maybe someone—to appear through the fog.
Nothing ever does. Just the forest breathing.
"You're staring at ghosts again," Tomas says behind me, his voice full of mischief and crumbs.
"Only the polite ones," I answer without looking back.
He leans against the doorframe, chewing on a loaf he definitely stole. "Mum says ghosts like pretty girls. I say they just like anyone who stares too long at nothing."
I throw him a crust. He dodges, laughing. "You've got flour on your face again," he teases.
"Better than drool on my chin," I shoot back.
Our laughter fills the small room, and for a heartbeat, life feels perfect, ordinary, safe, small. But beneath that calm, something inside me hums restlessly, like a harp string plucked by invisible hands. As if I've forgotten something important, and the air itself remembers.
The dream came again last night.
A woman bathed in silver light.
A man shouting my name.
A scream swallowed by darkness.
I woke with tears on my face, heart pounding so hard it hurt. I tell no one, not even Mother. Around here, people say dreams are omens, and I can't bear the way they'd look at me if they knew.
Downstairs, the scent of cinnamon and butter drifts from the oven. Mother's already there, moving as though she was born to fill every silence with warmth.
"You're up early," she says, smiling without turning. "The mountain spirits must be whispering again."
"They whisper nonsense," I say lightly, brushing flour from the counter. "Mostly about how I'm wasting my youth baking bread."
She gives me that look—the one that means she knows I'm deflecting. "Maybe they're reminding you the world is larger than Elaris."
I smile. "Maybe."
But I don't believe it. Somehow, I feel like I've seen that larger world before, walked through it, lost it, and can't quite remember how.
Tomas bursts in again, tracking mud and noise. "Old Maren says the fog's heavier today! He says it means the mountain's dreaming."
Mother laughs softly. "Old Maren says that every week."
"Well, he's right sometimes," Tomas insists, grabbing another loaf.
"Out!" she scolds, swatting him with a towel. "Before you eat next week's batch!"
When he's gone, the house falls quiet except for the crackle of firewood. I pause, hands still covered in flour.
"Mum," I ask after a moment, "do you ever feel like you're forgetting something? Something you should remember?"
She glances up. Her smile falters for just a heartbeat, almost too quick to notice. "Sometimes," she says softly. "But that's life, isn't it? Remembering what we can. Forgiving what we can't."
I nod, though the words feel heavier than they should, like stones in my chest.
The chapel bell tolls outside—one, two, three times. I pack the loaves into my basket, wrap them in cloth, and step into the morning mist. It clings to me instantly, cool and damp, threading through my hair like silk.
The path winds through the village, smoke curling from chimneys, familiar voices greeting me as I pass. Everyone knows everyone in Elaris. Still, sometimes their gazes linger too long, flickering toward my eyes before darting away again.
Silver eyes, they whisper. Witch eyes.
I pretend not to notice. Pretending is easier.
At the square, I set up beside the fountain. The air tastes of dew and gossip. Lila rushes over, skirts fluttering, her braid half undone and her expression triumphant.
"You missed it!" she gasps. "A stranger came into town this morning. Tall, dark, the kind of man you only see in stories. He asked for the river trail."
"Probably a hunter," I say, arranging my bread. Outsiders don't last long here; the mountain has a way of keeping its secrets.
Lila grins. "He had a scar over one eye. Looked dangerous."
"Then I hope the mountain eats him before he eats us," I joke.
She laughs. "Unless he eats you first."
I roll my eyes, but the image lingers—a man by the river, shadows clinging to him like mist. The thought sends a strange chill down my spine. It feels almost like recognition, though I've never met anyone like that in my life.
By evening, the mist thickens until the world looks half-dreamed. The path home blurs, the trees whisper things I can't quite catch. I hurry through the fog, clutching my basket like a shield. The air feels heavier than usual, charged with something unseen.
That night, sleep drags me under before I can resist. The dream finds me immediately.
Flames.
A palace in ruins.
A man with a sword shouting my name—Aurelia.
My name echoes like it belongs to someone else.
And then:
A voice, low and breaking.
"Remember me."
I jerk awake, gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs. Moonlight spills across my bed, pale and cold. My hand flies to my chest, and that's when I see it—
A faint shimmer just beneath my collarbone, glowing silver like frost.
The same color as my eyes.
The same color that's always made the villagers whisper.
I stare until the glow fades, my breath shallow, my pulse roaring in my ears. The silence of the night feels wrong, too deep, as though even the wind is holding its breath.
Then, somewhere beyond the forest, a sound rises—soft, rhythmic, almost human. Footsteps, muffled by mist. Coming closer.
I hold still, every nerve awake.
The glow beneath my skin flickers once, then dies.
The mountain is silent again. But I can feel it watching.
And in the hush before dawn, one thought burns through the fog like a heartbeat:
Someone out there knows my name.
##**CHAPTER TWO: The Girl with Silver Eyes**
If the villagers whispered before, they started staring after that morning.
The mark had faded, yes, but I knew what I'd seen. I'd touched it, felt it pulse under my skin like a living thing. Every time I closed my eyes, I still saw the glow — cold and beautiful as moonlight. I tried convincing myself it was imagination, or maybe poor lighting. But lies sit heavy in the chest, and mine felt like a stone pressing down on every breath.
By midday, the square buzzed with the usual chaos — gossip, chickens, herbs, and rumor. Elaris has a talent for turning boredom into conversation, and I'd always been one of their favorite subjects. I told myself I'd blend in, but apparently, my face had other plans.
"Morning, witchling!" someone called teasingly as I passed.
I forced a smile and lifted my basket. "Morning, gossipmonger."
Laughter rippled through the air. In Elaris, humor was armor, and I'd learned to wield it better than most.
Lila was waiting by the fountain, bright-eyed and practically vibrating with new information. "You won't believe it. The stranger's still here."
I sighed. "The one with the scar?"
"Mhm. He came into the shop earlier — quiet, polite, paid in silver. Asked about the river paths again. Said he's staying near the old mill."
"Brave of him," I said. "That place creaks like a ghost's attic."
"He doesn't seem the type to scare easily." Lila leaned closer, lowering her voice. "He looked at me like he was seeing through me. You know what I mean?"
I did. Because lately, I'd felt like something unseen was looking through me too.
"Maybe he's just awkward," I offered weakly.
Lila grinned. "Or mysterious. Either way, I heard his name is Kael. He's new, and Elaris could use a little mystery."
Something about that name caught in my chest — *Kael.* It rang faintly familiar, like a word half-remembered from a forgotten song.
Before I could finish the thought, thunder rolled above us, sudden and deep, though the sky was clear and blue. Villagers looked up, murmuring. The wind shifted, sharp and strange; the air tasted faintly of iron.
I turned toward the forest. For a moment, I thought I saw someone standing at the tree line — a figure, still and dark against the mist, watching.
I blinked, and he was gone.
That night, I walked home faster than usual, heart thudding harder than the breeze warranted. The village lights faded behind me, and the fog pressed close, heavy with the scent of rain.
The dreams returned, stronger this time. Fire. Shadows. That same voice, breaking through the smoke and ruin: *Remember me.*
When I woke, dawn was barely breaking, and the world felt thinner — as if the mist had seeped into my bones.
The next day, everything changed.
I was by the river, kneeling on the bank to wash dough from my hands, when I saw him.
The stranger.
He stood across the water, motionless, like he'd stepped out of a painting that the forest itself had forgotten. Tall. Dark hair pulled back. A faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, just as Lila described. But his eyes — grey, sharp as flint, yet carrying something old, ancient, heavy — caught me and held me still.
He didn't move until I did.
"Good morning," I called, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.
He inclined his head slightly. "It seems the mist favors you today."
His voice was deep, calm, carrying something beneath it — like a weight of centuries.
I swallowed. "You sound like Old Maren when he's trying to sound wise."
That earned the ghost of a smile. "Does Old Maren also warn you not to linger by rivers alone?"
"Constantly," I said. "But I never listen."
"Then you haven't changed," he murmured, almost too softly to hear.
I froze. "What?"
He blinked, as though waking from a thought. "Nothing. Forgive me. You reminded me of someone."
He turned to leave before I could find another word. His cloak shifted with the wind, and for an instant, I caught a glimpse of metal beneath — not the glint of a knife, but something longer, curved, deliberate. A sword.
No one in Elaris carried swords.
"Wait," I said, but he was already gone, swallowed whole by the fog that curled along the trees.
That evening, I told myself not to think about him. Naturally, I did nothing else.
I replayed his words over and over. *Then you haven't changed.*
What did that mean? Had he mistaken me for someone else? Or worse — did he know about the mark?
Mother noticed my distraction at dinner. "You're quiet," she said gently. "Headache?"
"Something like that."
"Dreams again?"
I hesitated. "They're… strange. They don't feel like dreams anymore. More like memories I can't prove."
Her expression softened in that way that both comforts and unsettles me. "Maybe you're just remembering what you're meant to become."
I smiled faintly. "You always make it sound poetic."
"That's because I worry less when I turn fear into poetry," she said, setting down her spoon. "Now eat before Tomas steals your share."
Later that night, lightning flared beyond the peaks. I leaned out the window, watching the mist roll over the forest like a restless tide. Somewhere down there was that stranger — the man with the scar and the storm in his voice.
And somewhere deep inside me, something stirred in response.
A strange certainty settled in my chest: that our paths weren't crossing for the first time. That we were repeating something already written.
As the thunder faded, I glanced toward the mirror. For the briefest heartbeat, I thought I saw another reflection behind mine — faint, ghostlike, eyes filled with sorrow, watching through me.
I blinked, and it vanished.
But the mark beneath my collarbone burned again, faint and cold, like a warning whispered through skin.
And in the hush between thunder and rain, I could almost hear him — not the stranger by the river, but the one from my dreams.
That same voice, low and pleading, threading through the dark.
*"Aurelia,"* it breathed. *"Remember me."*
CHAPTER THREE: The River Remembers
I didn't dream that night. Not in the way that feels like sleeping.
It began with the sound of water—soft, steady, whispering. I was standing by the river again, only this time the world wasn't gray. Everything shimmered, alive and fluid, painted in silvery light. The current flowed backward, carrying fragments that glowed like pieces of memory. Faces drifted among them—mine, and others I didn't know.
Then came the voice. The same one.
You must remember, Aurelia. The river knows what you've forgotten.
I turned, expecting the stranger from the forest, but the mist shifted instead. It gathered into the shape of a woman, her outline faintly crowned in light. Her face blurred at the edges, yet something about her struck me with the ache of familiarity.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
Her voice trembled like wind across glass. You once called me sister.
Before I could speak again, the river flared white, swallowing everything.
I woke with a gasp. My palms were wet, my breath uneven. The window stood open, the mist outside thicker than before. It rolled through the trees like it was searching for something. The air smelled of rain and stone and something older than both.
I should have gone back to sleep. Instead, I reached for my cloak.
The path to the river was silent, eerily so. Even the crickets had fallen quiet, and my footsteps barely made a sound against the damp earth. The fog pressed close, heavy and watchful. My heart beat faster with every turn until the trees thinned and the river came into view.
Someone was already there.
Kael.
He knelt by the water, motionless, as if he'd been waiting. The ripples broke his reflection into shifting pieces, and for the first time, I noticed the faint silver mark on his wrist. It caught the moonlight—and matched mine.
He turned sharply, eyes finding mine as if he'd felt the thought form.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
"Neither should you."
His gaze flicked toward the river. "You felt it too, didn't you?"
My fingers tightened around the edge of my cloak. "The dreams? The voice? Or the feeling that reality's falling apart?"
"All of it."
There was something in his tone—worn, reverent, almost sorrowful.
"What is this?" I asked. "Why do I remember things that never happened?"
He hesitated before answering. "Because they did."
I frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It will," he said, voice lower now, careful. "But not yet. You're not ready to—"
"To what?" I cut in. "To understand my own life?"
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he'd tell me everything, but a shadow passed through his expression, quick and sharp. "There are consequences," he said. "If I speak, the curse stirs."
The word sent a chill through me. "A curse. You make it sound like a story told to frighten children."
He met my gaze, and the air between us felt charged, alive. "You think I want to keep you in the dark?"
"Then tell me why I can't remember you."
Kael's silence said more than words could. He took a step closer, slow and deliberate, until I could feel the tension radiating off him. "Because remembering me would destroy you."
For a heartbeat, even the river stilled. The world held its breath. Then thunder cracked somewhere distant, sharp enough to tear the silence apart. Kael flinched, pressing a hand to his temple as though struck by invisible force.
"Kael?" I moved toward him.
"Don't," he said hoarsely. "If you touch me, it will worsen."
I froze. The air between us shimmered faintly, as though the mist itself pulsed with his pain. He looked like someone carrying centuries on his shoulders, and I realized, with a certainty I couldn't explain, that this wasn't our first meeting. Whatever bound us had roots older than memory.
"What are you?" I whispered.
He laughed softly, bitter and quiet. "Someone who made a promise. Someone who's running out of time to keep it."
Then he was gone. The mist folded around him, curling away until nothing remained but the sound of the river. Except now, the river didn't look like water anymore—it looked like memory flowing backward.
By the time I stumbled home, the first light of dawn was breaking through the fog. Mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed, worry carved deep into her face.
"Where were you?"
"Walking," I muttered, brushing past her. My clothes were damp, my thoughts worse.
"You went to the river again," she said. "Did you see him?"
I stopped mid-step. "You know about him?"
Her silence was an answer I didn't want.
I turned slowly. "Mother, who is he?"
She sighed, the sound of someone tired of carrying too much truth. "Someone who shouldn't exist anymore. Someone whose return means the past is moving again."
"The past?" My voice cracked. "You mean my past."
She looked at me then, really looked, and something like fear flickered in her eyes. "Aurelia, if he speaks to you again, you mustn't listen. Every truth he gives you brings the curse closer to completion."
I shook my head. "You're all saying the same thing—curse, danger, silence. But what about answers?"
Her tone softened, almost breaking. "Answers can break you as surely as ignorance can."
I wanted to argue, but the words caught in my throat. She reached out and took my hand. Warmth spread through me, the same strange warmth I'd felt when the mark first appeared. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something glimmer across her wrist too, faint as breath. Then she let go, and the warmth vanished.
That night, I sat by the window with my journal open, ink bleeding where I hesitated.
He said remembering you would destroy me. But forgetting feels worse.
Outside, the mist pressed against the glass, dense and alive. Somewhere far off, a wolf—or something older—howled through the valley. I felt the vibration in my bones.
I looked down at my wrist. The mark pulsed faintly, answering something I couldn't see.
The river was awake.
And so was I.
CHAPTER FOUR: Echoes of the Forgotten
I didn't open the bakery that morning.
The ovens stayed cold. The dough sat on the counter like a question I didn't have the strength to answer. My hands wouldn't stop shaking long enough to knead anything anyway. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the river turning backward, silver light twisting over the surface, Kael's face caught between pain and recognition, that echo of a voice telling me to remember.
Mother didn't ask questions. She never did when she knew I was already breaking. She poured tea, set it in front of me, and said softly, "Sometimes silence keeps you alive longer than truth."
That was her way of saying, Stop digging.
But I've never been good at silence.
By noon, the fog had rolled down from the mountains like an uninvited guest. It smothered rooftops and swallowed the sound of bells. Even the church spire looked ghostly, fading in and out of sight. The square, usually full of chatter and footsteps, felt like it was holding its breath.
I was halfway to the apothecary when I saw him.
Another stranger.
He stood by the old fountain, staring at the stone figure at its center. His cloak was dark, his boots worn, his posture unhurried. Everything about him spoke of distance—of someone used to watching instead of belonging. But his eyes were different. Quiet, searching, like they carried a secret he was too tired to keep.
Something about him tugged at me. Not curiosity, exactly, but recognition in disguise.
He turned slightly, as if he'd felt the thought brush against him. "You shouldn't walk alone when the fog's this thick," he said.
I crossed my arms. "You sound like my mother."
"Then she's a wise woman," he replied, a small smile touching his lips. "But I'm not her."
He had a faint accent, one I couldn't place, and a calmness that didn't match the way the air seemed to tremble around him. There was warmth in his voice too, a gentleness that felt out of place in this season of silence.
"Are you visiting?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Passing through," he said, though his gaze flicked to my wrist before returning to my face. "Lucien Vale."
"Aurelia Kane," I answered automatically, then immediately wished I hadn't. Lately, even my own name felt fragile, like speaking it too loud could wake something best left asleep.
"Pretty name," he said softly, as though he already knew it.
We ended up walking the same path toward the market. Neither of us seemed in a hurry to leave the other. He asked about the bakery. I asked about the road from the capital. He said it was long and unkind. I said that made two of us.
Then thunder broke overhead, sharp and sudden against a cloudless sky.
The ground shivered under my boots. The fountain water darkened, turning black for a breath before clearing again.
Lucien reached for my arm to steady me. His touch was firm, steady—too steady for a stranger.
"What was that?" I whispered.
He looked toward the mountains. "Something old waking up."
The way he said it made my skin prickle. "You sound like you've seen it before."
He didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, unreadable.
By the time I reached home, the sky had dimmed to a strange, bruised color. The air felt thick, the kind of heaviness that comes before a storm that never quite arrives. I tried to busy myself with flour and sugar, but every sound—the ticking of the clock, the sigh of wind through the window—felt like the world holding back a warning.
That night, I found him again. Or maybe he found me.
The innkeeper mentioned he'd been asking about the ruins beyond the river. About carvings on stone, runes half-swallowed by moss. My stones. My river.
Curiosity pulled me there, not courage.
He was sitting near the fire, cloak thrown over the chair, a map spread across the table. Lines of ink crossed and circled, some drawn over names I didn't recognize. When he saw me, he smiled, the kind of smile that carried exhaustion and relief in equal measure.
"I was hoping you'd come," he said.
"Were you?" My voice wavered despite my effort to sound casual.
Lucien studied me for a long moment before speaking again. "You've seen something," he said quietly. "The mark, perhaps?"
My pulse stumbled. "What did you say?"
He nodded toward my wrist. "You've been trying to hide it."
Instinctively, I pulled my sleeve down. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been looking for it," he said. "For you."
The words sank into me like stones dropped into deep water.
Every instinct screamed that I should leave, yet I couldn't make my feet move. "You talk like we've met."
"In a way," he said, voice low. "But not in this lifetime."
The air between us thickened. The fire snapped, throwing shadows across his face.
"You sound like Kael," I whispered. "He said remembering would destroy me."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "He's not wrong. But forgetting will destroy you slower."
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Why can't either of you just speak plainly?"
He smiled at that, faint but real. "Because truth bends when touched by magic."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't empty—it was waiting.
When I finally stood to leave, he said quietly, "You'll see it soon. The village wears its past like skin."
Outside, the fog had returned, thicker than before. The fountain was frozen, the surface glinting under lamplight though the air was mild. The chapel bells rang once, without wind or hand.
And beneath my boots, faint light shimmered through the cobblestones—patterns, symbols, circles and wings.
Elaris was changing. Or maybe it was remembering.
I knelt and pressed my palm against the nearest stone. It pulsed beneath my hand, a soft vibration that felt alive. The mark on my wrist burned in answer.
Lucien's voice lingered in my thoughts: I've been looking for you.
And Kael's voice overlapped it, quiet but unyielding: Remembering me would destroy you.
I stood there in the square, trembling, caught between two truths that refused to align. Two men, two halves of a story that felt like mine and not mine all at once.
When I finally returned home, the world felt different. The walls seemed thinner, as if sound and memory could slip through them unnoticed.
Mother was already asleep. I sat by the window with my journal open and the lamp flickering low. My hands smelled of flour and fog. I dipped the pen in ink and hesitated.
The river remembers. The stones remember. Maybe I'm the only one who doesn't. But if memory is dangerous, why does it feel like freedom?
The ink smeared where my hand trembled. The mark on my wrist flared briefly, a faint light bleeding across the page until the words seemed alive.
Outside, thunder rolled again, far but certain.
Something had begun.
And this time, it wasn't waiting for me to be ready.
Chapter Five
They say the Festival keeps the shadows away. I think it just gives the villagers a reason to drink too much and talk too loudly. Still, tonight Elaris smells of cinnamon and smoke instead of fear, and that is enough.
I hang garlands over the bakery window while Tomas chases fireflies with the other children. The mist that usually slips down the mountains has stayed away, as if even it wants to see the lanterns rise.
Mother sits in her usual chair by the hearth, weaving wildflowers into crowns. "You'll wear this," she says, handing me one. "Maybe someone will finally notice you're beautiful."
I laugh. "You mean besides the customers who ask for free loaves?"
She shakes her head. "Don't tempt fate."
By dusk, the streets are alive with color. Candles drift down the river in glass bowls, and drums echo from the square. My wrist has stopped glowing for now, though I still feel the mark beneath my skin like a soft, restless pulse.
Then Kael appears.
He moves through the crowd easily, his cloak brushing the lantern light, the kind of smile that makes strangers feel like old friends. "You don't seem like someone who enjoys crowds," he says.
"I don't," I admit. "But Mother says hiding makes the spirits think you're afraid."
"Are you?"
I hesitate, then lie. "No."
He watches me for a moment longer, unreadable, then nods toward the bridge. "Come. The view is better from there."
We walk through the crowd together. People greet Kael warmly, some even touch his shoulder in thanks. I realize he's been treating half the village; everyone trusts him already. From the bridge, the valley glows. Lanterns rise like stars drifting free of the earth. The reflection in the water looks like another sky, shimmering and infinite.
"When I was a boy," Kael says softly, "we had a festival like this. We called it the Night of Wishes."
"What did you wish for?"
His smile fades. "To undo something I hadn't done yet."
A strange sadness fills the space between us. "Did it come true?"
He looks at me then, the lanterns reflected in his eyes. "Not yet."
The first firework bursts above the roofs, scattering gold over the mist. For a heartbeat, I see another image layered over him—armor, blood, a burning hall. I blink, and it's gone. Only Kael remains, the healer with a smile that hides too much.
When the music swells again, he looks out toward the mountains. "You think the festival works?" he asks. "That it really keeps the shadows away?"
"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe it reminds us they're still there."
He laughs quietly, but there's no joy in it.
Later, I return to the square for wine and almost collide with Lucien. He stands near the edge of the crowd, coat dusted with ash, his eyes fixed on the sky. He doesn't smile, but something in his expression softens.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asks.
"Trying to," I say. "You could at least pretend to celebrate."
"I don't drink."
"Then you're missing the best part."
"The best part," he says quietly, "is seeing you safe."
The words stop me. The laughter, the drums, even the light seem to fade around us. I want to ask what he means, but he steps closer.
"Has Kael told you anything?" he asks.
"About what?"
"About you."
My pulse stutters. "Why would he?"
Lucien's gaze sharpens. "If he tries to make you remember, walk away."
That word again—remember. It follows me like a shadow. "You both talk as if my life belongs to someone else," I snap. "Maybe I don't want your warnings."
He holds my gaze. "Maybe you do."
Before I can answer, a final firework erupts, silver light flooding the sky. When I blink through the glare, he's gone, vanished into the smoke.
The festival winds down. Laughter thins, music fades. I walk home alone, skirts brushing stray petals and ash. The night smells of burnt sugar and wine. From the hill above the square, I watch the last lanterns drift higher until they vanish. Each one carries a wish. I whisper mine into the wind, soft and foolish.
"Please, let me understand before it's too late."
The air shifts. For a moment, I think I hear something answer, a faint metallic chime, like a chain snapping far away.
When I reach the bakery, the garlands have wilted. I light a single candle. Its flame leans sideways as if disturbed by breath, though the windows are shut.
That night, I dream again.
The palace no longer burns. It breathes, glowing from within as if alive. Two men stand in the light. One holds a sword of fire; the other offers me his hand. Their voices merge until I cannot tell who speaks.
Remember me.
Forget me.
The dream shatters. I wake with tears on my cheeks and a smear of ash on my windowsill. The candle has burned down to nothing, its wax hardened into a spiral. Outside, the first hint of dawn presses through a returning fog that curls along the rooftops.
Thunder rumbles once beyond the mountains, low and distant.
I touch my wrist. The mark pulses once beneath my skin, faint but alive.
Something has changed.
And I know, deep down, it is only beginning.