The sky was gray—without sun, without stars—as if time itself had lost its way in the labyrinth of this strange world.
The air was still, thick as smoke, laced with the scent of warm ash, dry herbs, and charred wood. When her eyes opened, she found herself encircled by a ring of ash—a border drawn by unseen hands, enclosing her in a ritual she did not remember entering. The ash was fine, faintly glowing, as if it still carried the memory of an ancient flame whispering beneath its surface.
Something was different.
The air around her no longer felt like the forest—it was heavier, charged with an invisible energy that brushed against her skin like a breath, and stirred inside her like a memory not her own.
Then came the voice.
Soft… feminine… not Sarenya's, and unlike any she had ever heard. It didn't come from beside her, but from the pendant at her neck—cold metal suddenly awakened, exhaling a whisper that slipped directly into her ear:
"Eirelyn..."
It wasn't just a name. It was a tone. A melody. A warm wave that surged through her chest and shimmered behind her eyes like faint light.
And then—as if a door had creaked open in the back of her mind—came the flashes. Not images. Memories.
A humble cottage wrapped in trees. A wooden table strewn with herbs. Small glass vials aligned in precise order. A girl with silver hair and blue eyes—just like her, yet not her.
She watched those hands move deftly, mixing herbs, whispering short incantations, pouring drops of glowing blue liquid into a bottle.
Laughter from women. Knocks at the door. Customers entering, asking for simple things—milk, bread, feverroot—then leaning in with hushed voices, requesting other things:
"A draught for forgetting."
"A tea for wakefulness."
"A fertility charm."
By daylight, a store like any other.
By nightfall, a sanctuary of sorcery.
The original Eirelyn had lived among them. A girl who appeared ordinary—but carried something unspoken. A rare gift. A flame beneath the skin.
The flashes shifted.
The cottage's interior. Creaking stairs. A dark basement lined with ancient books. Arcane symbols etched into the walls. A strange mark on her wrist. And the pendant—the same pendant—resting on her collarbone.
She had been Eirelyn.
But now… though the body was the same, the soul was not.
She opened her eyes slowly.
Everything was as it had been—ash ring, trees, silence.
But something had changed.
The words that had once sounded like broken music, spoken in a tongue foreign and mysterious, now rang clear.
Sarenya stepped into the circle, her gaze drawn to the pendant now pulsing with a faint inner glow.
She said:
"Tiralë... i'rin lómë vethra."
And for the first time—she understood.
"You have awakened… at last, in the shadow of night."
She stared at her in stunned silence.
"You… understand me now?" Sarenya asked again. This time, the words fell like rain upon parched earth.
She nodded slowly. No words came yet—just breath, shaken by the weight of what was happening.
How? How could she suddenly understand? Had the language always been buried within her?
Or was it the pendant… or the memory… that unlocked it?
Sarenya took a step closer, her voice hushed:
"The symbol on your pendant… it hasn't been seen in a long time. I thought it was lost with the last of the witches."
Eirelyn lifted the pendant, holding it up.
The symbol was there—circular, etched with intricate lines, a triple-star enclosed in a broken ring. She had never looked at it closely before. Now it pulsed, beating with her heart.
She asked softly, "Do you… know this witch?"
Sarenya shook her head. "No. But I know what it means. She was one of the true ones—those forgotten by the world, but not by the forest."
She stepped forward and sat on the ground inside the ash circle.
"You're under its protection now. But it won't last forever. The memories are returning… and soon, you'll understand everything."
Eirelyn looked down, voice trembling:
"Who am I?"
Sarenya smiled, a bittersweet curve touching her lips—equal parts wonder and sorrow.
"You are… the one searching for her name in another's heart."
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