The morning light filtered through the trees in broken shafts, gilding the dewdrops clinging to the ivy around the cottage. It was one of those rare moments where everything looked still—too still, like the forest was holding its breath.
Inside, the quiet was broken by the clink of wood against ceramic. Cira stirred the remnants of breakfast with a distracted expression, her brows knit in thought. Elian sat by the window, watching the trees—though his mind was far elsewhere.
Cira finally spoke.
"Elian… I need to ask you something. A few things, actually."
He turned slightly, gaze calm. "Go ahead."
She hesitated, fingers tightening around her mug. "That sentence you remembered—'The stars forget, but the forest remembers.' What do you think it means?"
Elian's eyes dropped to his hands. "I don't know. But I feel like… it's part of something bigger. Something I'm meant to understand. Just not yet."
Cira nodded slowly. "And the mark—your pain, the visions, the forest changing—do you think it's all connected?"
A beat of silence.
"Yes," he said quietly. "And that figure we keep seeing… It's not random. It's watching me. It's always just close enough that I can feel it. Like it's waiting for something."
Cira looked toward the forest, her voice softer. "And me? What's my connection to all this? The glowing palm… the vision I saw…"
Elian didn't answer right away. But when he did, his voice was almost reverent.
"I think we're connected, somehow. You saw things no one else could've. The mark reacted to you."
She let that settle in the space between them, the weight of it pressing gently on her chest.
"Then we need answers," she said. "Real ones. And I think I know where to start."
Elian tilted his head slightly.
Cira set her mug down and stood. "The village. The people there know stories. Legends. Some of them old enough to remember more than they say. I usually keep to myself, but if there's a chance they've seen signs like this before…"
Elian rose to his feet. "Then we go."
Lumen stood from his resting place, stretching slowly before padding toward the door.
And with that, they left the safety of the cottage—and stepped into the arms of the forest once more.
But this time, they weren't chasing shadows.
They were seeking truths.
The path to the village wound like an old melody—familiar but slow, its rhythm marked by leaves crunching softly beneath their boots. Cira walked ahead, her steps steady, though her fingers played restlessly with the strap of her satchel. Elian followed closely, eyes scanning the trees with quiet precision. Lumen trotted beside them, tail low, ears flicking now and then at sounds they couldn't hear.
The deeper they went, the more the forest began to shift—not in the eerie, dreamlike way it had the night before, but in something gentler. The air grew warmer. The trees, more vibrant. Life, in little movements: the flutter of birds, the hum of insects, a distant splash of water.
And then—
The village.
It appeared between two hills, cradled by tall willows and sunlight. Wooden cottages with mossy rooftops huddled together like a sleeping herd. Smoke curled from chimneys. Children's laughter echoed faintly, mingling with the sound of wind chimes and rustling clothes hung to dry. There were no stone walls or guards—just life, woven into the forest itself.
Cira's steps slowed as they entered. A few villagers glanced their way—recognizing her, offering small nods or faint smiles.
Then their eyes slid to Elian.
And everything quieted.
A young boy tugged his sister's sleeve and whispered. An old woman standing by a well stilled, her bucket hovering just above the water.
Elian felt it. That soft tension.
Like a storm cloud, not loud—but noticed.
Cira looked over her shoulder at him. "They've never seen you before," she murmured. "They're just cautious."
"I understand," he said calmly.
A few more steps, and they were approached.
An older man with a white-streaked beard and pale green eyes stepped forward, staff in hand. He wore a heavy cloak, stitched with forest symbols—branches, stars, a crescent moon.
"Cira," he greeted with a gravel-edged voice. "You return."
She bowed her head slightly. "Good morning, Elder Ren."
His gaze slid to Elian, sharp but not cruel. "And you bring a stranger."
Elian nodded once. "My name is Elian."
The elder studied him for a long moment. Then… his expression shifted. Not surprise, not fear—but a flicker of recognition.
Like hearing a name from an old song.
"I see," he said quietly.
"You know something," Cira said, stepping closer. "Don't you?"
The elder didn't answer directly.
He turned instead. "Come. Not here. The trees hear, but so do others."
They followed him across the village square and down a winding path to a circular hut half-hidden beneath a willow. The inside was dim but warm, filled with herbs, scrolls, and soft blue light from jars that shimmered with fireflies.
Ren gestured for them to sit.
"I've seen a mark like yours once before," he said to Elian, "though not in this age. It's old. Older than the village. Older than many things."
He leaned forward. "Do you dream, boy?"
Elian's jaw tightened. "Not dreams. Fragments."
Ren nodded slowly. "Then they've started already."
"What is it?" Cira asked. "Why him? Why the forest?"
The elder looked between them.
"You've stepped into something older than either of you. The Everveil Forest is not just trees and paths. It remembers. It protects… and it binds. Some memories sleep in the roots. Others… awaken through blood."
He looked directly at Elian.
"The mark you carry is one of binding and sacrifice. The more you remember who you were… the more you will become what you are meant to be."
"And what happens to him when that happens?" Cira asked, a chill in her voice.
Ren hesitated.
Then whispered:
"One must fade… for the other to remember."
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