The wind stirred gently as they stood beneath the lantern-lit trees, Ren's words still hanging in the air like a song half-forgotten.
"One must fade… for the other to remember."
Cira turned toward the old man, her voice uncertain. "What does that mean?"
Ren did not answer immediately. His clouded eyes remained fixed on Elian, as though seeing through him to something far beyond.
"It's not my truth to give," he murmured at last. "But the forest will not stay silent much longer. Listen closely, child. Both of you.
What fades… does not always vanish."
And with that, he turned away, his cane tapping against the wooden floor as he disappeared back into the gathering hall's shadow.
A hush settled after him. Not just silence—but a stillness that made even the trees seem to lean in.
They left the village soon after, walking slowly down the lantern path. The sun was dipping low, casting long golden shadows across the forest floor. Light filtered through the trees like strands of memory, soft and warm—but heavy with meaning.
Lumen padded quietly ahead, his ears flicking every so often.
Cira glanced at Elian walking beside her. He was silent, as usual. But the line of his jaw was tight. His hand rested near the hilt of his dagger—not from threat, but from thought.
Then—just before the forest swallowed the last glimpses of the village behind them—Elian stopped.
Cira turned. "What is it?"
He stared into the trees ahead. "We're not alone."
Lumen's fur bristled.
From the shadows beyond the path, where the light dimmed between branches… a figure stepped out.
The figure was young—perhaps not much older than Elian. Clad in earth-toned robes with moss-dusted boots, they moved like someone who belonged to the forest itself. Their hair was dark, wild in places, held back by thin cords of bark and twine. Around their neck hung a pendant carved from bone and polished amber.
They stopped a short distance from the path.
Elian stepped protectively in front of Cira. His voice was low. "Who are you?"
The stranger didn't flinch. Their eyes were sharp—too sharp for someone so calm. When they spoke, their voice was smooth, quiet… and strange. As if it had echoed through trees for centuries.
"Elian," they said. "You've come at last."
Cira's heart skipped. She stepped forward, brows furrowed. "How do you know his name?"
"I've been waiting," the stranger replied, eyes not leaving Elian. "Since before you remembered who you were."
Elian stiffened. "Do you know me?"
The stranger gave a faint, almost sad smile. "Not in the way you want. But the forest does. And through it… so do I."
Cira took a breath. "Then tell us. What is this all about? The mark, the voice in the ruins, the fading path, the figure with golden eyes—what does it all mean?"
For the first time, the stranger's gaze shifted to her—and softened.
"I can't give you all the answers," they said. "But I can guide you to them."
They gestured for the two to follow, stepping off the main path and into a lesser-known trail lined with blue-green moss and lantern fungi glowing dimly in the underbrush.
Elian hesitated, but Cira touched his arm. He glanced at her—then followed.
As they walked, the stranger spoke again, almost absently, like weaving a memory into words.
"You carry the forest's oldest burden, Elian. A memory too powerful to hold alone. That's why it was locked. Hidden. But the lock is breaking now."
Elian's jaw tightened. "Because of her?" He tilted his head slightly toward Cira.
The stranger paused mid-step, as if the question held gravity.
"No," they said gently. "Because of both of you. The stars forget—but the forest… remembers. And what has been broken begins to stir."
They led them down toward a clearing where time seemed to slow. Vines curved into ancient arches. A tree stood in the center—enormous, silver-barked, its roots sprawling like veins across the earth.
The stranger had stopped at its base, one hand brushing the low-hanging branch.
"This is where it begins again."
Cira stared up at the ancient trunk, its bark shimmering faintly beneath layers of moss and lichen. Something about it felt too familiar—an ache that had no name.
Her breath caught.
There—etched faintly into the bark, half-covered in moss—was a spiral meeting a crescent moon.
The same mark that scorched across Elian's chest.
She stepped forward slowly, fingers trembling as she brushed the moss away.
"I've seen this before," she whispered. "Years ago. I found this tree once, when I was young. I didn't tell anyone. I don't even remember how I got here."
Elian turned sharply toward her, eyes narrowing. "You've seen this mark?"
She nodded. "I used to think it was just a strange dream. But now…"
She looked at him.
"It was the same. Exactly the same. Your mark."
Elian didn't speak—but the wind shifted. The air around them trembled.
The Guide's eyes sparkled with something unreadable.
"Then it has already begun. The two halves were always meant to find each other. One remembers the place—" he looked at Cira, "—and one carries the memory."
Elian's jaw tightened, the mark faintly glowing beneath his shirt.
"And what does the tree remember?" Cira asked softly.
The Guide smiled without warmth.
"Everything that was taken."
Even though they didn't understand yet, this curse had something else stored for them. Something more.. that even the forest couldn't stop.
_______________________________________________________