The light in the trees pulsed like a heartbeat—steady, soft, ancient.
Eritrea had seen many strange things in her short, hard life: bones shaped like charms strung along fences, whispers in the wind during solstice storms, healers speaking to empty chairs by candlelight. But this—this-this forest alive with veins of silver light—was something else. Something older than superstition.
She wasn't sure whether to run or kneel.
Ronan lay unconscious beside her, the mirrorstone shattered at his feet, its fragments glinting with a quiet magic that still hummed faintly in the soil. His skin had returned to a healthy shade, but his breathing was shallow—unsteady. His lips moved now and then, as if caught in a dream he couldn't escape.
Eritrea turned away from him and looked at the trees again.
The glow came from within the bark, not painted on it, but flowing through it, like sap turned to starlight. The air was warmer here, the mist gentler. Every leaf swayed in rhythm with a breeze she could not feel. It was as though the forest breathed.
Then came the voice again.
"Windborn. Welcome home."
It wasn't spoken. Not in sound. It slid into her mind like a memory. Like something remembered, not heard.
"Who's there?" she whispered, spinning in place.
Silence.
Her hand instinctively found the dagger at her waist. It was dull, chipped at the edge. Useless against whatever this was.
Then a figure stepped from behind a nearby tree.
It was a woman, tall, robed in cloth woven from living leaves. Her skin was the color of dusk, eyes glowing faintly green. Her hair flowed like vines, knotted with tiny white flowers. She walked barefoot across the moss without making a sound.
Eritrea stepped back, instinct screaming danger—but something deeper urged her to stay.
"You have entered the Elderwood," the woman said. Her voice was calm, slow, but every word vibrated with power. "You carry the mark. The forest has not forgotten you."
Eritrea gripped her knife tightly. "What do you mean by 'mark'? I don't carry anything."
"You do not see it, but we do. The blood you were born from sings here. The roots remember."
The forest around her whispered with windless motion, as if agreeing.
Eritrea's throat tightened. "You're mistaking me for someone else."
"There is no mistake," the woman replied. "You crossed the ward of the Ash Circle with a broken mirrorstone and did not perish. Only the Windborn may do such a thing. Only the heir."
Eritrea's breath caught. She shook her head. "I'm not… I don't want to be part of this."
"But you are," the woman said gently. "It does not matter what you want, child. The thread of fate has already woven you into the cloth of this world."
Eritrea turned away. "I came here to save him. That's it."
"He lives because of you. But the price of saving a prince… is waking a kingdom."
The woman stepped closer. Eritrea didn't move.
"Your mother once walked here," the woman continued. "She came with blood on her hands and fire in her eyes. She hid you in the roots. Buried your name in the wind. But the forest… remembers."
"My mother's dead."
"Yes. But her oath lives on."
The woman raised her hand, and the trees shimmered. The light spread outward, forming patterns—circles, constellations, a glowing map of stars written across bark and leaf.
A single name pulsed brightest at the center:
Eritrea.
Beneath it, words bloomed in ancient script. Eritrea couldn't read them, but somehow… she understood:
Windborn. Flame-bearer. Star of the Forgotten Line.
"I didn't ask for any of this," she whispered, almost to herself.
"No one ever does," the woman replied.
She knelt and placed a small wooden box at Eritrea's feet. "Your mother left this for you. The day she disappeared from the world."
Eritrea stared at it, unmoving.
Inside could be answers. Or lies. Or more pain.
The woman stepped back, her form already fading into the trees.
"Choose your path, Eritrea," she said. "But choose it soon. The crows are coming. And the throne is already cracking."
Then she vanished.
The forest pulsed one final time. Then dimmed.
Eritrea knelt beside the box.
It was warm. As if waiting.
She opened it.
Inside, wrapped in silk, was a ring made of blackwood and silver—a crest carved into its face. A lion surrounded by seven stars. She had seen it once, faintly, on Ronan's sword hilt.
Beneath the ring, a folded letter.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up.
Her mother's name was signed at the bottom.
The parchment was old but unmarred. Smooth like preserved petals, smelling faintly of lavender and smoke. Eritrea held it delicately, like it might turn to dust if she breathed too hard.
She looked at the signature again.
"Serenya."
The name meant nothing at first. And yet, her hands shook. Her heart knew it before her mind accepted it. Her mother. The woman she had never met. The ghost behind every unanswered question.
She unfolded the letter with careful fingers, eyes catching on each word as if afraid they would vanish before she understood them.
To my daughter, Eritrea,If you are reading this, it means the forest has welcomed you. It means you have survived the first of many storms. And it means… I have failed to return to you.
I loved you more than this world was ready for. I had to hide you, not because you were weak, but because the world is cruel to children born with fire in their veins.
You are the last Windborn of the House of Seren. The last thread in a tapestry soaked with blood and buried truths. You must never trust the crown, nor those who wear it. Power twists even the noblest hearts. Remember: loyalty is not always a virtue. And betrayal is not always evil.
The one who will find you—the one who carries the lion's mark—is not your enemy. But he may become one if he forgets who he was before the throne. Forgive him when you can. Leave him when you must.
The world will not wait for your readiness. But it will bend if you are brave enough to stand.
And Eritrea—never forget the stars. They will guide you home.
—S.
By the time Eritrea finished reading, tears had blurred her vision.
She wasn't the kind of girl who cried. Not since she was eight, when a merchant's son slapped her for stealing an apple, and no one came to her defense. But now, as she sat alone in a glowing forest, holding the last words of a mother she never knew, the tears came quietly. Silently. Without apology.
She read the letter again.
Windborn. Last of the House of Seren.
That name—Seren—had been whispered once before, years ago, by an old traveler who'd passed through Derenval during the harvest festival. He'd been drunk on plum wine, talking about a vanished queen and her unborn child. Eritrea had thought it a fairy tale.
Now, she was the end to that tale.
She reached into the box again and took out the ring. It was heavier than it looked, cold to the touch despite the forest's warmth. The lion crest was unmistakable. The same as Ronan's sword. But older. Sharper. Hers.
She slipped it onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
Suddenly, the ground beneath her shimmered—just once. A pulse, like the forest, had acknowledged her decision. The trees responded with a gentle rustling, like thousands of unseen voices exhaling.
Behind her, Ronan stirred.
She turned quickly and rushed to him. He was sweating again, though his color had improved. His eyes fluttered open. "You… came back."
"I never left," she said softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
His eyes searched hers. "What happened? Where are we?"
"A place called the Elderwood," she replied. "A place that… remembers things even the kingdom forgot."
His gaze dropped to her hand. "The ring."
She tensed.
"You've seen this symbol before," she said.
"Yes," he murmured. "It's the original crest of House Seren. The ruling bloodline before the current one."
"You mean your family."
He nodded slowly. "My father's ancestors overthrew them. In the name of 'order' after the War of Cinders."
"So your crown comes from betrayal."
"My crown comes from centuries of lies," Ronan said. "The deeper you go into our history, the more you realize—everyone has blood on their hands."
Eritrea sat beside him. "What would your father do if he found out I was alive?"
He looked at her with clear, honest eyes. "He'd kill you. Quietly. And tell the kingdom he saved it."
There was no anger in his voice. Only truth.
She nodded. "Then we can't go to the palace."
"We can't run either," he added. "Your mother left you this for a reason. And I… I think I'm beginning to understand mine."
Eritrea turned the letter over again.
"What do you think she meant?" she asked. "About the lion's mark. About you."
Ronan looked toward the trees. "I think she knew I'd find you. I think she wanted you to see who I was before I became something worse."
"Like your father?"
His silence was all the answer she needed.
The forest light was beginning to dim now—softening into golden dusk. The trees no longer glowed, but their presence remained heavy, protective, like guardians holding their breath.
"We need to leave before dark," Eritrea said, helping Ronan to sit up. "The Ash Circle won't wait forever."
He groaned but nodded. "Where will we go?"
"To the capital," she said.
He blinked. "I thought—"
"Not to the palace. To the undercity."
He frowned. "The undercity's a myth. A story told to scare noble children."
"I lived near it. Heard the whispers. Traders speak of it. Tunnels, ruins, smugglers, and things forgotten by daylight. If the capital holds answers, that's where we'll find them."
Ronan gave a small laugh. "You're more royal than you think."
She raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
"You're already walking into the lion's den with your head held high."
Eritrea stood and offered him her hand. "Let's see if it bites."
They moved carefully through the Elderwood, Ronan leaning heavily on Eritrea as they followed the winding path lit faintly by the forest's dying glow. Though the trees no longer pulsed with light, the air still buzzed with quiet magic—something alive, watching.
Eritrea could feel it in her bones.
The forest didn't just see them. It knew them.
She didn't speak as they walked, not at first. Her mind churned with thoughts: her mother, the letter, the ring on her finger, and the name she'd once heard tossed around like an insult in Derenval: Windborn.
In her childhood, the Windborn were wild myths—beings born during solar eclipses, said to bring both salvation and ruin. Now, she was one. Or the last of one. And she didn't know what to do with that knowledge.
Ronan broke the silence first.
"We'll reach the edge by nightfall," he said, voice still weak but steadier now. "But the road from there will be worse."
"Worse than being hunted by fire-eyed assassins and spirit-singing cultists?" Eritrea asked dryly.
He managed a grim smile. "The Red Crows and Ash Circle hide behind shadows. The world beyond this forest—bandits, bounty hunters, spies—they kill in broad daylight."
"Good," she muttered. "At least I won't have to guess anymore."
They crossed a moss-covered log spanning a shallow ravine. On the other side, trees parted just enough to reveal a small clearing where birds fluttered low, chirping as if greeting them.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
"Stop," Eritrea said suddenly.
Ronan obeyed without question.
She knelt and touched the grass ahead—then ran her fingers beneath it.
A strand of thin silver wire snapped.
A trap.
"Pressure snare," she muttered. "Royal design. Set to pull the legs out from under a horse. Or a person."
"They're watching the exits," Ronan said.
"No. This trap is old." She sniffed the wire. "Smells like oil and iron rot. Weeks, maybe months."
He frowned. "Then who set it?"
"I think we're not the first ones to pass through the Elderwood."
They detoured carefully, Ronan wincing with each step. The weight of their silence grew heavier as twilight deepened, the sun sinking into the horizon like a smoldering ember.
As they reached a slope leading to the forest's edge, Eritrea paused again. Something about the clearing ahead felt… different. Hollow.
"I don't like this," she whispered.
"What is it?"
"No birds. No wind."
The silence was absolute.
They crept forward until the trees opened fully—and the world changed.
The clearing was circular, the earth scorched and blackened, as if fire had burned here without a flame. At the center stood a stone obelisk covered in strange carvings. Around it, charred bones lay in a perfect ring. Ravens perched silently in the surrounding trees.
Eritrea pulled Ronan back behind a thick root. "Don't move."
He nodded. "Ash Circle?"
She shook her head. "Worse."
The obelisk began to glow.
Not blue like the ward, but deep red—like blood lit from within. A hum started, low and guttural, vibrating through the ground.
Suddenly, the air behind them shifted.
And a voice—clear, deep, cruel—spoke from the shadows.
"Well, this is a surprise."
Eritrea spun, drawing her dagger.
The man who stepped from the trees was tall and broad, armored in leather stained dark. His hair was silver—not from age, but from something unnatural. One eye was missing, replaced by a carved gem that flickered like candlelight. The crest on his belt was unmistakable: the Red Crows.
But beneath it, something stranger.
A second symbol—half-lion, half-snake.
"Who are you?" Eritrea demanded.
He smiled. "I'm the one who burned this clearing. And I've been looking for you for a long time, little Windborn."
Ronan struggled upright. "She's under my protection."
The man turned to him. "Prince Ronan. Or should I say… the heir who runs from his own crown. How noble."
Eritrea stepped in front of Ronan. "You want me. Fine. But he walks away."
"You misunderstand." The man's smile widened. "I want both of you."
Behind him, more cloaked figures emerged—six, maybe seven, weapons drawn.
Ronan swore under his breath. "We can't fight them."
Eritrea didn't reply.
Instead, she looked past the enemy, to the obelisk. The red glow had intensified. A pulse now beat from it—synchronized with her ring.
And in that moment, she knew what to do.
She stepped toward the obelisk.
"Eritrea—" Ronan warned.
"Trust me," she said.
The lead Red Crow laughed. "You think an old rock will save you?"
"No," she said, slipping the ring from her finger and holding it up. "But I think you don't know what it does."
She slammed the ring into the obelisk.
The moment metal touched stone, the world erupted.
A blinding flash of light exploded from the runes, flinging the Red Crows back like leaves in a storm. The pulse turned into a roar—deafening, ancient, alive. Ravens scattered. Trees bent backward.
The obelisk cracked from top to bottom.
From it poured a wave of energy so pure it scorched the dirt around them into glass.
And when the light faded, Eritrea stood alone.
The ring was gone.
The obelisk—shattered.
The Red Crows—unconscious or vanished.
And Ronan stared at her with wide eyes.
"What are you?" he whispered.
She didn't have an answer.
But something inside her had changed.
Forever.
The clearing sizzled, still smoldering from the release of the obelisk's power.
A faint hum buzzed beneath the silence, like a song just barely audible—a song not meant for mortal ears. The ground shimmered with broken veins of red crystal where the obelisk had once stood, each glowing faintly before dimming into dust. The air smelled like rain on stone and singed metal.
Eritrea stood motionless, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of what she'd done. The ring was gone, completely dissolved the moment it met the obelisk. Her palm still tingled, as if it had been marked by more than heat.
Ronan, breathing heavily, leaned against a tree stump for support, his eyes never leaving her.
"What was that?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know," she replied, and she meant it.
But deep inside her chest, where the fear had always lived, something had shifted—like the slamming of a door. Whatever power her mother had buried with her name had begun to awaken.
The Windborn weren't just legends.
They were weapons.
"I felt something when I touched the obelisk," Eritrea murmured. "Like it remembered me. Like it had been waiting."
Ronan nodded slowly. "It was a sealing stone. A prison."
"For what?"
He looked at the scorched bones surrounding them. "For them."
The Red Crows.
Except now, the ones who had ambushed them were gone. The explosion had left no bodies—only armor fragments, weapons snapped in half, cloaks torn by invisible claws. Ronan kicked one piece and watched it crumble into black ash.
"Whatever you did," he said, "you didn't just drive them back. You unmade them."
Eritrea stepped back, a cold sweat breaking over her brow. "I didn't mean to kill anyone."
"You didn't," Ronan said. "The stone did. You just… unlocked it."
"But why?" she asked. "Why react to me? Why destroy them but not us?"
He looked at her, face pale but thoughtful. "Because you're one of the Old Blood. Because that ring was forged in the days before the kingdom even existed. Before thrones. Before walls. When magic still answered to names like yours."
Eritrea turned her eyes to the fractured remains of the obelisk. The whispering in her mind had stopped—but something else had taken its place.
A feeling.
A direction.
"We need to leave," she said.
"Where?"
She turned her head slowly toward the southwest, toward the distant outline of mountains beyond the treeline. "There's a place beyond the capital. A temple buried beneath stone. My mother's letter mentioned it in the margin—barely noticeable. But it's real. I know it is."
"Even if it is," Ronan said, "the capital is in between."
"Then we go through it."
He raised an eyebrow. "You realize that's the most heavily watched territory in the kingdom?"
"Yes."
"That we'll be hunted the entire way?"
"Yes."
He looked at her with both exasperation and admiration. "You're impossible."
"Not impossible," she said. "Determined."
He pushed himself to his feet and nodded toward the last remaining edge of the Elderwood. "Then we'll need to travel under the roads. Through the ash tunnels."
Eritrea blinked. "You said the undercity was a myth."
"It was," he said. "Until now."
They walked together, side by side, past the circle of scorched earth. The forest no longer shimmered. The trees were still now—watching, waiting, remembering. The moment Eritrea passed the tree line, the whisper returned. But this time, it was different.
It was a warning.
"They have seen the light."
"They are coming."
She didn't speak of it aloud.
Behind them, the clearing slowly faded, the cracked earth smoothing over, covering the evidence of what had happened. The forest was already protecting them in ways she didn't yet understand.
As the trees thinned and the sky opened, Eritrea saw the outline of the capital in the far distance—its towers spiking upward like broken teeth, its banners fluttering in the wind.
For the first time, she didn't feel fear at the sight of it.
She felt fury.
"I'm not going there to claim a crown," she said under her breath.
"No?" Ronan asked.
She shook her head. "I'm going there to learn who took it."
And with that, the last light of the Elderwood faded behind them.
The capital, and everything waiting in it—answers, lies, blades, and betrayals—lay ahead.
The journey was no longer about survival.
It was about truth.