The forest smelled different.
Wilder.
The wind no longer carried the hum of electronics, no distant car horns, no buzz of civilization. Just birdsong, rustling leaves, and the faint growl of something not quite natural lurking in the silence.
Elena bolted upright from a bed of damp moss, her breath catching in her throat. The world tilted briefly, her vision spinning as she tried to process where she was. Her clothes were torn and muddied, her satchel gone. Her boots were scuffed as if she'd run for miles—yet she remembered no such journey.
But the pendant... it still hung around her neck, its surface warm and pulsing like a second heartbeat.
She stumbled to her feet, pushing branches aside as she navigated through the dense forest. The trees were ancient and towering, their trunks thick and gnarled with age, their roots twisted like veins beneath the forest floor. There were no signs of modern life—no lights, no paths of asphalt, not even power lines overhead. Only the wind and the distant snap of something large moving beyond her line of sight.
Panic began to creep into her chest, but she fought it back. Focus. Observe. Analyze. That's what she was trained to do. She kept moving until she came across a narrow dirt trail, one lined with hoofprints, not tire tracks.
Just then, a wooden cart rattled by, drawn by a pair of thick-coated horses. The driver didn't even glance at her, as if the sight of a disheveled woman in odd clothes was completely unremarkable.
Elena followed the cart down the winding road until the trees gave way to a small village nestled in the valley below. The buildings were made of stone and timber, their rooftops thatched and weathered. Smoke curled from chimneys, and oil lanterns flickered in windows.
Everything looked... wrong.
The clothes. The speech. Even the air felt different—crisper, cleaner, laced with woodsmoke and something faintly metallic.
She stopped a passing man wearing a wool coat and a cap that belonged in a museum. "Excuse me," she said, breathless. "Where... where am I?"
The man looked her over suspiciously, eyes narrowing at her strange boots and fitted jacket. "Valea," he grunted. "What are you, daft?"
"Valea...?" She swallowed. "What year is it?"
He raised a brow and took a step back. "Eighteen hundred and twelve." His voice carried suspicion now. "You drunk, miss?"
Elena could barely hear the rest. Her mind reeled. *1812?* No. It wasn't possible. She stumbled backward, her breath shallow. The trees around her seemed to lean in closer, the shadows stretching.
Her vision blurred—too many questions, too few answers.
That night, a kind woman at the inn—Maria—offered Elena a room without pressing her for details. "Strangers pass through these parts more than you'd think," she'd said, though the tone suggested otherwise.
Elena collapsed into the stiff bed, still dressed, the pendant heavy on her chest.
Sleep came fast—and with it, the dreams.
She wandered through a dense forest again, but this time it was bathed in cold silver moonlight. The air thrummed with tension. A mournful howl echoed in the distance, too close, too familiar. The trees writhed, their branches curling like fingers toward her. Suddenly, the moon disappeared, swallowed by clouds, and the forest caught fire. Flames danced through the undergrowth as smoke rose around her like a living thing. Somewhere beyond the smoke, she heard chanting in a language she couldn't understand—but somehow knew.
"Elena..." a voice called.
She woke with a gasp, heart hammering against her ribs. Her skin was damp with sweat, and her fingers clutched the pendant tightly. It was no longer warm, no longer glowing. Just cold metal and stone.
But she hadn't worn it to sleep.
Had she?
Her thoughts spiraled as she dressed in the coarse linen gown Maria had loaned her. At breakfast, the inn's common room was filled with the murmurs of early risers. No one looked at her directly, but she could feel their glances—curious, uncertain.
An old man sat beside her without asking permission. His skin was the color of parchment, and his eyes clouded with age, but sharp nonetheless. "You came through the forest, didn't you?" he rasped.
Elena hesitated. "I... yes."
He nodded slowly, as if confirming something he already knew. "The forest doesn't give without taking. And that stone around your neck—it's not meant to be touched."
"It's just a pendant," she replied quietly.
He leaned closer, his breath smelling of cloves and pipe smoke. "No, girl. That is the Lycan Queen's token. It carries her legacy. Her power. And her wrath. Many who have tried to harness it... vanish without a trace."
Elena swallowed hard, gripping the pendant. "I don't believe in curses."
The old man chuckled softly. "You will."
She watched him leave, her tea cooling in her hands. Outside the inn, the village moved like a shadow of the past—but her instincts screamed that something more was at play.
Magic. Time. Memory.
And as she traced the moonstone with her thumb, she felt it again—soft as breath, cold as bone:
A whisper.
Calling her name.