The village of Rimewood was a place forgotten by time. Nestled in the shadow of towering mountains and veiled by the thick mists of early morning, it existed like a distant memory. A place where the wind carried more secrets than words, and the trees whispered things no man should hear.
Every villager knew the stories. The Forest of Sighs beyond the village was cursed, alive with the kind of darkness that no one dared speak of. The forest grew with the vengeance of something ancient—something that wanted to be left alone. That was why the villagers kept to the main roads, keeping their gaze firmly set on the winding paths and never straying too close to the woods.
But Ivy, gentle, soft-spoken Ivy, had always felt an inexplicable pull toward the forest. It wasn't the strange tales she'd heard, the ones murmured by mothers to keep their children close at night. It wasn't the warnings from the elders. It wasn't the way her heart sped up when she stood at the edge of the woods.
No, it was something deeper. Something that belonged to her, and always had.
This morning, as the sun barely began to peek over the horizon, Ivy stood at the village's edge, staring at the looming trees. Her basket, filled with bundles of lavender and rosemary, rested in her hands, but it was only half of what she truly sought.
The forest held something that was crucial to her trade, something that no garden could yield—Moon's Breath. A rare herb that bloomed only once a year in the deepest part of the forest, in places no one had dared to travel for centuries. She had heard rumors of it since she was a child but never dared to venture far enough to find it.
Until now.
She had no choice. Not anymore.
"I should turn back," she whispered, her voice barely louder than the wind that swept through the trees. But as always, the voice that spoke her name was drowned out by something else. A soft, warm breeze wrapped around her shoulders, urging her forward. It was like the forest itself was inviting her in, like a lover long forgotten, calling her home.
Her footstep faltered for a moment as she glanced over her shoulder. The villagers were starting their day—children running to their lessons, merchants setting up their carts, and the smell of baking bread filling the air. Everything felt normal. Safe.
She was supposed to be like them—normal. Safe. But she didn't feel that way. Not here. Not anymore.
The leaves rustled above her, their sound thick with the weight of secrets.
"I'll be quick," she promised herself, clutching the basket tighter, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. She stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the darkness of the trees.
The village quickly disappeared behind her as the world grew quieter, the air heavier. The path narrowed, the trees closing in around her like watching sentinels, their twisted branches reaching out like skeletal hands.
She paused, taking in the heavy scent of damp earth, the dark scent of decay that hung in the air. The forest felt alive. More alive than anything she'd ever experienced. It wasn't the kind of life you could see—it was in the subtle ways the trees moved, the way the wind shifted when it shouldn't have, and the way the shadows seemed to deepen as though they were watching her every step.
Every other villager would have turned back by now, but Ivy didn't. She couldn't. There was something calling her deeper into the woods, and even though she was afraid, it was a pull she couldn't ignore.
The first time she ventured into the forest was when she was a child. Her sister, Dahlia, had run ahead, daring Ivy to follow. Dahlia had always been the brave one, wild and untamed, the kind of girl who spoke to the wind like it was an old friend. Ivy, though, had been cautious—always the one to stay behind, to make sure her little sister stayed out of trouble.
But Dahlia had run too far. Too far into the heart of the forest.
By the time Ivy reached the clearing where her sister had last been seen, the only trace left was the scent of pine and the echo of her name lost in the wind.
That day, the forest had taken her sister.
Since then, Ivy hadn't returned—not for any reason other than the fear of what had happened. She had been afraid of finding nothing but bones. Afraid that she would never see Dahlia again, that she would lose herself in the same shadows that swallowed her sister.
Yet now, here she was. The scent of that loss, that sorrow, still clung to the trees, but now it was mingled with something else. A strange kind of comfort.
She reached a small clearing, where the sunlight barely pierced the thick canopy above. A small stone, covered in moss, lay in the middle of the space. Ivy knelt beside it, running her fingers along the weathered surface. There was something carved here—small markings, faded with time.
She didn't know what they meant, but as her hand brushed over them, she could feel a tingling sensation—something alive, something older than anything she'd ever known.
She closed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat as the forest seemed to hum around her, its voice soft and persistent.
She wasn't alone.
Her pulse quickened as the air shifted, and she heard it—the softest rustle of leaves. A presence in the distance, hidden from view but undeniably real. She turned, her eyes scanning the shadows, but there was nothing.
Still, she felt it—a watching gaze, heavy and intent, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. For a moment, she couldn't move. Her body froze, caught between fear and curiosity.
"I know you're there," she whispered, though she knew it wouldn't matter. The forest didn't answer. It never did.
Yet something was there, lurking just beyond her sight, and Ivy's heart beat loudly in her chest, a silent rhythm that seemed to match the pulse of the woods.
She turned back to the stone, her fingers brushing over it once more, trying to ignore the sensation that she was being drawn into something much larger than herself.
A shadow moved.
This time, it was unmistakable.
Her breath hitched as a figure stepped from the trees, tall and imposing, clothed in the rough bark of the forest itself. His skin shimmered with the faintest trace of leaves and vines, and his eyes… they were the color of twilight—dark, deep, endless. He stood there, watching her with an intensity that sent a shiver racing down her spine.
He didn't speak at first, but Ivy could feel the weight of his gaze, the overwhelming presence of something ancient and unknowable.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
Finally, he spoke, his voice deep, like the rumbling of thunder in the distance. "You've been coming here for some time."
Ivy's heart beat faster, but she didn't look away. "I—what do you want?"
His lips curved upward, just slightly, enough to hint at something unspoken. "What do you think I want?"
She swallowed hard, her voice trembling, "I don't know…"
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming her like a storm. "Then you'll learn."
And Ivy realized, in that moment, that there was no turning back. The forest had found her. And it wasn't going to let go.