The forest always feels heavier in the morning.
Not darker. Not colder. Just heavier—like the air is holding its breath, waiting for something I can't quite name. I woke with damp leaves stuck to my arms and that familiar warmth buzzing beneath my skin. It's always there, that fire, like a second heartbeat. Not dangerous unless I let it be. Not wild unless I stop pretending I can control it.
I sat up slowly, blinking against the gray light that filtered through the canopy. Birds weren't singing yet. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was the smell—damp moss, tree bark, and something faintly burnt. My hands still tingled from a spark I didn't remember summoning.
I stood, brushed off my legs, and tightened my cloak around my shoulders. The wind moved softly through the branches above, whispering like it had a secret. Maybe it did. The forest always knows things before I do.
I took the long path back to the cottage. My boots sank slightly into the wet ground as I walked, and I left no tracks behind. Thalen says I move too quietly for someone who doesn't mean to. He says it like a compliment. I hear it like a warning.
When I stepped through the door, he was already at the workbench, sharpening a knife. He didn't look up.
—You're late.
—I didn't know we were keeping time now.
—We do when you're out past second light. You know better.
I didn't answer. I hung my cloak on the hook by the fire and ran a hand through my tangled hair. Bits of leaf and ash came loose.
—The veil's thin in the mornings —he added.
—I know.
—I'm not trying to cage you in, Maeryn. But things slip through when it thins.
—I said I know.
He fell silent after that. He usually did when I cut him off. I think he doesn't want to say too much. Or maybe he knows I'm not ready to hear it.
I moved to the counter and started unpacking the basket I'd brought. Roots, moss, herbs with jagged leaves. I laid them out neatly.
—Your shoulder still bothering you? —I asked.
—Only when it rains.
—You say that even when it's not raining.
—Maybe I feel it coming.
I handed him a few stalks of vel root. He took them without comment and went back to sharpening.
We moved like that for a while, silent, separate, but not unkind. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. A small kettle steamed on the edge of the coals.
I didn't tell him about the spark. Or the way the trees had shifted when I passed. Or how the mist pulled away from me like it was afraid. He wouldn't say anything if I did, but he'd think about it for days. He'd watch me more closely. Ask quiet questions. Leave protective runes near the windows when he thought I wasn't looking.
So I kept it to myself.
Not because I'm afraid of what I am. I'm not.
But because I think he might be.
Thalen's not weak. He's just tired. I see it in the way he walks now—slower than he used to. I see it in his eyes when he thinks I'm not watching. He carries things he doesn't say. Maybe we both do.
The rest of the day passed without trouble. I read through a few pages of an old journal, practiced flame control outside in the clearing, and helped Thalen sort some dried herbs into jars. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should've made the air feel as thick as it did.
But it did.
By the time the sun began to set, the edge of the forest had started to glow—not from light, but from something else. Something low and red, like embers buried just under the soil. I stood at the treeline, staring into the dark, and the air buzzed around me like it recognized me.
—Dinner's ready —Thalen called from the cottage.
I didn't answer. I didn't move.
I stayed there for a long time.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay on my back beneath the rafters, watching moonlight spill across the beams. Outside, the wind had picked up, sending long shadows dancing across the floor. Every now and then, the fire in the hearth cracked loud enough to make me flinch.
I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe slow. Tried not to think about the way the forest had looked at me earlier—because it had. It always does.
It's alive in ways no one fully understands. It remembers things. Holds them. Waits.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm one of those things.
A log shifted in the fire, breaking open with a burst of sparks.
I sat up, heart thudding. The air felt wrong.
I crossed to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to see outside.
At first, I saw nothing. Just trees, mist, and moonlight.
Then something moved. Quick. Sharp. A flicker of shadow along the treeline.
I held my breath.
Nothing moved again. But the feeling didn't go away.
I stepped away from the window, grabbed the knife I kept under my bed, and sat with my back to the wall. I didn't light a candle. I didn't wake Thalen.
Whatever was out there, it hadn't come close.
Not yet.
But it had seen me.
And I had seen it.
Sleep never came.
Just the same pressure in my chest. The same whisper behind my ribs. Like something ancient had rolled over in its sleep… and was now turning its gaze toward me.
I don't know what it is.
But I know it's meant for me.
And I'm not sure I'm ready for it.
By morning, the feeling was still there, like a thread pulling tight behind my ribs.
I went out alone.
Thalen was still asleep, or pretending to be. I left quietly, not bothering with breakfast. The mist clung to my boots as I stepped into the clearing, then slipped into the forest.
I walked fast. Not because I was afraid, but because I needed to know.
I retraced my steps from the night before. The path was undisturbed—no broken branches, no footprints, no scent. But I knew I hadn't imagined it. Something had been there.
Halfway through the trail, I felt it again.
That pull. That burn.
Not fear. Something older. Heavier.
It buzzed in the ground, in the bark, in the air itself. I knelt and pressed my hand to the dirt. Warm.
A flash hit me—quick and silent. A burst of red behind my eyes. A memory that wasn't mine.
Screaming. Fire. A silver blade. A mark carved into stone.
I staggered back, breath caught in my throat.
This wasn't just magic. This was a message.
Something is waking.
And it's calling me by name.
---
I stood there for a long time, unsure if the memory had ended or if part of it had fused itself into my chest. My hands were trembling. I hated that.
The forest was still again, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of stillness right before the world tilts.
I took a step back. The ground beneath my boots felt fragile, like a surface barely holding. There was no more warmth when I reached out again—only silence, thick and hollow.
I turned and started walking. Not back toward the cottage. Not yet.
I needed answers. Or at least the illusion of them.
There was a glade deeper in the woods, a place I hadn't gone in over a year. Thalen told me to stay away, that the soil there remembered things too clearly. That the magic was older, closer to the original forms—wild, unspoken, sometimes cruel.
That's exactly why I was going.
It took me fifteen minutes to reach it. Maybe more. The trees twisted tighter here, the light dimmer, the cold strangely thick for morning.
The glade wasn't large. A half-circle of low stone walls, covered in moss and broken roots. The center was hollowed earth, scorched and dry, even after a night of rain.
I stepped into the circle.
My breath caught.
There were markings in the ground. Fresh. Drawn into the dirt with something sharp and deliberate. Not symbols I recognized—not the kind in books. But I understood them anyway.
They pulsed faintly under my feet.
One looked like flame. One like a crown. And one... like an eye.
I crouched down, tracing one lightly with my fingertip.
The earth shivered beneath me.
Then everything went still again. Still and cold and watching.
I rose quickly, hand on my knife, eyes scanning the trees.
No one was there.
But the glade knew I had come.
And it wasn't done with me.
I made it back to the cottage by late morning. The air had warmed slightly, but the chill in my chest hadn't left. It followed me all the way home, like it had hooked itself into my ribs.
Thalen was outside, chopping wood with the same precision he used for everything. He looked up when he heard my footsteps, gaze flicking from my face to my hands.
—You're pale.
—I walked far.
He didn't respond, just set the axe down and wiped his palms on a cloth.
—Where?
I hesitated, then met his eyes.
—The old glade.
His expression didn't change, but something in his shoulders stiffened.
—Didn't I tell you to stay away from there?
—You told me not to touch the center. I didn't. Not really.
He stepped closer.
—What did you see?
—Markings. Fresh ones. Symbols I didn't know, but they felt… familiar.
Thalen's jaw tightened. He didn't speak for a long moment. Then—
—You felt something, didn't you? Before you went.
—Yes.
He nodded slowly, then motioned for me to follow him inside.
Once we were seated by the fire, he poured us both a cup of herbal brew. Bitter, grounding. He didn't look at me when he spoke next.
—You've felt it before, haven't you? That pull. That hum in your chest.
—Since I was a child.
—And you never said anything?
—I thought you already knew.
His eyes finally met mine. There was no anger in them—just something heavier.
—I did. I just didn't want to believe it would come this soon.
—What is it? What's calling me?
He didn't answer immediately. Took a long sip from his cup.
—There are old things in this world, Maeryn. Older than the clans, older than the realms. Some of them sleep. Some of them burn. And some… wait. Not for war. Not for peace. But for someone who can carry them.
—And you think I'm that someone.
—I think you were never meant to stay hidden. And the forest agrees.
I sat with that for a while. Let it settle. Let it burn.
—It called me by name, Thalen. In the ground. In the air. It knew me.
He didn't ask how I knew. He just nodded.
—I was hoping we had more time.
He stood, crossed to the old chest he kept locked beneath the stairs, and pulled out a leather-bound book.
—Then we'd better start preparing. Because whatever found you out there... it won't stop now.
Thalen after a while, placed the book on the table between us, fingers lingering on its cover like he wasn't ready to open it.
—I should've told you more —he muttered.
—Then do it now.
He looked at me like he wanted to. Like half of him had been waiting for years to spill everything. But the other half was still guarding something, and I didn't have the right key yet.
—I will. Soon. But not everything at once. It'll only make the fire inside you burn faster.
—And what if I want it to?
—Then you'd be walking straight into it before you're ready to survive it.
I didn't argue. I just leaned back in the chair, watching the flames curl inside the hearth. The silence between us felt different now—not empty, but loaded.
He finally pushed the book toward me.
—Start with the marked pages. I copied what I could from the old texts. Some of it you'll recognize, even if you don't know why.
I reached for it, hesitated, then opened the cover. The first page was filled with symbols that hummed under my fingertips.
Something inside me stirred.
And this time, I didn't try to quiet it.