The wind moved differently today.
It wasn't just the chill that kissed Liora's cheeks as she stepped barefoot onto the moss-laced path. It was the way the trees shivered—like old gods murmuring in a tongue older than time. She paused beside the ancient healing stones, her fingers brushing the whispering birch whose bark peeled like parchment. Her pulse stuttered. There it was again. A thrum beneath her skin. A second heartbeat.
She pressed her palm flat against the tree. Something inside her stirred, not quite pain, not quite fear—more like recognition. Her blood tingled, thick with voices that didn't come from her own mind. They echoed in her bones, secrets tangled in emotion. She had felt it since the moment she turned twenty-one. At first, just a prickle—a warmth when someone lied near her. Then whispers when they tried to hide shame. Now?
Now her veins spoke full truths without asking permission. She'd learned not to flinch when the village boys boasted fake bravado—they glowed red in her vision. Or when grieving wives came to her door with fevered children, mourning husbands who had died "accidentally" on hunting trips. Her blood told her things no one dared say aloud. But today... it was different.
Today, the whisper said: He's coming. Liora shivered, wrapping her shawl tighter. The village of Virellen slumbered in the arms of the Ashthorn Mountains, mist curling like breath from the earth. People here had long stopped praying. The gods were something of old songs and stone runes now—decorations, not devotion.
She walked back toward the clearing, where her grandmother's stone cottage stood draped in nettle vines and the scent of dried herbs. The air around it always felt slightly warmer, as if some unseen hand shielded it. Inside were relics: bones carved with symbols, oils that smelled of bloodroot and pine, and her grandmother's thick grimoire, locked shut with a braid of Liora's own hair.
To the villagers, she was simply "the healer." A quiet girl. A little too watchful. A little too strange. They brought her sick children and broken bones, left eggs and woven charms at her door—but never invitations to dances or marriage festivals. She wasn't offended.
Understanding came with a price. And fear was its down payment. "Liora!" The name pierced the still air like an arrow. She turned swiftly. Elwen, the baker's daughter, was stumbling down the hill, her cheeks flushed, curls flying wildly. Panic carved her face. "He touched the black thorns again my brother! His fingers are swelling Liora, please!" Without a word, Liora strode forward, gripping the pouch at her hip. Elwen sniffled beside her, wringing her apron. "Bring him to the stones," Liora said softly. "Quickly." Elwen ran.
Liora crouched by the altar rocks and opened her pouch. Her fingers moved quickly—wolfglove, river mint, two drops of mare's milk. But even before she crushed the herbs, her blood stirred. Not just the thorns. Something darker. Cursed. She flinched. The word echoed like thunder in her skull. Cursed? No one had spoken of curses in decades. Not since the Time Before. Rituals and blood oaths were for fairy stories—weren't they?
The boy arrived minutes later, limp in his sister's arms. She lay him on the grass, and Liora unwrapped the cloth around his hand. Her breath hitched. Blisters, black and pulsing, marked each finger. "He said it was the thorn vines," Elwen mumbled, biting her lip.
Liora didn't respond. She gently took his wrist—and her blood surged with warning. He lied. He touched the shrine. Her head snapped up. "Which way did he go?"
Elwen hesitated. "Toward the deep woods, I think. Just to play.…" Liora's fingers twitched. The shrine. It was still sealed. Hidden beneath roots and stories. Her grandmother had warned her: "Never walk where the earth remembers gods. Memory breeds monsters." But the whisper in her veins was no longer soft. Something was waking. That night, mist draped the trees like silk. Liora sat by her window, untouched tea cooling at her elbow. The birch branches creaked outside, though the air was windless.
Then—The whisper didn't come as a thought. It came aloud, like a lover exhaling near her ear. He's near. Bleeding. Dying. Yours.
A crash. A howl. Then silence. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed her cloak and dagger, heart pounding, feet bare against the damp earth. The moon glinted pale above as she slipped between trees, guided not by sight but by the pull in her veins. She found him slumped at the base of the shrine oak. A man. No a shadow of one. He was draped in torn black cloth, blood soaked deep into the fabric.______His skin was ghostly pale beneath grime and bruises, and his chest barely moved.
Liora knelt beside him, pressing her fingers to his cheek. Warm. Alive. But as her skin met his—Her blood screamed. Not in fear. Not in pain. In recognition. Then—his eyes snapped open. And they were silver. Not gray. Not blue. Silver. Like starlight kissed by winter. And her blood sang only one truth: He's not human. But he's yours.