The Blackwood was not silent. As they moved east, the insistent thrum of the bond a lodestone in her chest, Elara began to hear it. It was a low, susurrating murmur that seeped from the gnarled bark of the ancient trees and vibrated up through the soles of her feet. It wasn't a language of words, but of intent, of feeling, a psychic rustle of leaves that spoke directly to her soul. Curiosity. Dread. Awe. The forest was not just alive; it was aware.
Valerius seemed oblivious, or more likely, profoundly indifferent, gliding through the dense undergrowth with a predator's silent, effortless grace. His power, even leashed by the bond, pushed back against the oppressive weight of the wood, creating a pocket of cold, clear space around him. Elara, however, felt each whisper like a cold finger on her spine. The forest was aware of them. More specifically, it was acutely aware of him.
"They know you," she said, her voice small against the vast, listening quiet. The words felt like a trespass.
"Of course they do," he replied without breaking stride or looking back, his tone that of a master stating the obvious to a dim child. "I am their oldest nightmare and their first god. The trees have long memories. They remember when my shadow was the only thing that grew here, when their roots drank from the rivers of power that ran from my scales."
A particularly ancient oak, its trunk split and hollowed by time and something that looked like claw marks too large for any natural beast, seemed to groan as they passed. A shower of brittle, brown leaves fell around them like a mournful rain. Elara shivered, pulling the thin, torn white sacrifice gown tighter around herself. It was a futile gesture against the deep, spiritual chill of the wood, a chill that felt like the echo of his presence.
"Are they… afraid?" she asked, her breath misting in the air.
Valerius finally glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of cold amusement in his luminous golden eyes. "Terrified. But that is their natural state. The strong rule, the weak tremble and are consumed. It is the first and last law of this world, little wife. One you would do well to learn. You are, after all, currently among the weak."
His words were meant to belittle, to reinforce her place in his new world order, but they only heightened her unease. She was, by his definition, weak. A thing that should be trembling. And yet, she held his leash. The contradiction was a fragile shield, and the forest's fear was a palpable thing, a pressure against her skin.
The pull of the bond grew stronger, the silken cord in her chest drawing taut, leading them toward a denser part of the wood where the trees grew so close their branches wove a tunnel of perpetual twilight. The whispers grew louder here, layering over one another into a chorus of ancient, rustling voices that spoke inside her mind.
…the Serpent stirs… he walks again… …the binding is broken… the age of shadow returns… …and what is that with him? That flicker of stolen sun…? That spark not his own…?
Elara froze, her blood running cold. "They're talking about me."
Valerius stopped, turning to face her fully. He tilted his head, truly listening for the first time, his preternatural senses extending beyond his own thoughts. A faint, intrigued frown marred his perfect brow. "The bond," he mused, more to himself than to her. "It acts as a conduit, a bridge. My presence is a shout in this world, a clarion call they cannot ignore. But yours… yours is a strange melody they have not heard before. A dissonant note in my song. They are trying to place your tune."
He took a step toward her, his previous amusement replaced by a sharp, analytical interest that felt more dangerous than his anger. "What do you hear? Exactly."
Elara closed her eyes, focusing on the rustling murmur, letting the meaning wash over her. "They call me a flicker of stolen sun," she whispered, the words feeling both alien and terrifyingly familiar on her tongue.
Valerius went very still. The air around him seemed to grow colder, the shadows deepening. "Sun," he repeated, the word a soft, dangerous hiss, like water on hot coals. His gaze intensified, sweeping over her as if seeing her for the first time—really seeing her. The storm-grey eyes that saw too much, the pale hair that seemed almost silver in the dim light, a color rare and strange for their region. A memory, ancient and bitter, flickered in the depths of his gold-flecked eyes. "Your lineage. I knew you were no simple village wretch. That power, the will to command the pact… it had to come from somewhere. Stolen sun… an interesting choice of words."
Before she could ask what he meant, could demand an answer, a new sound cut through the whispers—a high, desperate chittering, laced with pure panic. It was coming from a thicket of cruel, dark brambles just off the path. Something was trapped, and it was dying.
Elara moved toward it without thinking, pushing aside the thorny branches, ignoring the way they scraped at her arms. There, tangled in a snare of witch-weed—a vicious, magical vine that glowed with a sickly purple light—was a small, fox-like creature. Its fur was the color of vibrant moss, and its large, intelligent eyes, the color of amber, shone with terror and pain. A single, spiral horn of pearlescent white protruded from its forehead. It struggled weakly, the magical vines tightening with every movement, sapping its strength.
"A sun-sprite," Valerius said, his voice dripping with contempt from behind her. He made no move to come closer. "A creature of light and warmth and pointless vitality. It does not belong in my woods. The witch-weed will do my work for me. Leave it."
Elara ignored him. She knelt, her heart clenching at the creature's palpable fear. It was a thing of life, of warmth, trapped in this cold, dark place of shadow and despair. Just like she had been. Its fear echoed her own, a sympathetic chord that vibrated deep within her.
"Don't be afraid," she murmured, the words as much for herself as for the creature.
She reached for the power, but instinctively, she did not reach for the cold, shadowy strength of Valerius that now lived within her. She reached for something else, a warmth she felt buried deep within herself, a spark that had flared when the trees called her "stolen sun." It was a faint, guttering flame compared to the oceanic power of the god, but it was hers. She thought of gentle hands, of loosening a knot, of setting something free. She thought of light.
A soft, golden light emanated from her fingertips. It was faint, warm, and gentle, nothing like the violent, concussive bursts of shadow she had wielded before. It was the light of a single candle in a vast darkness. As her hands neared the witch-weed, the vicious vines recoiled, not from fear, but as if touched by something anathema to their very nature. They sizzled softly, withering, turning brittle and gray, and releasing their hold.
The little creature scrambled free, shook its mossy fur, and fixed its large, grateful eyes on her. It didn't run. It took a step forward, limping slightly, and nudged its warm head against her bleeding hand—a silent, profound thank you—then turned and darted away into the shadows, a fleeting ember swallowed by the dark.
Elara stared at her hands, at the faint, fading glow around her fingers. The warmth lingered in her chest, a small, defiant hearth against the pervasive cold.
A slow, deliberate clapping sound broke the silence. She looked up. Valerius was applauding, each clap a sharp, mocking crack in the quiet wood.
"How touching," he purred, his eyes narrowed to calculating slits. "A veritable goddess of mercy. You used a spark of my power to perform a parlor trick for a piece of vermin."
But she saw it. Behind the thin veneer of mockery, in the tense line of his shoulders, the slight recoil when the light had flared, was something else. Shock. A deep, unsettling wariness. And something that looked almost like… recognition.
"You can't do that, can you?" she asked, rising to her feet, a new, terrifying boldness rising in her. "The light. The warmth. It's not yours. It hurt you to even look at it."
His expression shut down, becoming a mask of cold, impassive stone. "Do not mistake novelty for strength. That… light… is a drop in the ocean of what you hold. A insignificant mutation. A flicker, as the trees said. Nothing more." He turned away, his back rigid. "Focus on the lesson. Control the shadow. That is your only path to surviving what is to come. Sentimentality is a luxury that will get you killed."
But he was lying. She had felt his recoil, seen the flicker of something that looked almost like pain in his eyes. The trees had whispered of stolen sun. She had just manifested light. And it was a power that seemed to be hers alone, not his, antagonistic to the very essence of the god she was bound to.
The bond was not just a chain tethering her to a god. It was a bridge. And for the first time, Elara looked at the furious, magnificent being ahead of her and wondered if power could flow both ways across it.
The forest continued to whisper, but now, she listened with new ears, and her heart whispered back.