The Ghost in the Trees
The valley stirred beneath the cliffs as dawn broke, but the peace of morning felt thin, brittle, as though one wrong breath might shatter it. Wolves moved about in restless clumps, their voices hushed, their glances quick and sharp. Smoke curled up from the cookfires, but even that familiar scent seemed tainted by the heavy stillness pressing down upon the stronghold.
From her vantage at the cliffs, Liora could see it all. The way mothers pulled their pups close. The way sentries lingered at the edges of the gathering grounds, noses twitching, eyes always sliding back to the dark forest beyond. The way the air itself felt charged, thick with unease.
The wolves didn't know why they were unsettled. Not exactly. But Liora did.
The wind carried a scent that should not exist.
It clung faintly to her tongue, sharp as smoke, bitter as grave dirt. It was a scent she had known too well in life, had battled against, had killed, had destroyed utterly. Vanya.
The dagger at her belt pulsed once, a hot, restless throb, as though it too recognized what drifted in the air.
Beside her, Nyssa folded her arms tight against the cold, eyes narrowed at the pack below. "They're uneasy," she said softly.
"They should be," Liora murmured.
Nyssa gave her a sharp look. "Do you know why?"
Liora didn't answer. She kept her eyes locked on the tree line.
The healer sighed. "You do. Spirits save me, I can see it in your face. You know something's wrong, and you won't say it aloud."
Liora tore her gaze from the forest, just long enough to meet Nyssa's eyes. "Words make things real."
Nyssa's lips pressed into a thin line. "And silence lets them fester."
Liora turned away, cloak snapping in the wind. She could not say the name. She would not. Not yet.
Because if Vanya truly walked again—if death had not been enough—then everything Liora had clawed and bled for was already trembling on the edge of ruin.
***
By midday, whispers wound through the stronghold like smoke.
Some claimed to have seen movement between the trees shadows too tall, too wrong to be wolves. Others swore they smelled ash on the air, or blood, or something older, fouler, that made their fur bristle and their hackles rise.
An apprentice, no more than twelve winters old, told his mother he'd woken before dawn to the sound of a woman singing outside the walls. Her voice had been sweet, he said, but broken, like wind whistling through cracked bone.
By the time the sun hung low in the sky, the rumor had sharpened into one word, passed from muzzle to muzzle.
Vanya.
Liora sat rigid in the Alpha's council chamber, listening as her lieutenants reported the stories. She kept her face carved in stone, but inside, her heart pounded so violently she thought the others might hear it echo.
"They say she walks again," one wolf muttered, ears pinned back. "That the grave couldn't hold her."
Another spat into the fire. "Nonsense. The dead don't walk. This is fear twisting tongues, nothing more."
And yet his hands trembled where they rested on his knees.
The dagger at Liora's hip pulsed steadily, heat radiating against her ribs. Its whispers slid through her thoughts, faint and slippery.
Not gone. Not gone. She comes. She comes.
Liora pressed her hand to her belt until her knuckles whitened.
When the council was dismissed, Nyssa caught her by the arm. "You're pale. Too pale. You know this isn't just rumor."
Liora pulled free. "It's nothing. Ghost stories."
"Don't lie to me." Nyssa's voice cracked, raw with frustration. "If you drag this pack into darkness with your silence, you'll lose them."
Liora's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Better silence than truth.
***
The night fell heavy, starless, the moon veiled in cloud. Torches burned along the walls of the stronghold, their flames taller than usual, as if even fire knew it had to fight harder against the dark. Guards doubled their patrols. Mothers kept their pups close, curling their bodies around them as though fur alone could shield against what whispered at the gates.
Liora sat alone in her chamber, the dagger laid across her knees. She had tried to rest, but sleep would not come. Every time her eyes closed, she saw ash drifting across the forest floor. Every time her breath slowed, she smelled smoke curling up from a pyre long burned to nothing.
The dagger was restless tonight. Its warmth seeped into her skin, its pulse syncing with her own heartbeat. And its whispers—always there, but faint—were louder now, clearer.
She comes. She comes. She comes.
Liora gritted her teeth. "Dead. You're dead. I killed you."
The whispers laughed. Or maybe they wept. It was hard to tell.
"Liora…"
Her name.
Not in her mind. Not from the dagger. A voice. Soft. Low. Spoken from beyond the chamber door.
Her blood froze.
She stood slowly, every muscle drawn tight, dagger clenched in her grip. The voice had been a woman's. Familiar. Too familiar.
"Liora…"
It came again, a breath through the wood, delicate as spider-silk.
She swallowed hard, moved to the door, and unlatched it in one swift motion.
The corridor yawned empty. Shadows pooled thick at the edges, torches guttering low.
On the floor, faint but unmistakable, a trail of ash streaked across the stones. It led away from her chamber, down the hall, toward the spiral stairs that wound to the forest gates.
The dagger pulsed once.
Twice.
Hard, insistent, like a second heart beating against her palm.
"Spirits damn you," Liora hissed under her breath.
But she followed.
***
The trail wound down the stairwell, flakes of ash breaking and scattering with every breath of wind that snaked through the cracks in the stone. Her footsteps were soundless, but her heartbeat roared in her ears.
At the gates, the trail grew fainter, dissolving into the night air. The guards stood stiff at their posts, eyes fixed outward, jaws clenched against some unseen weight. They did not see her slip past, cloak drawn tight, dagger gleaming faintly in the dark.
The forest swallowed her.
The ash was gone now, but she could smell it, stronger than ever. It clung to the bark of the trees, to the soil beneath her boots, to the very air she breathed.
And beneath it was something else.
Breath.
Heartbeat.
Life.
"Vanya…"
The name slipped from her lips before she could stop it, cracked and broken like a prayer.
A wind shivered through the branches, scattering needles across her shoulders. The forest seemed to lean in, to listen.
"Liora…"
This time, the voice came from the trees themselves, from everywhere and nowhere. Low, familiar, mournful.
Her grip tightened on the dagger.
"Show yourself!" she snarled, the sound tearing from her throat.
Silence.
The laughter was soft, broken. It rippled through the trees, sank into the earth, and died away like smoke.
Her pulse raced. She spun, searching, eyes sharp, teeth bared.
Nothing.
Only the dagger, burning hot in her hand, its whispers louder now.
Not gone. Not gone. Not gone.
And as she turned back toward the stronghold, she saw it—faint, just at the edge of the tree line.
A figure.
Tall. Thin. Cloaked in shadow.
Watching.
Her breath caught.
The figure lifted its head. For an instant, the clouds shifted, moonlight breaking through just enough to touch a face she knew. Pale. Scarred. Eyes like hollow pits.
Vanya.
Her lips curved in a smile that was wrong, too sharp, too knowing.
Then the clouds swallowed the moon again, and the forest was empty.
Liora staggered back, chest heaving, dagger trembling in her hand.
She was gone.
But the scent lingered.
Ash. Blood. Wolf.
Vanya.
Alive.
Or something worse.