The rooster's crow tore the silence before dawn, and Darius groaned before his eyes had even opened. His shoulders carried the ache of yesterday's work, each joint stiff, as if the fence he had mended had pressed itself into his very bones. For a moment, he thought of rolling onto his side and clinging to the fading warmth of sleep — but his father's footsteps below silenced the thought. In Ashwood, the day did not wait for anyone.
He rose, rubbed his eyes until sparks danced in the darkness, then pushed himself upright. His little sister, Elara, was still asleep across the room, her breath puffing through parted lips, her hair tangled like a bird's nest. She had kicked off her blanket again. Darius tugged it back over her shoulders gently, careful not to wake her. She murmured, smiled faintly, and turned deeper into her dreams.
The floorboards creaked under his weight as he climbed down the ladder into the main room. The air was cool and damp with night's memory, but the hearth was already alive, firelight licking at the blackened stones. His mother crouched nearby, stirring the pot where oats thickened with milk. The smell was earthy and warm, promising, though not enough to hush the hollowness in his stomach.
"You're later than usual," his mother said without turning.
"Barely," Darius muttered, rubbing his arms to shake off the chill.
She glanced back at him then, her hair escaping its braid, flour dusting the curve of her cheek. Her look was fond but sharp — the kind that carried both love and expectation. "Your father's waiting."
Of course he was.
Darius wolfed down a bowl of porridge, ignoring the way it burned the roof of his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and grabbed his boots. By the time he stepped outside, the first pale fingers of light were creeping over the forest canopy. Mist clung to the ground, heavy in the hollows, turning every fencepost and shrub into half-seen shapes.
His father stood already at the edge of the field, shoulders square, the old plow at his side. Beside him, Bram the ox chewed slowly, his dark eyes blinking with the kind of patience Darius wished he had.
"Late," his father said simply.
"I'm here now," Darius answered, gripping the rope.
The soil was stubborn that morning. Each pull seemed heavier, the ground clumping with damp, the plow catching on unseen stones. Darius' palms screamed before the sun had fully cleared the treetops. The rope bit deeper into the raw skin, reopening blisters, and each step pressed pain up through his legs. Sweat trickled into his eyes, salt-stinging, but he kept moving, because that was what was expected.
"Steady hands," his father called, his voice a low rumble over the scrape of iron. "Steady mind."
The words were old, older than Darius himself. He repeated them in his head, though they did not ease the weight.
By midmorning, Elara came skipping down the path, clutching a cup wrapped in a wet cloth. She always seemed to know when he was close to breaking.
"Water," she announced brightly, though her eyes softened as they landed on his red palms. "Don't drop it."
"I won't," Darius said, though he nearly did. The first swallow was so cold it cut like glass down his throat. He drank too quickly and choked, coughing until Elara slapped his back with her small hand. She laughed as he gasped, and for a moment, the ache faded beneath her grin.
But when she leaned close to whisper, her breath tickled against his ear, and her words froze him colder than the water had.
"Widow Maren says the forest was whispering last night."
Darius turned sharply, rope slipping from his grasp. "What do you mean?"
"She says she woke to fetch water and heard voices in the trees. Not people voices. Something… lower." Elara's face was solemn, her eyes wide as if repeating it might make the story her own.
He wanted to dismiss it, laugh at it, call it just another tale. But the memory of the murmurs he had overheard in the square the day before tightened around his chest.
"Elara," his father barked from behind. "Back to your mother."
She pouted, glanced once more at Darius, then skipped off, her ribbon bobbing with each step.
They worked until the sun was high and the air shimmered with heat. The soil clung to his boots, thick and unyielding, and by the time his father finally said, "Enough," Darius' arms trembled with every motion.
Lunch was bread, hard and cracked, with a sliver of cheese his mother had saved. They ate in silence beneath the shadow of the oak at the field's edge. His father chewed slowly, his eyes fixed not on the food but on the tree line.
"You hear it?" he asked suddenly.
Darius froze, crumbs caught in his throat. "Hear what?"
"The forest," his father said. "Too quiet."
Darius strained his ears. The hum of insects was there, faint and steady. The occasional caw of a crow. But nothing else. No woodpeckers hammering, no rustle of leaves from a passing hare. Just stillness, as if the forest itself had stopped to listen.
His father's jaw worked, but he said nothing more.
That night, the village gathered in the square for the midsummer prayer. Candles flickered in rows, their glow warm against the rising dark. Darius stood beside his family, his hands clasped, murmuring words he had said every year since he was a child. Yet even as the chant rose around him, his eyes strayed to the forest.
Shadows pooled at its edge, darker than they should have been, moving though no wind stirred. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw eyes — low, glinting, yellow like a fox's — and his breath caught in his throat.
When he blinked, they were gone.
The prayer ended, voices breaking into the easy chatter of neighbors, but Darius' chest remained tight. He smiled when Elara tugged at his sleeve, pretended to listen as his mother exchanged words with the baker's wife, but his gaze kept drifting back to the trees.
Something had been there. He was certain of it.
Later, as the candles guttered and the villagers drifted home, he lingered by the well, letting the cool water run through his fingers. The night was heavy, pressing, filled with the ordinary chorus of crickets and frogs. Yet beneath it, just faint enough to question, he thought he heard it again — a murmur threading through the stillness.
Words he could not catch. Words he was not sure he wanted to.
He straightened quickly, the water dripping from his hand. His father's voice carried across the square, calling his name. Darius turned, forcing his feet toward the light of home.
Behind him, the forest waited. Watching.