CHAPTER ONE
The young man walked through the forest most people of Stonevell referred to as the Athena woods. This forest was known for harboring creatures of different kinds, and no one dared roam there at night—not even in the daytime. Yet the young man, with a heavy heart, walked past the huge trees, his boots sinking into the moist soil, the constant snapping of twigs beneath his feet. The only sound that could be heard was the hooting of owls in the distance.
Soon, he reached a secluded well in the middle of the forest. The well had a crude wooden frame with a rope and a bucket, and he had to lower it, wait for the splash, and haul it up hand over hand to pour into his bucket. His weak frame did nothing to help the situation, as he was finding it difficult to pull the water up. At last, he managed to raise the bucket, but it bumped the stone lip of the well, and the water splashed onto his feet. Goosebumps broke across his skin from the cold, and he leaned forward to steady it. He caught a reflection of himself in the dark surface of the water—thin face, hollow cheeks, and golden-brown hair falling over his eyebrow.
The water stirred, and a ripple spread across the surface as a hand rose through his reflection, long pale fingers reaching out to grab him. He gasped and took a few steps back, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He blinked hard and looked into the well again, but this time, nothing showed but his reflection. The water was calm, as if what he had seen earlier was only a figment of his imagination.
Just as he was about to carry his bucket of water, a little girl appeared from behind the bushes. Her long hair covered half of her face, and her feet were bare. She stood opposite him, staring.
"What are you doing out here so late? This is no place for a child," he said.
The girl tilted her head slightly. "The forest is not afraid of me," she answered, strangely standing rooted to the ground.
What kind of child roams the forest at night? the young man thought.
The child remained unmoving, her eyes locked on him until he asked again, "Your parents will—"
He didn't get to finish before the child interrupted.
"They don't wait for me. They never do," she said, stepping closer with unblinking, wide eyes.
"Still, it isn't safe. There are things out here you don't understand," the young man continued.
But she only smiled faintly, her lips pulling up in an unusual way.
"I understand you," she said.
The young man stiffened, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of her words.
"You don't belong here. You smell of flowers and smoke. They're afraid of you," she added.
This only deepened his confusion. He moved closer and asked in a low, unsettled voice, "How are they afraid of me?"
"Of what you'll become," she whispered into his ear. Then she darted toward the trees, giggling, her voice piercing through the silent night.
A shiver ran down his spine. Her voice hadn't sounded like a child at all—it was older, weightier, as if something else had spoken through her.
The forest was still again; only the wind moved, rattling through the trees. Thunder cracked from above. It looked like it was about to rain. He had better hurry home before it started. As he bent to lift the water onto his head, he swore he heard it—the faint echo of a voice, low and distant, calling his name from the depths below.
Elian… Elian…
It echoed softly. Shadows lurked in the darkness of the night.
Elian quickened his steps to get home faster. He was getting scared. The bucket seemed to grow heavier with every step. The path to the village wound between low fences and scattered houses, all shuttered against the night. A dog barked once, then fell silent. Elian could feel a presence behind him, but he paid it no heed. He had always felt someone watching over him since childhood.
Stonevell looked different in the darkness. By day, it was gray and small, just a cluster of stone cottages and thin fields. But at night, it seemed to shrink into itself, afraid of the unknown. Only the chapel at the center of the village stood tall, its crooked spire stabbing into the sky.
By the time Elian reached his uncle's cottage, his arms ached and his legs wobbled. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and entered. His uncle sat by the fireplace, his boots off, pipe smoke curling above him. His face twisted in irritation the moment he saw Elian.
"What kept you so long?" the man snapped. "Do you think I have all night to wait for you? Get the water into the barrel and go to sleep."
He locked the door and walked to his room, leaving the boy behind.
Tears welled in Elian's eyes, but he blinked them back. This was how he had lived since his father's mysterious death—treated more like a servant than family. He did all the house chores, helped on his uncle's farm, and ran errands every day. Today was just another routine. He had learned to endure everything while living with his uncle; talking back would only worsen his situation.
He slipped into his room by the kitchen, where his narrow bed waited. He lay down, the straw mattress prickling his skin, and stared at the wooden ceiling above his head. The night pressed close outside, and every creak of the bed and bark of the dogs reminded him of the well. After twisting and turning for a while, he closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to consume him.
Darkness.
Cold water swallowed him, heavy and suffocating. He thrashed, his limbs immovable, as if bound by chains. The deeper he sank, the quieter he became, until the only sound he could hear was the faint thudding of his heart in his ears.
Then strong, warm hands with long fingernails reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him upward. A voice followed, muffled by the water yet achingly clear. A strangely familiar voice whispered his name.
Elian… Elian…
No matter how hard he tried, he could not see his savior's face. His lungs burned, and he reached toward the sound.
Elian…
His eyes snapped open, heart hammering in his chest. Sweat coated his forehead as he scanned the room for whatever that was. The room was dark, the only light a thin split of moon through the small window.
Elian turned his face into the pillow, listening for the whisper again, but the cottage was silent. Who could the voice belong to? he thought, staring into the darkness as his eyes remained unblinking.