The wind carried no sound that evening—no rustling of leaves, no chirp of crickets. It was as if the world held its breath. Lyra walked alone, bare feet brushing against fallen leaves that did not crunch. She had told her family she was searching for the missing goat, but in truth, her feet had led her here without command, as though some unseen thread pulled her deeper into the Silent Forest.
The villagers whispered of this place with dread. They said it devoured travelers, swallowing them whole in mist and silence. Hunters refused to go near it, even in daylight. Yet Lyra's steps were steady, her face unreadable, her eyes pale as moonlight. She did not carry a lantern, yet the shadows parted for her, granting her a clear path forward.
A crow circled overhead, its wings slicing the still air. It gave a single harsh cry before vanishing into the fog. Lyra paused, tilting her head as if listening to something else entirely. Her lips moved, though no sound escaped. If anyone had been with her, they would have sworn she was answering the bird in some forgotten tongue.
The forest stirred in subtle ways. Branches leaned toward her as she passed, their brittle tips brushing her hair as though in reverence. A shiver of energy passed through the mist, faint enough to escape ordinary notice. Lyra raised her hand absently, and the fog recoiled at her gesture like a tide retreating from shore. She lowered it quickly, casting a wary glance over her shoulder. But she was alone. She had always been alone.
The deeper she went, the stranger the ground became—roots twisted around ancient stone, and moss grew over what looked like broken steps. The air was heavier here, thick with age and memory.
And then she saw it.
Nestled beneath a ruined altar of blackened rock lay a silver crown, its shape formed of delicate thorns that seemed to breathe with faint blue fire. The glow was not bright, but alive, like the heartbeat of something waiting.
Lyra did not gasp. She did not even hesitate. She crouched and brushed dirt away with deliberate care. The crown gleamed more clearly now, and in its polished surface she caught a reflection.
But the face that stared back was not her own.
The eyes in the reflection glowed gold, unblinking, ancient. The curve of the lips was unfamiliar, cruel in a way her own had never been. Her chest tightened, but she made no sound.
Whispers coiled into her mind. Soft at first, then multiplying, countless voices layered atop one another, each speaking her name in a different tone—pleading, commanding, adoring, accusing. One voice said Lyra. Another said a name she did not recognize, though it struck her heart with the weight of memory.
Her hand hovered inches above the crown. Her fingers trembled, but not with fear. Something else. Recognition.
Then she drew her hand back, folding it beneath her cloak as though scorched. For a long time she only stood there, eyes fixed on the relic, face unreadable.
At last, with an almost imperceptible smile, she turned away. She left the crown untouched.
But the whispers did not fade. They followed her into the dark, weaving themselves into her silence.
And somewhere, far beyond the forest, something stirred awake.