The forest had grown quieter since Alex last walked its borders.
Once, it had been filled with the sound of insects, the chatter of birds, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by wind. Now the silence felt wrong a hush too complete, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.
Alex paused at the tree line, mud clinging to his boots, and let the weight of that silence settle on him. The air smelled of damp rot and cold iron. He'd sworn he would never come back here. Yet the letter crumpled now in his coat pocket had left him no choice.
They're dying, Alex. The forest's sick, and it's spreading. If anyone knows what to do, it's you.
—Elara.
He remembered her handwriting, trembling as though written by candlelight. His hands, too, were shaking now, though from cold or dread, he couldn't tell.
The Ashwood loomed before him, ancient and endless. The trees were darker than he remembered black bark veined with silver cracks, as though lightning had struck them again and again and they had somehow survived. Mist clung to their roots like ghostly water.
He took one step forward, then another.
The wind sighed, a long exhale, carrying with it a whisper that might have been his name.
"Alex…"
He froze. His pulse thundered in his throat. "It's just the wind," he muttered, though he'd said that too many times in his life to still believe it.
It had been five years since the ritual. Five years since the fire. Since his brother's screams had echoed through the trees and the world had gone red.
He pushed the memory down, deeper than the roots. The past had teeth; he'd learned not to feed it.
A flicker of light drew his attention a lantern, swinging faintly through the fog ahead. The outline of a small cottage emerged, its thatched roof half-collapsed, its windows dark. Elara's place.
He knocked once.
No answer.
The door creaked open under his hand, the smell of herbs and smoke hitting him all at once. Inside, the hearth was cold. A single mug sat on the table, half-full of tea gone black. Papers littered the floor pages of notes in Elara's script, full of frantic sketches of plants and roots, all crossed out.
He called softly, "Elara?"
No sound. Only the faint drip of rain leaking through the roof.
Then, from the corner, something moved.
He spun, hand instinctively going to the charm hanging from his neck a small piece of bone carved with runes. The shape in the shadows was small, hunched. Not human.
A fox, its fur patchy and matted, stared at him with one milky eye. Its tail dragged limply behind it. When it opened its mouth, no sound came only a thread of black liquid dripping from its tongue.
The forest's sickness.
He whispered a quick protection verse under his breath and watched as the fox stumbled back into the mist, vanishing between the trees.
"Elara," he said again, louder this time. His voice cracked on the name.
From behind the house came a faint rustling. Alex stepped outside. The fog thickened, curling around his legs. Something or someone was moving near the well.
He drew closer, heart pounding.
She was kneeling there. Her back to him, hair tangled, soaked through with rain. At first he thought she was washing something in the bucket. Then he saw her hands scratching at the stones, nails torn, as though trying to dig into the well itself.
"…Elara?"
The woman turned.
And it wasn't Elara.
Her eyes caught the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds silver, almost white. Her skin was too pale, her lips cracked. But it was the veins that made him step back black, spidering across her throat, pulsing faintly like roots drawing water.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Rain pattered between them, soft and hollow.
Then she whispered, voice raw, almost broken:
"You shouldn't have come back."
Alex's breath caught. "Who are you?"
She looked down, as if the question hurt her. "I don't remember."
He took a careful step forward, watching the darkness crawling up her arms. "You're sick."
Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "We all are."
And before he could move, she collapsed against him cold as stone, trembling, her breath shallow.
He caught her just before her head hit the ground.
As he lowered her gently, the mist thickened around them, whispering like a living thing.
Somewhere deep within the forest, something laughed low, ancient, and pleased.
Alex lifted his head toward the sound, his hand still trembling against the woman's heartbeat.
The air felt charged, alive with old power.
He knew, then, that this was no ordinary sickness. The Ashwood was waking and it had been waiting for him.