The village of Eryndor slept beneath a sky that refused to show stars.
It had been like that for years—an endless stretch of dark clouds, unmoving, suffocating. The elders called it a curse. The children called it normal.
But Gideon knew better.
He always knew.
At seventeen, Gideon Goddard had already learned one thing the hard way—he did not belong.
Not in Eryndor. Not among its people. Not even within himself.
He stood alone at the edge of the forest, where the trees grew too close together, like they were whispering secrets to each other. The villagers never came here. They said the forest watched you.
Gideon didn't mind.
Because something in him watched back.
The wind brushed against his skin, cold and unnatural. It carried a voice—soft, distant, almost forgotten.
"Come…"
He froze.
That voice again.
It wasn't the first time he had heard it. It came in dreams, in silence, in the spaces between heartbeats. And every time, it sounded closer.
More real.
"Who are you?" Gideon whispered.
The forest did not answer.
But the shadows shifted.
And for a brief moment—just a flicker—he saw something standing between the trees.
Tall.
Distorted.
Watching him.
His breath caught in his throat.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Then it vanished.
Gideon staggered back, his heart racing—not from terror, but from something far worse.
Understanding.
That thing…
It wasn't following him.
It was waiting.