The morning crawled, but Allan remained rooted under the same bush where Debora had left him. Her parting words, like a stubborn dew, clung cold and damp to his chest, refusing to evaporate. The chill breeze had begun to warm, yet his hands remained frozen.
He moved slowly back towards the house, each footfall a reluctant drag, his eyes scanning the thinning mist. The compound was now a chorus of life: the insistent clucking of chickens, the rhythmic splash of water being fetched, the faint, carefree laughter from the kitchen.
Inside, Thomas sat alone, a steaming mug cupped in his hands. His gaze lifted, then narrowed on Allan. "So," Thomas drawled, not quite meeting his eyes, "has the old crow filled your head with enough nonsense?"
Allan offered no reply. He walked past Thomas, finding Canya in the backyard, scattering feed for the rabbits. She looked up as he approached.
"She's strange," Canya mused, her voice soft. "Debora. But… not terrifying. Just profoundly strange."
"She's coming back at noon," Allan stated, standing beside her.
Canya wiped her hands on her skirt, her gaze holding his. "Do you believe her?"
He hesitated, the doubt a heavy knot. "I don't know. But I feel like she believes it."
Canya stared, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "That's the thing, isn't it? Whether we believe or not, they believe enough for everyone."
Allan managed a faint smile. "I didn't think you'd say something like that."
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Allan," she replied, her eyes twinkling briefly before the seriousness returned.
The rest of the morning draped itself in quiet tension. The household circled Allan with unspoken questions. Even the younger children seemed to sense the unusual current in the air. When the sun climbed halfway to its zenith, Allan sought the shade of the ancient fig tree in the corner of the compound. He kept glancing skyward, a silent vigil.
And when the sun pierced its peak, everything shattered.
It began with an abrupt, violent gust, unnatural in its suddenness. The sky overhead darkened—not to night, but a hazy, somber dimming, as if an unseen hand had drawn a translucent veil across the sun. Birds erupted into chaotic flight, scattering in every direction. Even the goats bleated nervously, bolting for the flimsy shelter of the sheds.
From the edge of the woods, the direction Debora had taken, a low hum began to vibrate through the earth. Allan stood, his muscles taut. The hum swelled into a resonant whisper, a language utterly unknown to him, yet one that vibrated deep within the marrow of his bones.
Then she came.
But not alone.
Debora emerged from the dense woods, draped in a new robe—pure white, embroidered with intricate black vines along the hem. Beside her walked two other figures: one, an ancient woman with tightly braided grey hair, leaning on a staff Allan recognized with a jolt—the very one Lulu had held in his dream yesterday; the other, younger, taller than Debora, his eyes concealed by a strip of dark silk. Neither spoke, yet their silent presence thundered with profound meaning.
The moment they stepped into the compound, Thomas appeared in the doorway, arms tightly crossed. "What is the meaning of this?" he barked, his voice laced with challenge.
But the woman with the staff simply raised a gnarled hand. "This place is chosen. And the boy must choose."
Allan's gaze swept across the assembled faces. Everyone had gathered, even Canya's three siblings huddled fearfully behind her, caught between terror and awe. Canya's brow furrowed with anxiety, for she too had seen that same staff in her own dream.
Debora turned to Allan, her expression unreadable. "Come."
He moved, unsure if it was his own legs obeying or some ancient force, something beyond mere will.
"You must choose between the path Thomas offers—fame, power, the magic to fulfill his prophecy—or the one prepared before your father's father even drew breath. The gods of Woodland are patient, but their patience is not eternal."
Thomas spat, a harsh sound against the silence. "You're making this sound like some ritual nonsense. He's a boy! He should choose life—with us."
The blindfolded figure, silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was a low, resonant rumble. "He cannot choose life if he does not know what death truly is." The words struck Allan like a splash of ice water across his heart.
Debora looked Allan straight in the eye, her gaze unwavering. "You will be taken into the circle now. There, you will face what haunts your dreams. You will see her—the one I spoke of. And only then will your choice be real."
Allan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His hands trembled, a nervous tremor he couldn't control. "And what happens if I walk away?"
"You forget the dreams," Debora said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You forget everything. Even her."
His breath caught. Her—the shadowed girl from his recurring nightmares. The one with eyes like burning coals, always reaching, always whispering his name.
He couldn't forget her. He wouldn't.
"Then take me," he said, the words firm, decisive.
Debora nodded once, a subtle inclination of her head. "Let the circle be drawn."
The woman with the staff led the way, stepping into the center of the compound. With surprisingly swift movements, she traced an ancient sigil in the dust—lines, symbols, curves that seemed to shift and writhe the longer he looked. Allan stood at the very heart of it. Debora placed a small, cold black stone in his hand.
"Close your eyes," she instructed.
He did.
And everything vanished. The clamor of the compound, the lingering warmth, the earthy scent of goats and brewing tea—all gone. He stood in a vast, silent field of stars, cold and infinitely deep. A voice called his name, not from any discernible direction, but from within him.
Then she appeared.
She was no longer a fragmented dream—she was real, breathtakingly so.
The girl with the fire in her eyes. She walked toward him barefoot, wrapped in a cloak woven from storm clouds, and stopped just inches from his chest.
"You've come," she whispered, her voice a fragile, ancient sound.
"I've been dreaming of you," he said, his own voice sounding oddly distant in this boundless space.
"You were never just dreaming, Allan. You were remembering."
He opened his mouth to speak, but she gently lifted a finger to his lips.
"Now, you must remember more. Remember what they tried to hide."
She reached forward, her touch feather-light, and pressed her finger to his forehead.
The sky cracked.