The silence stretched long after the figure vanished.
Cira stood beside Elian, her pulse still racing, the ghost of that monstrous silhouette imprinted behind her eyes.
"It's following me,"
he had said—so quietly, like confessing a sin to the wind.
But Cira said nothing. She didn't move.
She only watched the mist where the figure had been, her breath slow and careful, as though even sound might stir it again.
Then Lumen whined from behind. The fox was trembling.
"Elian…" she finally whispered, "you said you've seen it before?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on nothing. Or perhaps on something too far away to name.
Then—softly—he nodded.
"Not here. But in pieces… in dreams I can't wake from."
There was something about the way he stood: perfectly still, yet full of quiet storm.
Cira's eyes dropped to his chest—the faint shimmer of the mark glowing through the fabric of his shirt.
It pulsed gently.
And for a moment, she felt a strange ache in her own chest.
He winced slightly.
It was barely noticeable, but it made her stomach twist.
She didn't ask.
She couldn't ask again. She already had, and he had no answers then.
But she remembered how he flinched.
How his voice faltered.
How the mark seemed to glow brighter when the figure was near.
And somehow…
She hated it.
Hated that it hurt him.
Her fingers curled into her sleeve. She said nothing—but took a slow, silent step closer.
If she could carry even a piece of that pain, she would have.
But all she could do…
was walk beside him.
They moved deeper into the forest, not because they wanted to—but because the path no longer led back the same way… as the paths shift in this magical forest and no path led to the same destination.. again.
The fog behind them had thickened, swallowing their footprints. The trees had shifted ever so slightly, unfamiliar branches curling like fingers, changing direction.
"Elian," Cira said, squinting at a distant shimmer in the bark, "look."
There, faintly glowing, were markings like the ones from before—but older now. Covered with moss, wrapped in ivy. And beneath them… faint handprints. Tiny, childlike.
A chill ran down her spine.
"This part of the forest wasn't here before," she murmured. "I know it wasn't."
Elian moved closer. "Or maybe it was… but it was asleep."
They stopped at a small clearing, where an old tree leaned sideways as if bowing to an invisible force. Its bark was split, sap dried into runes. There was something reverent about the place.
Cira knelt to brush away the moss at the tree's base, and found a single silver feather beneath it.
"Elian…"
He turned—and for a brief second, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes.
Recognition.
Or fear.
Or both.
But before she could ask, the wind picked up.
Not from above—but from the ground. It twisted around them, cold and unnatural.
And then they heard it.
A whisper.
Not words—names. Their names.
Elian.
Cira.
Soft, like breath against the back of the neck.
They both turned sharply, but the clearing was empty.
Lumen had vanished.
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