The wind over the northern ridge had changed.
Elara felt it before she heard it—an old hum beneath the rustling leaves, a vibration in the air that wasn't entirely natural. It pricked at her skin as she and Riven approached the stone arch that marked the boundary of the deeper forest.
Riven halted suddenly.
"Elara," he said quietly, "stay close."
She'd heard him say those words before, often with that same protective edge. But now there was a tension in him that made her heart clench. His posture sharpened, shoulders drawn back, senses attuned to something distant and unseen.
"What is it?" she whispered.
"The forest remembers everything," he answered with a low voice. "Every trespass. Every threat. And it remembers those who don't belong."
Elara blinked at him. "You mean… me?"
"No." His voice softened. "You were chosen. The forest feels you. Responds to you. I meant whoever else is out there."
Something cold slid down her spine. For days now, she'd felt like they were being followed—an echo of footsteps long after they stopped walking, a flicker of movement at the edge of her sight. But every time she turned, nothing was there.
They stepped beneath the stone arch.
Instantly, the air thickened. The forest's pulse—its quiet, ancient heartbeat—grew louder. Elara inhaled deeply. Her own magic shimmered faintly beneath her ribs, as if the forest tugged at it.
"Riven…" She reached for his arm. "It feels different here."
"It should." His eyes stayed forward. "This part of the forest has never accepted outsiders. I was allowed in only because—"
He stopped.
"Because what?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he moved ahead, brushing past her with a tension that wasn't just caution—it was fear. Or guilt. Or both.
As they walked, Elara's fingers grazed the bark of an old tree. A sudden image flashed through her mind—silver light dripping like tears down the trunk, a silhouette of a winged figure, broken, bleeding, collapsing into the roots.
Elara gasped and jerked her hand back.
Riven whirled. "What did you see?"
"You… won't believe me."
"Try me."
She swallowed. "Riven, I saw someone—someone with wings. Falling. The tree showed me."
His pupils dilated. "You saw him?"
"Who?"
But Riven didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer and traced his hand down the same bark she touched.
Nothing happened.
He pressed harder, jaw tightening. Still nothing.
"Elara," he murmured, "trees don't give visions unless they recognize the blood."
"The blood?" Her heart pounded. "You mean my magic?"
"No…" His voice was barely audible. "Unless it recognizes someone like you."
"Someone like me?" she repeated.
His eyes—usually warm, steady, grounding—turned stormy. "You weren't just brought here by accident. And I wasn't the only one watching you the night you arrived."
Before she could demand an explanation, a crackling sound echoed from behind them.
Branches split.
Leaves scattered.
Something—or someone—was coming.
Riven pushed Elara behind him. A low growl rumbled from his chest, a sound she'd only heard once, when he'd been close to losing control.
The shadows stirred.
"Elara," he whispered, "no matter what happens, don't run."
"But—"
"Don't run."
The forest roared to life around them.
And then the figure stepped out of the dark.
A man—tall, cloaked in tattered silver, eyes glowing faintly with starlight. His face was etched with exhaustion and anger, but his gaze, when it found Elara, softened with something like recognition.
"Elara," he breathed.
"I finally found you."
Riven stiffened.
Elara froze.
Everything in the forest went silent.
Then—
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The man lowered his hood.
"Elara," he repeated, voice trembling, "I am the one who carried you from the skies before you fell."