That night, Rowan couldn't sleep.
The house was too quiet. The silence pressed against his ears, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the slow tick of the clock in the hallway. The air felt heavy, charged with expectation.
He slipped out of bed and pulled on his jacket, drawn toward the forest without question.
The trees welcomed him.
Branches parted easily at his approach, thorns bending away rather than catching. The deeper he went, the warmer the air became, as if the forest itself recognized him.
He reached a clearing bathed in moonlight.
At its center lay a half-buried stone, cracked with age, its surface carved with symbols he couldn't read—yet understood. They pulsed faintly beneath his palm when he touched them.
The forest inhaled.
Fire.
Screams.
Blood streaking pale hands.
A blade flashing beneath the moon.
Rowan staggered back, gasping, heart pounding violently.
Miles away, Elara sat upright in her bed, breath ragged, heart racing.
She felt it.
The awakening.
And for the first time in centuries, fear took root.
Not of elves.
Not of war.
But of what would happen if love began where it once destroyed everything.
Beneath Evershade's fog and stone, history stirred.
It did not repeat itself loudly.
It whispered.
And they had already begun to listen.
Rowan woke with the taste of iron at the back of his throat.
It lingered even after he sat up, even after he dragged a hand down his face and reminded himself that he was standing in a strange bedroom, in a strange town, in a house that still smelled faintly of unopened cardboard boxes and old wood. Pale light seeped through the curtains, gray and thin.
The dream—or whatever it had been—clung to him.
Blood on white fabric.
A scream cut short.
A name he almost remembered.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, heart pounding harder than it should have. His pulse felt louder lately, as if his body were listening for something the rest of him couldn't hear.
Downstairs, his parents were already awake. The clink of mugs. The murmur of conversation. Normal sounds. Human sounds.
Rowan dressed quickly and followed them, grounding himself in routine.
But even as he ate, even as his mother asked about school and his father joked about the weather, Rowan felt it again—the pull.
Not toward the forest this time.
Toward her.
It was faint but insistent, like a thread tugging beneath his ribs. When he stepped outside, the sensation sharpened, pointing him not toward the trees, but toward town.
He didn't question it.
Elara Vale had not slept.
She stood at the tall window of her bedroom, watching the morning fog thin as sunlight pushed through. The house behind her was silent, every surface polished, every corridor echoing with restraint. It had been built to endure, not to comfort.
She pressed her fingers lightly to the glass.
The sensation still hummed in her veins—residual, unwelcome. The awakening had rippled outward the night before, and she knew others would have felt it too. The elders always did.
She should have reported it.
Instead, she had stayed silent.
Because the pull had not faded.
It had grown.
Elara turned away from the window and dressed carefully, choosing neutral colors, long sleeves. Appearances mattered. Control mattered.
Yet when she stepped outside, the same invisible thread tightened.
She could have resisted.
She didn't.
They found each other in the town square without planning it.
Rowan was halfway across the cobblestones when he saw her near the old fountain, her dark hair loose, her posture composed in a way that made the world around her seem less certain. The moment his eyes found her, the pressure in his chest eased.
Like relief.
She noticed him at the same instant.
Her gaze sharpened, and something unreadable flickered across her face—recognition, perhaps, or resignation.
They stood there for a breath too long.
Then Rowan spoke first. "How long have you been in Evershade?"
Elara nodded. "All my life."
He hesitated. "Figures."
"For what?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "You just… fit."
The words were out before he could stop them. Heat crept up his neck, but Elara only studied him more closely, as if he'd confirmed something she'd already suspected.
"You don't," she said quietly.
He laughed, a little too quickly. "Is it that obvious?"
"Yes."
There it was again—that faint smile. Not quite warmth. Not quite warning.
They began walking, side by side, without discussing where they were going. The town seemed smaller with her beside him, streets folding inward, guiding them past old storefronts and shuttered cafés.
"You moved here recently," Elara said.
"Yesterday."
"And already the forest has noticed you."
Rowan stopped walking.
"What?"
She halted too, turning to face him. For a split second, he thought she'd said too much. Her expression shuttered.
"Evershade notices newcomers," she corrected smoothly. "It always has."
Rowan searched her face. "You talk about this place like it's alive."
"Isn't it?"
He didn't answer. Because part of him—an increasingly loud part—thought it might be.