The wind slid cold fingers through the charred remains of the grove, rustling ash and soot like whispers between gravestones. A faint shaft of morning light pierced the treetop wreckage and landed on Aeryn's cheek, waking her with a shiver.
She didn't move at first. Her back pressed against the curved trunk of a fallen birch, breath shallow, fingers curled around the hilt of her knife as if her dreams had been a battlefield too. Around her, silence reigned—no birdsong, no footsteps, only the creak of wounded branches shifting above.
Aeryn sat up slowly, brushing flecks of ash from her cloak. Her muscles protested. A long, ugly cut on her thigh burned under the bandages she'd wrapped in the dark hours before dawn. The pain was good. It reminded her she was still alive.
Her gaze swept the grove—or what was left of it. Blackened stumps smoldered in places, a fading testament to the fire magic unleashed the night before. No bodies, at least not near her. That meant someone had cleared them, or worse, no one had survived to bury them.
She stood. Unsteadily. And then, with a kind of stubborn pride, straighter.
A rustle to the east—too rhythmic to be wind.
Aeryn's hand went to her knife again, but before she could draw it, a low whistle threaded through the air. Three notes. Familiar.
She relaxed.
"Kale?" she called, voice rough. "That you?"
The underbrush parted, and Kale emerged, half-covered in briar scratches and mud. His eyes looked sunken, haunted. But he was whole.
"Found tracks," he said, voice clipped. "North edge. Not ours."
Aeryn swallowed. "Survivors?"
Kale shook his head. "Doubt it. These weren't running from the fire. They were watching it."
They sat together in the hollow where the roots of the elder trees formed a natural bowl, cradling them in damp earth and shadows. Aeryn had started a fire—not for warmth, but light. There was something in the dusk that made her skin crawl, like unseen eyes blinking just out of reach.
Kale didn't speak for a long while. He crouched near the edge, sharpening his dagger in slow, rhythmic strokes. The sound was comforting, in its way. Tangible. Normal.
"I counted fifteen sets of tracks," he said finally, not looking up. "All heavy boots. Spread out like a perimeter."
Aeryn frowned. "Not bandits then."
"No. Disciplined. Like soldiers." He paused, then met her eyes. "Or scouts."
She felt her heart thump once, deep and sick. "Looking for what?"
He shrugged. "Or who."
They lapsed into silence again. Above them, a wren chirped—a sound so sudden and sweet that both of them turned toward it. The forest wasn't dead, then. Just waiting.
Aeryn reached for the satchel by her feet and pulled out a roll of cloth. Inside, carefully wrapped, was the charm Elira had given her. A crescent of bone etched with the sigil of the moonweavers. It pulsed faintly now, a soft warmth in her palm.
"You think they'll come back?" Kale asked, watching her.
She hesitated. "I think they never left."
And then—there it was. A sound that didn't belong.
A whisper. High and distant. Like breath against stone. The fire hissed and flared, casting wild shadows.
They both turned toward the forest edge.
The voice did not return.
Only silence now, and the fire's hesitant crackle, like it too was uncertain of its place in the world. Aeryn clutched the charm tighter, fingers damp with sweat. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until Kale put a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't," he said gently. "That's what it wants."
"What what wants?" Her voice was sharp. "You heard it too."
"I did. But fear is its invitation."
She scoffed. "Since when did you start speaking in riddles?"
Kale's eyes didn't waver. "Since I saw the tracks form before the feet touched the ground."
Aeryn stared at him.
He shrugged again, but it was forced. "It mimics us. It learns. And it's been close. Watching."
Aeryn stood, paced. "Why? What's the point?"
"To draw us out. Isolate. Pick us off. Classic tactics."
"But it hasn't attacked."
"Not yet."
Aeryn hated how much sense it made. The burn on her thigh pulsed in agreement.
She stopped pacing and looked back at him. "So what do we do?"
"We leave. At first light. Head east."
She frowned. "Toward the cliffs?"
He nodded. "Better footing. More sun. And—" he hesitated, "—I think I saw someone."
Aeryn blinked. "Who?"
He didn't answer. Just reached into his coat and pulled out a scrap of dark fabric. Embroidered on it: a spiral in silver thread.
Her breath caught.
It was a symbol she hadn't seen since the fall of Merrowhall.
Dawn broke like a secret, low and shy behind the canopy, gilding the dew with faint gold. They moved quietly, bundles strapped tight, weapons at the ready. Aeryn's leg throbbed, but the pain was old now—worn smooth like river stone.
The forest eastward felt older than the night before, as though the trees themselves remembered too much. Gnarled trunks bowed low, branches stitched the sky into a patchwork of gloom and fractured light.
They said little. What was there to say?
Each step took them further from the ashes and closer to uncertainty. Aeryn kept the charm tucked close, its faint warmth pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Kale moved ahead, bow drawn, his silhouette fluid in the grey mist.
Aeryn stopped once—only once—when she thought she saw a figure.
It stood at the edge of the path, tall and still, half-wrapped in ivy and fog. Not threatening. Not even moving. Just watching.
But when she blinked, it was gone.
Kale didn't comment. He had seen it too.
They made it to the cliffs by midday, jagged stone rising like broken teeth above the surf. Wind howled from below, carrying the scent of salt and something else—burned spices and petrichor.
At the cliff's edge stood a woman cloaked in violet, hair silver, eyes shut.
She opened them slowly as they approached.
"I was wondering when you'd come," she said, her voice like rain on slate. "The forest whispers too loud these days."
Aeryn stiffened. "You're one of the moonweavers."
The woman smiled. "We all are, now."
The woman turned from the cliff, cloak trailing like mist behind her. "Come," she said, already walking. "We've little time, and less trust to spare."
Aeryn exchanged a glance with Kale. He gave a terse nod, and they followed.
They entered a narrow fissure in the rock, hidden behind a curtain of hanging ivy. The air inside was cool, damp, and pulsing faintly with energy—old magic, the kind that hummed in your bones and stirred memories not your own.
The path spiraled downward. Flickers of phosphorescent moss clung to the walls, illuminating ancient carvings: moons, stars, spirals, and eyes. Always eyes.
"She's waiting," the woman said.
"Who?" Kale asked.
The woman gave him a curious look. "The one you brought the charm to."
Aeryn's fingers tightened around the trinket in her pouch. "Elira?"
"No. Elira was only a bridge. You're here to meet the river."
They stepped into a cavern where the ceiling arched like a cathedral, and pools of mirrored water reflected an entire world that didn't match the one above. Figures moved within those reflections, silent and slow, like ghosts of futures that never happened.
In the center stood a dais carved of stone and bone.
Aeryn stepped forward. The charm burned in her palm now, and she felt the world shift.
From the shadows, a voice emerged—neither woman nor man, but something vast and aching.
"You've come too late," it said. "But not empty-handed."
And then, the cavern shuddered. The reflections rippled. And something opened—like a door made not of wood, but of memory.
Aeryn's next breath was filled with stars.
The stars weren't real—not in the way Aeryn knew stars to be. These burned closer, vast and slow, constellations that shifted as if exhaling. She stood in a place without sky, where the rules of distance bent like reeds.
The voice returned, low as thunder wrapped in velvet.
"You carry a splinter of her light. That is why you survived."
Aeryn raised the charm. It floated above her hand now, spinning, shedding slivers of silver dust.
"She gave this to me," Aeryn whispered. "Elira said it would guide me."
"It did. And now it returns."
The charm broke apart—not shattered, but released, as if its task was done. The dust settled into her skin, cold and soft. A warmth bloomed in her chest.
Kale stepped beside her. "What is this place?"
The voice replied, "A memory of what was. A choice of what may be."
Aeryn looked to him. "We can't go back."
"No," Kale said, "but we can go forward. With this."
He reached into his coat, drew out the spiral-marked scrap again, and tossed it into the water. The surface shimmered, swallowed it whole.
The cavern dimmed. The stars faded.
They stood again in the empty chamber—silent, breathless.
The woman in violet waited at the entrance.
"You've seen," she said.
Aeryn nodded. "And remembered."
"Then the Hollow has given its whisper."
Outside, the wind had changed. Softer now. Like lullabies through leaves.
They walked from the cliff's edge together, the forest still behind them, the sea ahead.
By twilight, the sky wore a bruise-purple hue, and the air smelled of myrrh and salt. Aeryn and Kale had made camp on the windward side of the cliffs, overlooking a quiet inlet. No fires this time—just the rhythm of waves and the rustling of grass.
Aeryn sat cross-legged, sketching spirals into the dirt with the butt of her dagger. Each loop felt instinctive, not a symbol drawn but one remembered.
Kale handed her a piece of hardtack and sat beside her, wordless.
They chewed in silence.
"Do you think we'll find them?" Aeryn asked at last. "The others?"
Kale stared at the sea. "If they're alive, yes."
"And if they're not?"
He looked at her. "Then we carry their names."
Aeryn nodded. She placed the charm's last sliver—a crescent of bone no larger than a fingernail—into a shallow notch in the earth, then covered it gently with soil.
The wind blew.
It carried the scent of lavender and rain, and with it came a sound—not words, not music, but something between.
A lullaby sung by the Hollow.
Aeryn closed her eyes.
Somewhere deep inside, she felt a pulse that was not her own, and for the first time in days, she slept without fear.
The dream found her gently.
Aeryn stood in the grove before it burned, every leaf dew-kissed and golden with morning. Birds flitted from branch to branch, unafraid. In the center, Elira sat weaving a ribbon of starlight through her fingers, smiling as though she'd never known pain.
"You were always meant to return," Elira said.
Aeryn knelt beside her. "Return to what?"
"To yourself."
The grove shimmered, began to dissolve, not in fire this time, but in light. It peeled away like mist, and Elira with it, until only Aeryn remained, holding the last strand of ribbon. It pulsed once—warm, steady—and then faded into her skin.
When she awoke, the sky was painted in soft coral. Kale was already standing, scanning the cliffs. He glanced down as she stirred and nodded.
"Morning."
She stretched, and for the first time, the ache in her leg was dull. Distant.
"I saw her," she said.
He didn't need to ask who.
"She told me to return."
Kale looked back to the sea. "Then we will."
They packed their things in silence. The charm was gone now, but something had settled inside her. Not magic. Not memory.
Purpose.
They set out, the cliff path winding like a thread through the morning mist. Below, waves whispered against stone.
And above, high in the ash-gray sky, a single crow circled once, then flew east.
They traveled east through rolling highlands, past ruins reclaimed by moss and wildflowers, the bones of old wars softened by time. Every path seemed less hostile now, as if the land itself had exhaled.
They came upon a stream mid-morning. Kale knelt to drink, cupping water in his hands. Aeryn wandered a few paces upriver and found a stone carved with ancient runes—moonweaver markings, faded but unmistakable.
She traced them with her fingers. A prayer, perhaps. Or a warning.
She smiled faintly. "They were here."
"Long ago," Kale replied behind her. "But not gone."
They rested a while, sharing the last of their dried berries. It was quiet, but no longer hollow. The silence carried the weight of things remembered.
Before they set off again, Aeryn paused at the edge of the stream.
She knelt and dipped a finger into the water, then drew a spiral on a flat rock nearby. Not for her. For anyone who came after.
A mark that said: We passed this way. We endured.
As they disappeared into the trees once more, the breeze stirred the leaves into a soft rustle—like laughter just out of earshot.
And somewhere deeper in the forest, a voice not quite real whispered:
"Thank you."
That night, they camped beneath a sky unhindered by smoke or fog. The stars looked closer here, brighter—as though watching.
Kale slept quickly, breathing deep and even. Aeryn remained awake a while longer, lying on her back, arms folded behind her head.
She listened to the night.
Crickets. Wind. The slow groan of trees.
And beneath it all, something quieter still.
Not a voice. Not exactly.
More like a feeling.
A thread of warmth pulling gently at her chest, reminding her she was not alone. That her story, whatever shape it would take, was still being written.
She smiled.
And in the dark, with only starlight for witness, she whispered to no one:
"I'm ready."