The sun had long dipped behind the silver-barked trees of Sylvenmere, casting the village in soft twilight. Lanterns blinked to life along cobbled paths, their glow flickering like captured stars. Elara Wynveil stood at the edge of the forest, her satchel heavy with herbs, her heart even heavier with unspoken thoughts.
They warned her never to venture into the woods past dusk.
But the whispers always came after sunset.
She stepped over the mossy roots of an elder tree, her fingers brushing the trunk as if in apology. The villagers called this place cursed, a remnant of the Fae Wars when magic bled into the mortal world and twisted it. But to Elara, it was the only place she felt whole. The forest hummed beneath her feet, pulsing with a rhythm older than memory.
She crouched near a stream, dipping her hand into the water. "Nightshade and fever root," she murmured, sorting through the plants she'd gathered. "Enough for three tonics."
"You should not be here, healer."
The voice was not human.
Elara froze.
It came from deeper in the trees, smooth as velvet and sharp as moonlight. She turned slowly, her gaze landing on a figure cloaked in shadow, half-hidden by twisted vines and low branches.
"Who's there?" she asked, though her voice trembled.
The figure stepped forward, and moonlight kissed his features.
He was not of her world.
His eyes gleamed silver, pupils slitted like a cat's. His hair was dark as midnight, falling in soft waves to his shoulders, and his skin shimmered faintly with an otherworldly glow. A silver circlet rested on his brow, broken in the center—a symbol of exile.
A Fae.
Elara's breath caught.
Fae were forbidden in the mortal realm. After the War of Ash and Flame, the high kingdoms had closed their borders, the pact sealed in blood and bone. Sightings were rare and met with fear. To shelter one meant death. To fall for one...
Unthinkable.
Yet here he was, standing mere feet from her.
"I—I don't mean harm," she stammered, straightening but not retreating.
"I know." His voice was low, musical. "I've watched you come here for years."
She blinked. "Watched me?"
The corners of his mouth curled. "You speak to the trees. You listen when others run. That is rare among mortals."
"I'm not like them," Elara said before she could stop herself. "I mean… I've never fit in."
His silver eyes narrowed slightly. "You carry it, don't you? The blood."
She staggered back. "What?"
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "Fae blood. It sings in you."
Elara's heart thundered. Her mother had whispered it once, on her deathbed—that Elara's father was no mortal, that her birth was a secret best buried. She had dismissed it as delirium. A fevered lie. But now…
"You're mistaken," she said quickly.
"I'm not."
A silence bloomed between them, thick as fog. Somewhere in the trees, a nightbird called.
Finally, she asked, "Who are you?"
He hesitated. "Kaelen."
"Elara."
He gave a faint bow. "You should not come here again, Elara."
"Why?"
"Because others have noticed. Shadows stir in both realms. You walk a dangerous line."
"You're warning me?"
His gaze softened. "I don't want them to take you."
"Who are 'they'?"
Kaelen looked toward the deeper woods. "The ones who would use you. Or end you."
Elara's hands clenched. "Then help me understand. If I have this blood—if I don't belong anywhere—then tell me what I am."
His jaw tightened. "That knowledge has a price."
She stepped forward, emboldened by something she didn't fully understand. "I'll pay it."
His eyes flared with something unspoken—fear, sorrow, maybe longing.
"Then meet me again," he said. "Next moon, when the stars align."
"And if I do?"
"I will show you the truth. About the war. About your blood. About why our love is cursed."
Elara blinked. "Love?"
He hesitated, as though the word had escaped him. "The threads are already woven."
And then—like mist—he vanished.
Elara stood alone beside the stream, heart racing, skin tingling with magic.
The forest no longer felt like home.
It felt like destiny.
---