The early morning light seeped sluggishly through the cracked windowpane of Dormitory C. Outside, the sky was a dull gray, heavy with clouds that promised rain but had not yet delivered it. The ancient stone orphanage, perched on the windswept hill, held its breath beneath the oppressive sky.
Rowan Hart lay still on his thin, lumpy mattress, the threadbare quilt pulled up to his chin. The chill in the room seeped into his bones despite the soft rumble of the old radiator hissing at the far wall. His eyes, wide and alert in the dimness, traced the frost clinging to the glass, the icy patterns shifting and twisting in slow motion.
For a long moment, Rowan thought the frost was forming shapes, three lines crossing inside a half-circle, faint and glowing just enough to catch his eye.
Then, as quickly as it came, the shape vanished, melting away like smoke on the wind.
Rowan's breath hitched. He pressed his palm against the cold glass, feeling the icy chill bite into his skin. There was something wrong with the window, something more than just the cold.
The wind outside whispered, weaving through the broken panes and rattling loose shards of glass in the frame. It was a soft, low murmur, almost like a voice carried from far away.
"Rowan..."
The whisper fluttered just beyond hearing, a sound he could feel more than truly hear.
Rowan pulled away quickly, fear and wonder mingling in his chest. No one else would believe him if he spoke of the wind or the strange shapes on the frost. They would call him crazy, or worse, dangerous.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling, where shadows twisted like restless spirits.
The sound of the bell echoed through the stone halls, jangling sharply. It was the morning call, the signal for the orphans to rise and prepare for the day ahead.
Rowan slipped out from beneath the quilt and climbed down from his bunk, careful not to wake Thomas, the boy who slept below him. Thomas was a year older, a quiet boy with dark hair and a permanent scowl. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words were blunt and often cruel.
Rowan pulled on his threadbare shirt and trousers, the fabric rough and scratchy against his skin. He caught his reflection in a cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the wall, a pale boy with wide, dark eyes, framed by a mop of unruly brown hair.
Invisible.
That's what he was.
The orphanage smelled of damp stone, stale wood, and old dust, the air thick with the faint metallic tang of something he couldn't name. The floors creaked with every step as he padded quietly down the hall to the dining room, where the other children were already gathering.
Voices and footsteps filled the room as the children jostled for places at the long wooden tables. The walls were bare except for a few faded posters showing the orphanage's rules.
"Obedience Above All" and "Respect the Headmistress."
Jory was there, the biggest boy in the orphanage, laughing loudly as he flicked crumbs at a smaller child. His black hair was wild, and his eyes always gleamed with mischief.
Beside him, Elise, a girl with fiery red hair and a sharp tongue, rolled her eyes but said nothing.
Rowan slid into a seat at the far end of the table, careful to avoid the attention of the others.
The headmistress, Mrs. Greaves, a thin woman with steel-gray eyes and tightly pulled-back hair, stood at the front. Her gaze was cold, sharp enough to slice through the room.
"Quiet," she said crisply. "Eat quickly. You have work to do."
The porridge was thin and tasteless, but Rowan ate slowly, savoring the warmth. His mind wandered to the strange shapes in the frost and the whispering wind.
What did they mean?
After breakfast, the children were sent outside to complete their chores. Rowan's task was to gather firewood from the edge of the yard near the ancient forest that loomed just beyond the stone walls.
As he collected dry branches, the wind tangled in his hair, cool and sharp. The trees whispered secrets to one another, their leaves rustling in low, mournful songs.
Rowan's eyes caught a flicker of movement, a shadow slipping between the trees. He froze, heart pounding, but when he blinked his eyes, nothing was there.
He wrapped the firewood bundle tightly and hurried back to the orphanage, the weight of the woods heavy on his arms.
That night, Rowan lay awake once more, the wind calling softly through the broken window. His mind was restless, filled with shapes and sounds he could not understand.
Then, he dreamed.
He stood before a great stone door, carved with the same rune he had seen on the window… the three lines wrapped inside a half-circle.
The door pulsed with a cold blue light.
A voice whispered from beyond the door.
"You are the last of the bound."
The door creaked open.
Rowan jolted awake, his hand burning with a strange warmth. He looked down but saw nothing unusual.
The wind was still outside, waiting.
Calling.
The next morning was colder still.
Rowan pulled his sleeves over his hands as he walked down the narrow stone staircase, the worn steps slick with morning dew that had crept in overnight through the drafty windows. The orphanage was quieter than usual, the other children still rubbing sleep from their eyes or lingering beneath heavy blankets.
But Rowan's thoughts were elsewhere.
He moved toward the library, a dusty and forgotten corner of the building that smelled of old paper, mothballs, and time itself. It was the only place in the orphanage where he felt safe, away from Jory's taunts and the sharp eyes of Mrs. Greaves.
The library was small, a single room with sagging shelves filled with books so old their covers flaked and cracked. A low window let in a thin shaft of pale light, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air like tiny ghosts.
Rowan's fingers brushed the spines, stopping on a thick volume bound in worn blue leather. Strange symbols decorated the cover, twisting lines and shapes that reminded him of the runes on the window.
He pulled the book from the shelf, the leather cold and smooth beneath his fingertips.
The pages were brittle, yellowed with age, filled with drawings of strange symbols and writings in a language Rowan could not read. But the pictures spoke to him, the runes were there, etched carefully beside drawings of ancient weapons and swirling patterns of light.
One page showed a circle of runes glowing with an icy blue fire. Another depicted a sword inscribed with shimmering runes along its blade, humming with hidden power.
Rowan traced the images with a trembling finger, the strange warmth returning to his palm.
Suddenly, a voice startled him.
"Looking for something?"
Rowan spun around, clutching the book to his chest.
Standing in the doorway was Mr. Grey, the caretaker. He was a tall, thin man with graying hair and eyes that seemed to see too much. There was a kindness in his voice, but also something guarded, as if he carried a heavy secret.
"I — just curious," Rowan said, voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Grey nodded slowly, stepping inside. "Those books… They hold secrets. Old secrets. Things not meant for everyone."
Rowan's heart pounded. "What kind of secrets?"
Mr. Grey looked away, as if weighing his words. Then, in a quiet tone, he said, "There are stories of runes, of magic lost to time. Some say it lives beneath the surface of the world, hidden from common eyes."
Rowan's breath caught. "Magic?"
The caretaker's eyes flicked toward the window, where a chill breeze stirred the curtains. "Yes. But it is dangerous. And those who seek it are often not what they seem."
The bell rang again, calling the children to line up for lessons. Mr. Grey closed the library door gently, leaving Rowan with a head full of questions and a book too heavy to carry alone.
Back in the dormitory, the air was thick with whispered rumors.
Jory strutted by, boasting loudly about his latest escapades in the nearby village, the only place the orphans were ever allowed beyond the walls.
Elise listened with a smirk, while the others leaned in, hanging on every word.
Rowan stayed silent, his mind still tangled with the images from the book and the caretaker's cryptic warning.
That afternoon, Rowan wandered the orphanage grounds, the heavy bundle of firewood tucked under his arm. The forest loomed nearby, dark, silent, and full of secrets.
He had heard the others say the forest was dangerous, a place where no child should wander. But the wind seemed to call him there, drawing him closer.
A sudden rustle made Rowan freeze. Between the gnarled branches, a flash of silver caught the light.
Something moved, swift and silent.
Rowan's breath caught. He took a cautious step forward, heart hammering in his chest.
"Who's there?" he whispered.
No answer.
Only the wind replied, swirling through the trees with a voice full of secrets.
As dusk fell, the orphanage settled into uneasy quiet. Rowan lay awake again, the book resting on his bedside table.
The runes seemed to shimmer faintly beneath the lamplight, as if alive.
He closed his eyes and listened.
The wind whispered once more, a soft song threading through the night air.
"Find the door… find the bound…"
Rowan's heart clenched.
What door?
What bound?
And why was it calling him?
The days blurred into one another, cold and gray, the orphanage a world cut off from warmth and light. Yet, beneath the dull routine, something was stirring inside Rowan.
He found himself drawn to the edges of the forest more often, where the trees stood like ancient sentinels guarding secrets older than the hills themselves. Each visit was a mixture of fear and fascination, a tug at something deep inside his soul.
One afternoon, as the other children played in the courtyard, Rowan lingered near the crumbling stone wall that separated the orphanage grounds from the forest. The wind shifted suddenly, carrying with it the scent of pine and something else, something metallic, like cold iron.
He knelt down and brushed aside a patch of moss, revealing a small, flat stone carved with strange symbols. It had lines and curves that glowed faintly blue when the sunlight hit them just right.
His fingers trembled as he traced the rune, the same pattern he had seen on the frost-covered window and in the old book.
A whisper rose in the wind, soft and urgent.
"Remember..."
Rowan's breath hitched. He stood quickly, glancing around, but the courtyard was empty, the laughter and chatter of the other children far away.
That evening, Rowan returned to the library, the old book tucked under his arm like a precious secret.
He spread the pages on the worn wooden table and studied the runes again, trying to understand their meaning. Though the language was lost to him, the drawings seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.
Suddenly, a faint glow erupted from the pages, bathing the room in cold blue light. Rowan jumped back, heart racing.
The glow coalesced into a shimmering figure, a slender woman draped in robes embroidered with glowing runes, her eyes deep pools of midnight.
"Do not be afraid," she said, her voice like the wind through the trees.
Rowan blinked, unsure if he was dreaming or seeing a ghost.
"I am Eira," the figure said. "Guardian of the bound. You carry the mark."
Rowan's hands clenched the book tightly. "The mark? What do you mean?"
Eira's gaze softened. "You are connected to the ancient runes, to the magic that sleeps beneath the world. But danger comes. Dark forces seek to claim what you carry."
The room grew colder, the shadows deepening.
"You must be ready. The path will not be easy."
Then, as quickly as she appeared, Eira faded, leaving Rowan alone with the flickering candlelight and pounding heart.
The days that followed were filled with a restless energy Rowan could neither explain nor escape. He kept the secret of the vision locked deep inside, afraid of what others might say.
But the pull of the forest and the strange runes grew stronger.
One afternoon, as Rowan gathered firewood near the ancient wall, he spotted a figure watching him from the shadows.
A girl about his age, cloaked in a dark hood, her eyes bright and curious.
"Who are you?" Rowan asked, stepping back cautiously.
The girl smiled faintly. "A friend. Someone who knows."
Rowan's heart leapt. Could he finally find someone who understood?
Before he could answer, the wind howled sharply, scattering leaves and sending a chill down his spine.
"Beware," the girl whispered. "They are coming."
And with that, she disappeared into the trees, leaving Rowan alone with the whispering wind and a thousand questions.
That night, Rowan lay awake, the weight of secrets pressing down on him. The world outside seemed darker, filled with unseen dangers and hidden magic.
He reached for the old book once more, tracing the glowing runes with trembling fingers.
The wind sang its haunting song through the broken window, a reminder that his journey was just beginning.
The days grew shorter as autumn edged closer, and a thin frost glazed the edges of the orphanage's broken windows each morning. Rowan felt the weight of the unseen world pressing harder on his shoulders, its presence lingering like a cold shadow.
He spent as much time as he could in the library, poring over the ancient book, memorizing the shapes of the runes, their strange geometry winding around his thoughts like ivy. The symbols no longer felt foreign, they thrummed with a quiet power that stirred beneath his skin.
One afternoon, while Rowan was sketching the runes in a tattered notebook, Thomas approached him quietly.
"You really believe that magic stuff?" Thomas's voice was low, laced with skepticism, but his eyes flickered with a hint of curiosity.
Rowan hesitated. "I don't know what I believe. But… I feel like there's something out there. Something is waiting for me."
Thomas frowned, looking away. "Don't get your hopes up. This place doesn't care about magic. Or kids like us."
Rowan wanted to argue, to tell Thomas everything he'd seen and heard, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he nodded slowly and turned back to his drawings.
That evening, under the ghostly light of a waning moon, Rowan crept out of the orphanage, clutching the book close to his chest.
The forest lay just beyond the stone wall, dark and silent, a realm untouched by the world of the living. He slipped through a narrow gap in the ivy-covered stones, the crunch of dry leaves muffled by the wind.
Deeper and deeper he wandered, until the trees thickened, their twisted branches knitting together like the fingers of some ancient giant.
Ahead, faint blue light pulsed softly between the trunks, beckoning him forward.
Rowan's heart hammered as he approached a clearing bathed in that ethereal glow.
In the center stood a stone altar, ancient and worn, carved with runes that matched those in his book and on the frost-covered window.
He stepped closer, the air humming with power.
His fingers brushed the surface of the altar, and suddenly the runes flared with icy fire.
A sudden rush of voices, whispers in a language older than the trees, flooded Rowan's mind.
He staggered back, gasping.
When he looked again, the clearing was empty.
The next morning, Rowan awoke with a pounding head and a cold sweat soaking his shirt.
Has it all been a dream?
But the glowing rune etched faintly on his palm told a different story.
At breakfast, Jory caught sight of the mark and sneered.
"Looks like you've been playing in the dirt, ghost boy," he jeered, pushing Rowan's bowl aside.
Before Rowan could reply, Elise stepped in, her eyes blazing.
"Back off, Jory. Leave him alone."
The room fell silent as the two stared each other down.
Rowan felt a small surge of something he couldn't name, a flicker of courage rising from deep within.
That afternoon, Mr. Grey found Rowan near the orchard, his usual quiet demeanor replaced by something more urgent.
"There are forces watching you," he said gravely. "You must be careful who you trust."
Rowan looked up, searching the caretaker's eyes.
"Who's watching me?"
Mr. Grey hesitated, then said, "Not everyone in this world wants the magic to live on. Some would see it buried forever."
Rowan's chest tightened. The shadows were closing in.
That night, as Rowan lay beneath the cold ceiling of the dormitory, the wind slipped once again through the broken window, carrying a whisper…
"Find the bound. Protect the runes."
Rowan closed his eyes, feeling the weight of a destiny he did not yet understand.
And somewhere, in the darkened forest beyond, the ancient magic waited patiently.
The morning light was pale and weak as Rowan slipped from his bed, the rune on his palm still faintly glowing beneath the skin. He pulled his sleeve low, hoping no one had noticed.
But the mark was becoming harder to hide.
At breakfast, the usual din of chatter was cut short when Jory stood abruptly, striding over to Rowan's table with a sneer.
"What's that on your hand, ghost boy?" he taunted, grabbing Rowan's sleeve and yanking it up.
The other children fell silent, eyes flicking between the glowing rune and Rowan's flushed face.
Before Rowan could respond, Elise stepped beside him, her fiery hair like a flame in the gray room.
"That's none of your business, Jory," she said sharply.
Jory's smirk faltered, and he backed off with a muttered curse.
Rowan's heart thundered in his chest, a strange mix of fear and something new, a small spark of confidence.
Later that day, Rowan found himself drawn back to the library clutching the ancient book as if it were a lifeline.
Mr. Grey was there, sorting through a stack of papers, and looked up as Rowan approached.
"You're persistent," the caretaker said with a faint smile.
Rowan nodded. "I want to understand. About the runes… about magic."
Mr. Grey's expression darkened. "Magic is not a game. It demands sacrifice."
He hesitated, then added, "There is a place, beyond the forest. An academy where those with the gift are trained, a place where knowledge is passed down through the ages."
Rowan's eyes widened. "An academy? Like in stories?"
Mr. Grey nodded slowly. "Yes. But it is hidden. Not everyone is meant to find it."
A thrill shot through Rowan's veins.
That evening, Rowan returned to the forest, the book tucked under one arm.
The wind was colder now, sharper, as if warning him to stay away.
But Rowan stepped forward anyway, deeper into the trees than before.
The forest seemed alive, shadows twisting between the trunks, leaves whispering secrets only the wind could understand.
Suddenly, a soft glow appeared between two ancient oaks, a flickering light, like a will-o'-the-wisp.
Rowan reached out hesitantly, and the light darted away, leading him further into the woods.
His heart was pounding as he followed.
After what felt like hours, Rowan stumbled into a small clearing bathed in moonlight.
In the center stood a figure cloaked in midnight blue, their face hidden beneath a hood.
"Welcome, Rowan," the figure said, voice calm and steady.
"Who are you?" Rowan asked, swallowing his fear.
"I am Lys," the figure replied. "A friend, and a guide."
Lys stepped forward, revealing a hand adorned with glowing runes.
"You carry the mark of the bound," Lys explained. "It is time to begin."
Rowan felt a surge of questions, but before he could speak, Lys held out a small, carved wooden box.
"Inside is a rune set, it contains tools that you will need to unlock your power."
Rowan took the box with trembling fingers.
"The journey will be dangerous," Lys warned. "But you are not alone."
That night, back at the orphanage, Rowan lay awake, the box resting on his bedside table.
The runes inside seemed to pulse with quiet power, humming beneath his fingertips.
The wind whispered through the broken window once more.
"Begin..."
And for the first time, Rowan felt the stirrings of hope.
Rowan sat on the floor of the cold dormitory, the rune box open before him.
Inside, twelve smooth stones lay nestled in velvet, each carved with a glowing symbol. They pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
He reached out and touched one, a simple jagged line crossed with a curve, like a broken fang. The moment his finger brushed its surface, warmth spread up his arm, and an image flashed through his mind; fire curling from dry leaves, a forest ablaze beneath a burning sky.
Rowan pulled back, breathless.
These weren't just symbols.
They were memories. Trapped power. Echoes of something ancient.
He picked up another stone, this one shaped like an eye. Cold this time, the image that followed was of still water, perfectly smooth, and something vast shifting beneath the surface.
He closed the box gently, hands shaking.
He didn't sleep that night. The runes whispered in the back of his mind, and the wind outside carried words he couldn't yet understand.
The next day was gray and bitter, wind snapping through the orchard trees. The other children avoided him now, not out of cruelty, but wariness. Something in Rowan had changed, and they felt it.
Only Elise lingered nearby, studying him with a quiet curiosity.
"You've been out in the woods," she said as they sat near the edge of the yard.
Rowan didn't answer.
She continued, undeterred. "You've seen things. I have too."
That caught him off guard.
Elise turned to him, her freckles sharp against the windburn in her cheeks. "Sometimes when I'm alone, the shadows move. And I hear things… things like bells, but not from any church."
Rowan studied her closely. For the first time, he didn't feel so alone.
"Maybe we're both going mad," he said softly.
"Or maybe," she replied, "we're just finally seeing the truth."
That night, guided by a feeling he didn't understand, Rowan returned to the clearing.
Lys was waiting, seated cross-legged beneath the twisted boughs.
"You brought the runes?" they asked.
Rowan nodded, setting the box between them.
"This place is a nexus," Lys said. "A wound in the world where the old power still leaks through. You'll learn to feel it. To shape it."
Lys removed a rune stone from the box and placed it in Rowan's hand.
"This is Isa. It means stillness. Ice. Discipline."
"Discipline?" Rowan asked, confused.
"To hold power is easy. To hold back, that is where mastery begins."
Lys guided Rowan through the first sigil-drawing. The process was strange. A silent motion traced through the air with nothing but his finger, yet the symbols shimmered faintly like frost in moonlight.
Rowan's breath caught. It was real. All of it.
By the time the stars had turned above them, he had memorized the shapes of three runes and learned to bind their power into a single flicker of wind.
It was enough to stir the leaves.
But it was a beginning.
As Rowan made his way back through the forest, the sky overhead darkened further than night should allow.
Clouds swirled without the moon or stars.
And in the silence, a presence stirred.
Far above, perched in the boughs of a blackened tree, eyes glinted red. Watching.
The figure made no sound.
Only waited.
Rowan awoke the next morning with dirt still clinging to his hands and the shape of runes burned into his dreams. The memories of the night shimmered beneath his eyelids, wind moving at his fingertips, symbols glowing faintly in the air.
But something else pressed into his thoughts too.
Eyes.
Watching him.
He couldn't shake the feeling as he dressed in silence, the room around him still shadowed in early dawn. The dormitory was cold, the other boys asleep and dreaming of a world Rowan no longer belonged to.
When he passed the mirror on the way to the washroom, he stopped.
For the briefest moment, the rune on his palm shimmered through the skin like a faint bruise of light.
The morning was colder than usual. The sky was low and gray, the wind whistling through the orchard branches with a sharper edge. The orphans were gathered outside for chores, raking dead leaves, hauling buckets of water, mending the chicken coop, but Rowan's eyes kept drifting toward the woods.
He saw nothing at first. Just shadows. Then a flicker.
A shape.
Perched high in the trees, almost invisible.
Too still to be a bird.
Too tall.
A dark figure hunched low, watching from the branches like it had always been there.
He blinked… and it was gone.
A cold shiver danced down his spine.
Later, Rowan found Mr. Grey stacking wood near the back shed. The caretaker's hands were cracked and calloused, but they moved with precise rhythm, almost ritual-like.
"I saw something in the forest," Rowan said, trying to keep his voice even. "It was watching."
Mr. Grey didn't look up.
"I know," he said after a moment.
Rowan's stomach dropped. "You do?"
"There are many eyes in the forest. Not all of them are friendly."
Rowan clenched his fists. "Should I stop? With the runes? With Lys?"
Now Mr. Grey turned, eyes sharp beneath his tired brow.
"If you stop now, they'll still come. But you'll be helpless when they do."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"Keep this close."
Inside was a stone, worn smooth with age, carved with a rune Rowan didn't recognize. It shimmered faintly, an oily, opalescent gleam.
"What is it?" Rowan whispered.
"A ward. Protection, of a sort. It won't hold forever, but it may buy you time."
"Time for what?"
"For the others to find you."
That evening, Rowan waited until the dormitory fell into silence. Elise met him by the back door, her boots already laced and a scarf wrapped around her neck.
"I want to come," she said firmly.
Rowan hesitated. "It might not be safe."
She folded her arms. "Nothing here is."
They slipped out together under a cloud-dark sky, past the orchard, beyond the crumbling wall.
The woods greeted them in silence.
As they entered the clearing, Lys was already waiting, but this time, their stance was tense, gaze sharp toward the trees.
"You brought another," Lys said softly.
Elise stepped forward, chin lifted. "I'm not just 'another.' "
Lys studied her for a long moment, then gave a single nod. "Then you must both learn. Quickly."
Rowan opened the rune box and knelt beside the altar.
He barely noticed the wind rise, or the way the branches creaked like bones.
But the figure did.
It stepped between trees that didn't bend, leaving no trail, its body shifting like smoke, tall, hollow-eyed, and cloaked in a darkness that seemed too deep for this world.
Its voice was not a voice, but a scraping thought in Rowan's mind.
You are marked, little one. The seal is broken. The veil weakens.
Lys stepped between Rowan and the darkness, arms raised.
The runes around the clearing flared, casting circles of protection.
But Rowan saw the thing smile, not with a mouth, but with its eyes.
And then it vanished.
The runes dimmed. The forest went still.
Rowan exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath.
Lys turned, the tension slow to leave their shoulders.
"They've found you. It begins now."
The clearing was quiet after the thing vanished, too quiet, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Elise took a step back, eyes wide. "What… what was that?"
Lys answered without looking at her. "A wraith of the Fractured Veil. An Echoborn. It shouldn't be able to cross this deep into the mortal realm… not yet."
Rowan stared at the spot where the wraith had stood. "But it did."
Lys's voice was grim. "Because you are here."
They walked to the altar-stone and placed a hand against its surface. The old runes carved into the granite flared like dying embers.
"The Veil that separates the worlds is thinning. And you, Rowan, are a keystone. That mark on your palm isn't just magic, it's a signal."
Elise looked at Rowan. "You're saying that thing came because of him?"
"Not just because of him," Lys said. "Because of what he can become."
They walked back through the forest together under a deep violet sky.
Lys walked ahead, silent, their cloak brushing against leaves that curled away from its edge.
"Do you know what the Veil really is?" Lys asked suddenly.
Rowan shook his head.
"It's not a wall. Not a gate. It's a wound. Torn in the early ages when men first stole fire from the gods and carved runes into stone to bind it."
Elise's eyes widened. "You're saying magic caused it?"
Lys nodded. "Every rune ever carved leaves a scar. Each spell, each binding, a stitch torn loose. Over centuries, the Veil frays. And sometimes… things come through."
They stopped by an old tree stump, the bark scorched and black.
"I saw the mark on you the day you were born," Lys told Rowan. "But I wasn't the only one."
Rowan's breath caught. "Someone left me at the orphanage."
"Yes," Lys said. "Someone who didn't want you found. But your power… it's not easy to bury. Not for long."
Rowan stared into the dark between the trees. "Who am I?"
Lys paused, then answered with a softness Rowan didn't expect.
"That is what you're here to find out."
They returned to the orphanage well after midnight. The windows were dark, the halls silent. Rowan slipped the rune box under his bed as Elise crept toward her own room down the girls' corridor.
He couldn't sleep.
The image of the wraith, those hollow eyes, that knowing grin. They pressed into his mind like a weight.
He stared at his palm, the mark pulsing faintly beneath the skin.
Somewhere beyond the forest, beyond this orphanage and this quiet life, something was unraveling.
And somehow, he was tied to it.
In the dream that came later, Rowan stood in a vast black field beneath a sky of stars. But the stars were moving, shifting in patterns he almost recognized , shapes he'd seen in the rune stones.
The wind howled across the field, carrying a name that he didn't remember ever hearing.
But it was his name.
Not Rowan.
Something older.
Something hidden.
He woke up with a gasp.
Outside, the trees were still again. But the wind had changed.
It no longer whispered.
Now, it called.