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It is said that the forest whispered on nights like this.
Old stories told around Eldhollow's hearths spoke of a time when the trees weren't just alive...they listened. When the wind could steal your name, and the Blood Moon marked more than just the sky.
"If it rises red, walk not the woods," they'd warn.
"The cursed ones stir beneath the bark."
The girl never believed any of it.
Superstition, mostly.
And besides, tonight's moon wasn't red. Just pale and distant, like a glass eye.
Still, as she crossed the stone path behind the forge...basket in hand, boots damp with dew...she couldn't deny that the wind felt… different. Not cold. Not loud.
Just watching.
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She wasn't supposed to be out this late.
But when old Mother Elza's cough returned ... wet, rattling, worse than ever ...she didn't hesitate. No apothecary herbs in town. And the glade on the forest's edge had just what she needed.
She was always the one who went.
Not her older brother. Not the neighbors' boys.
"You're the steady one," her grandmother would say. "Your hands don't shake when they should."
She didn't take it as a compliment.
---
Branches creaked as she moved deeper along the deer trail, the dim outline of the glade just ahead. Fog drifted across the ground like it had been poured there... not rising from the earth, but set down like a veil.
She pulled her shawl tighter, humming softly...not a song, just a sound to keep herself company. The trees seemed to lean inward.
You're not afraid, she told herself.
You've been here before.
But something prickled in her spine.
Like the forest had forgotten her.
---
She reached the clearing.
It looked the same, except for how quiet it was.
Not dead quiet, but too quiet. No crickets. No rustling. Even the wind paused, like it was waiting for her to make the first move.
Kneeling, she clipped a handful of silverleaf and nightshade, careful not to bruise the stems. Her mother had taught her how to speak to the plants, how to gather without offending.
She whispered the old chant; half out of habit, half out of hope.
Then... snap.
A twig, maybe five steps behind her.
She rose slowly.
---
He was already there.
Tall...Cloaked....Face shadowed by the hood. He stood just inside the tree line, half-wrapped in fog.
Like he belonged to it.
She said nothing at first.
Neither did he.
---
Finally, her voice found her. "Are you lost?"
The man tilted his head, slightly.
"No," he said calmly. "But you are."
His voice was smooth... deep, even gentle but wrapped in ice. Like something royal that had gone unused for too long.
She took a step back.
Then another...
Still, he didn't move.
Didn't threaten... Didn't even look at her like prey.
It was more like… recognition.
Like he'd been waiting.
---
Moonlight shifted and she caught a flash beneath his cloak.
A mark. Inked into his skin just above the collarbone.
A rune.
Her pulse skipped... She'd seen it before... once. In a sealed scroll buried beneath her grandmother's floorboards.
A mark left behind by those the villagers only called the Cursed-Blooded.
No... It can't be.
She steadied her breath.
"Who are you?"
Still, he didn't answer.
He stepped forward.
Not with menac but with purpose. Each footfall soft, deliberate.
Then he stopped.
Bowed.
"I have come to claim my bride."
---
Her breath caught.
"…Your what?"
He said nothing more. Just watched her.
Silver eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood.
She didn't run.
But she wanted to.
Instead, she reached for the only thing she had...the herb basket and hurled it at him.
It struck his shoulder, scattering leaves and roots like startled birds.
Then she turned and fled.
But the fog grabbed at her feet.
Her boot caught on a root.
She went down hard, hands scraping against cold earth.
She rolled, ready to crawl... fight... something.
But he hadn't moved.
Still standing where he was.
Still calm.
Still watching.
---
Then his voice came gain.
Deep.
Icy.
"If I meant to harm you," he said, "you'd be bleeding by now."
Her heart thundered. "That's not comforting."
"No," he agreed. "It isn't meant to be."
She pushed herself upright, mud on her knees, blood on her palm. "You're mad."
Then his voice changed.
Softer... Clearer.
"Aryn of Eldhollow."
She froze.
The name hit harder than anything else he'd said.
She hadn't told him.
Hadn't said a word.
"How do you know that?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Just let her hear the wind.
Then turned and disappeared into the trees.
No rustle.
No crunch of leaves.
As if the fog took him back.
Like he was one with the forest.
---
She stood there, breathing hard, unsure if she was frozen from fear or the night air.
Finally... she ran.
Didn't look back.
Not once.
---
But just before the trees gave way to gravel and firelight…
She saw it.
A tree trunk... just off the path.
Freshly carved.
Four deep claw marks, jagged and wide.
And between them, written like the bark had been seared from the inside out:
ARYN.