"Some prayers do not ascend to the heavens.
Some sink into the earth and wait for the living to remember them."
They regrouped beneath the crumbled arch of the main courtyard.
The storm had broken, but the air remained tense and heavy as if the rain had only stirred the ghosts.
Francesca was the first to speak, wringing out her braid with a smirk.
"Took your time."
Her eyes flicked between Alberta and Dantes.
Alberta didn't answer.
Dantes didn't meet anyone's gaze.
Cornelius studied them both.
Alberta's damp cloak clung tighter than usual.
Her hair, unbound and rain-slicked, clung to her cheek.
Her eyes wouldn't settle on anyone.
Dantes stood still, arms folded, jaw tight.
And yet there was something gentler in his silence.
Francesca's voice dropped to a whisper as she passed Alberta:
"You okay, Your Highness?
Or should I fetch a second cloak? One for the rain, one for the mood?"
Alberta blinked at her.
Blushed faintly.
Cornelius said nothing.
But his gaze lingered on Dantes.
Not suspicion.
Not quite.
Something else.
He wandered toward the treeline.
The storm had not fully passed.
Thunder still whispered like a breath behind the clouds.
The forest beyond the broken palace walls leaned unnaturally.
The trees...
They weren't just still.
They were waiting.
Cornelius felt it in the marrow of his spine.
Something beneath the roots.
Something beneath the memory of stone and thunder.
He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
Whispers.
No words.
Just the sound of leaves saying something no mouth had the right to repeat.
He closed his eyes briefly, then murmured:
"Before I left," he said aloud to the quiet,
"my uncle told me something strange.
Said the trees keep what the world tries to bury."
He stared at the moss-covered stones.
"I thought he meant guilt."
A beat of silence.
Only the breath of the earth answered.
"Maybe he meant something else entirely."
Back at the Campfire,Francesca stirred the fire.
Alberta sat close, knees drawn to her chest, cloak steaming.
Dantes stood apart, his silhouette blurred against the restless trees.
The tension hadn't broken.
It had simply folded inward coiling around something none of them dared to name.
Francesca raised a brow as Cornelius returned:
"You're pale."
"This forest isn't right," Cornelius murmured.
"It feels like it remembers us."
Francesca tilted her head.
"And what's it remembering?"
Cornelius stared into the fire.
His voice, low and certain:
"Something that never got to finish its story."
A pause.
Then Francesca added, softer now:
"Is it possible the children's story was true?
The girl who vanished into the woods...
Maybe she wasn't just a tale to keep us home.
Maybe the forest kept her name."
Alberta didn't respond.
But she pulled her cloak tighter.
There was a cold beneath her ribs that hadn't come from the rain.
A name on the edge of memory
hers,
or the forest's,
she couldn't tell.
And from the treeline,
something waited.
Not for blood.
Not for vengeance.
But for a name long lost,
and a promise never kept.
Weeping Forest – Deep Night
The fire had long burned low.
Francesca slept, arms crossed, half-wrapped in a cloak too short for her boots.
Alberta lay close by, still and quiet.
Dantes leaned against the crumbling wall, eyes half-closed but never fully asleep.
And Cornelius,
He sat with his back to the forest, shoulders tense, unable to rest.
The air pressed in.
Heavy.
Expectant.
Like breath held too long.
Then he felt it.
A breeze without wind.
A warmth without flame.
He looked up.
A wisp.
Pale gold, like the light of something half-remembered.
Drifting from the trees
weightless, formless.
Not human.
Not truly spirit.
It shimmered like breath in cold air.
And Cornelius knew:
It wasn't here for harm.
It circled the camp.
Light brushing Francesca's blade, the dying coals, the stones worn by time.
Then
It paused.
Right in front of him.
Cornelius' throat tightened.
The wisp tilted
as if seeing him.
As if recognizing something older than memory itself.
He whispered, barely daring to breathe:
"What are you?"
The wisp flared brighter.
It didn't speak.
But the fire crackled once sharp, startling.
The mist thickened.
The wisp drifted closer
so close he could feel its warmth like a forgotten summer brushing his skin.
And then
A shift in the air.
A pause too deep to name.
Deep inside him,
something whispered back:
"I remember."
Suddenly,
A memory.
Not a vision.
Not a voice.
A fragment from childhood.
A prayer whispered into the soil beneath a dying tree.
A plea for justice.
For light.
For change.
The same warmth now standing before him.
Cornelius blinked.
And the wisp
Gone.
As if it had never been.
Only the faint crackle of the fire remained, and mist thickening at the edges of the camp.
Alberta jolted awake with a gasp.
Breath quick, shallow.
Dantes shifted instantly, a flicker of worry crossing his face but Alberta waved him off without speaking.
Her eyes locked onto Cornelius.
She whispered:
"Did you feel it too?"
Cornelius only nodded.
The air shimmered faintly a breath, a memory stitched into the mist.
Alberta's gaze grew distant.
Half-waking.
Half-dreaming.
Then, softer than mist curling at their feet, she murmured:
"Seraphina..."
The name drifted from her lips like a lost prayer.
Cornelius stiffened where he sat.
His throat worked silently.
"Who?" he rasped.
But Alberta didn't seem to hear.
She only closed her eyes
trembling faintly,
as if the name had been torn from someplace deeper than memory itself.
Dantes stood nearby, silent.
If he heard the name,
he gave no sign.
The mist curled higher around his boots, shielding him.
The fire cracked sharply
Swallowing the answer.
And the forest kept its secrets.
End of Chapter 37