The forest surrounding the edge of Elowen was known by many names—some called it the Wyrdwood, others the Forgotten Grove—but to the villagers, it was simply the Whispering Woods. An emerald sea of towering trees with bark black as night and leaves that shimmered silver under the moonlight, the woods had a heartbeat of their own. And now, as Aelric stepped beneath its canopy, he felt that rhythm thrum against his chest.
He wasn't alone.
Lyra followed close behind, the hem of her dark green cloak brushing against fallen leaves. Her dagger hung from her hip, and though her posture remained calm, her eyes never stopped scanning the shadows. Every rustle of wind and creak of branch had her hand hovering near the hilt.
"You sure this is the way?" she asked, voice low.
Aelric nodded, though he wasn't entirely certain. The map given to him by the Archivist in Chapterhouse was old, its ink faded and its landmarks vague. Still, it marked something important: a ley fracture—a tear in the world where magic bled raw and wild. According to legend, these fractures could open doorways… or awaken forgotten things best left buried.
"We need to reach the Heart Tree," Aelric said, keeping his voice steady. "That's where the veil is thinnest."
"The Heart Tree doesn't just let itself be found," Lyra muttered. "It appears when it wants to. If it wants to."
Aelric stopped, turning toward her. "Then we make it want to."
They moved deeper into the woods, where the light dimmed and even the birds grew silent. Trees leaned together like gossiping old men, branches entangled overhead, creating a vaulted cathedral of bark and leaf. Shadows shifted on their own, and the forest floor seemed to breathe with a slow pulse of life.
They weren't alone.
For a moment, Aelric caught the glint of a pair of eyes in the underbrush—low, too low to belong to a man. They vanished the instant he blinked. He gripped the hilt of his sword.
"Fae," Lyra whispered.
"No," Aelric said, frowning. "Worse. Wyrdlings."
The Wyrdlings were remnants—creatures born of twisted magic and half-formed intention. They stalked the places where reality thinned, scavengers feeding off chaos and old echoes. And if they were nearby, the fracture was close.
"Do we fight them?" Lyra asked.
"No," he said. "We let them follow. They'll lead us."
Lyra didn't like that, but she said nothing. Instead, she pulled her hood lower and adjusted her gait, walking more silently now. They kept moving.
Hours passed—at least, Aelric thought they had. The sun had long since vanished behind the dense canopy, and time didn't behave as it should in the Whispering Woods. Sometimes the shadows moved backward. Sometimes they stood still.
And then he heard it—the hum.
Faint at first, like the vibration of a plucked string. It tickled the base of his skull and danced along his spine. Lyra felt it too; she stopped beside him, eyes wide.
"That's not wind."
"No," Aelric agreed. "That's the fracture singing."
They followed the sound.
It led them to a clearing so sudden and vast that it stole the breath from Aelric's lungs. At its center stood a colossal tree unlike anything he'd ever seen—its bark shimmered with iridescent colors that shifted as he looked, and its leaves were shaped like feathers, each one glowing faintly with a soft blue light. The roots didn't just spread across the ground—they flowed, like slow rivers of light, pulsating with some inner current.
The Heart Tree.
And before it, suspended in mid-air, was the fracture.
It looked like a wound—jagged and glowing, split open in the shape of an eye. Through it, Aelric could see nothing and everything at once. Swirls of color, flashes of memory, entire landscapes that twisted in and out of view.
He stepped forward.
Lyra caught his arm. "Aelric—wait. You saw what happened to the last mage who stepped into a fracture. He didn't come back."
Aelric met her gaze. "He didn't have what I have."
He pulled the pendant from beneath his shirt—a simple disk of bronze etched with runes that flickered in the presence of magic. The Sigil of Balthien. Given to him by his mother the night before she disappeared.
"Your mother crossed a fracture," Lyra whispered, her voice suddenly soft.
"And she never returned," Aelric said. "But I think she left me this to follow."
The pendant grew warmer in his palm. The runes began to spin.
Lyra didn't try to stop him again. Instead, she stood beside him, drawing her dagger and turning toward the trees.
"I'll hold them off," she said.
Aelric blinked. "The Wyrdlings?"
"No. Something else is coming."
And then he heard it—a chorus of howls, dozens at once, echoing through the forest. The Wyrdlings were no longer content to watch. They were hunting.
He gave Lyra one last look. "Thank you."
"Don't die," she said, smiling faintly. "Or I'll find a way to kill you again."
Aelric turned toward the fracture.
The humming grew louder—no longer soft, now a symphony of voices, some screaming, some singing. He stepped closer. The pendant blazed white-hot. The air around the fracture shimmered like heat waves. Then he stepped through.
And the world tore open.
—
He fell, or at least he felt like he was falling. There was no ground, no sky, just endless cascading light and sound. Memories that weren't his flashed before his eyes—a boy riding a dragon over burning mountains, a girl with silver eyes standing atop a city made of glass, a storm swallowing the sea. Aelric screamed, but no sound came out. He reached for the pendant. It was gone.
Then—darkness.
And a whisper.
"Wake up."
He opened his eyes.
The sky above him was crimson, swirling with storm clouds that pulsed with violet lightning. The land stretched out before him, jagged and alien—rivers of molten glass, trees made of obsidian, and mountains that floated in the air.
This was not Elowen.
This was another world.
Aelric staggered to his feet. He felt lighter, as if gravity didn't pull on him quite the same way. The air was thick with energy—magic so raw it stung his skin.
In the distance, a shadow moved.
Something had seen him.
And it was coming.