The steady drip of water echoed through the cave like a slow heartbeat. Aaron woke to its rhythm, blinking at the shifting play of shadow and moonlight across the uneven walls. The cave smelled faintly of wet stone and old earth, a scent that clung to the back of his throat.
Lyra sat near the entrance, her back straight, bow in hand, gaze locked on the forest beyond. A pale wash of moonlight spilled over her shoulder, catching in the curve of her cheek and the edges of her braided hair. She didn't look back when Aaron stirred.
"You should sleep," he said, voice still thick with fatigue.
"I don't sleep when the forest is watching," she murmured.
Aaron frowned, pushing himself up until his back rested against the cold wall. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," she said, "that the Accord's reach is not just men and steel. They leave… echoes. Watchers. Things that make the night itself lean closer."
Her words weren't meant to scare him, but the way she said them left a knot in his stomach anyway.
His mind kept circling back to something else—the faint burning on his wrist. He glanced down and pulled back the edge of his sleeve. The mark was still there. A twisting pattern of faint silver lines, no thicker than spider silk, winding under his skin like it had always been part of him.
The same mark from his dreams.
Lyra finally turned to look at him, her eyes catching the faint light. "It's stronger," she said softly.
"You've been watching it?"
She didn't deny it. "The moment we entered this forest, it started reacting. The Accord won't see you as just another stray boy anymore. That mark means something."
"It means trouble," Aaron muttered. "That's all it's meant so far."
She studied him for a moment, then tilted her head. "Do you know why there are only Seven?"
He swallowed, unsure if he wanted to hear this. "Seven… chosen? Seven what?"
"Seven that the Accord fears," she said. "Not because they can crush the Accord with strength, but because they carry something the Accord cannot control. They're born scattered, most never meeting. Some never knowing what they are. But they're all marked in ways that can't be forged or stolen."
Aaron stared at the faint silver pattern under his skin. "And you think I'm one of them?"
Her silence was answer enough.
The cave grew still except for the faint wind curling through its mouth. Somewhere far in the forest, a low sound rumbled—not quite thunder, not quite the growl of an animal.
Aaron pulled his knees up, resting his arms on them. "What happens to the Seven?"
Lyra's lips pressed into a thin line. "If they live long enough? They change the course of things. Sometimes for good. Sometimes for worse. The Accord's job is to make sure 'long enough' never happens."
He could feel the weight in her voice. She wasn't telling him everything—but she'd told enough for the knot in his chest to tighten.
When dawn came, it was slow, the kind of dawn that left the forest shrouded in pale mist. Lyra rose first, stretching and rolling her shoulders as if she'd been awake all night—which, Aaron realized, she probably had.
"We move," she said simply.
They left the cave, stepping into the damp hush of morning. The air was cool and smelled of moss and rain-soaked leaves. Every step sank slightly into the spongy earth.
Aaron had thought the forest had been unsettling the night before, but in daylight, it felt stranger. The trees stood impossibly tall, their branches weaving together so tightly that light came through in fractured, shifting patterns. And the silence…
No birds. No rustle of small animals. Just the sound of their footsteps.
Lyra noticed his glance upward. "It's not dead," she said. "It's listening."
"Listening to what?"
Her reply was quiet. "Us."
They walked for hours, the mist thinning but never fully vanishing. Twice, Aaron thought he saw movement in the corners of his vision—a flicker between the trees, a shadow bending where it shouldn't. Lyra's pace quickened each time, and she said nothing.
By midday, they reached a stretch where the ground sloped downward into a hollow. At the center stood a tree unlike any Aaron had seen. Its bark was blackened and cracked, like it had been burned long ago, yet its branches still bore leaves—a deep, almost metallic green that shimmered faintly.
"This is it," Lyra said, her voice quieter than usual.
"It's a tree," Aaron said, but even as he spoke, he knew it wasn't just a tree.
The air around it felt… heavier. Like the pressure before a storm.
Lyra knelt at the edge of the hollow, her fingers brushing over the soil. "This is where the Accord started the first tether. If they finish all seven, this entire region will be under their control."
Aaron frowned. "Tether?"
"Think of it as a chain," she said. "Invisible, but binding. They root them deep into the land, and anything caught inside becomes theirs to command. People, weather… even time, in ways."
Aaron stared at the blackened bark. "So, what? We stop them by cutting the chain?"
Lyra rose slowly, eyes narrowing. "No. We burn the root. But it's not as simple as it sounds."
A sound broke the stillness—soft, deliberate footsteps from the trees above the hollow.
Lyra's hand went instantly to her bow.
Aaron froze, scanning the tree line.
The mist shifted, and three figures stepped into view. They wore the Accord's colors—deep grey cloaks with the subtle emblem of the coiled spiral. Their faces were half-hidden by masks of dark glass.
The one in the center spoke, voice calm but carrying. "Step away from the heart."
Lyra didn't move. "You've come far for something that doesn't belong to you."
"It belongs to the Accord," the masked figure replied. "And you… should not be here." His gaze slid to Aaron, and though Aaron couldn't see the man's eyes through the glass, he felt the weight of that stare like a physical thing.
"A mark," the man said softly. "How… unexpected."
The burning in Aaron's wrist flared.
Before Aaron could react, Lyra moved—swift as a drawn arrow, she loosed a shot toward the center figure. But the man caught it mid-air with a twist of his hand. The arrow shattered in his grip, falling to the ground in splinters.
"That was unwise," he said.
The other two drew weapons—long, curved blades with a faint blue sheen.
Lyra glanced back at Aaron. "Run."
Aaron's heart pounded. "I'm not leaving—"
"Now!" Her tone was sharp enough to cut through his hesitation.
He turned and bolted toward the far slope, the mist curling around him as he ran. Behind him, he heard the clash of steel, the hiss of arrows, and something else—a deep, resonant hum that made the ground tremble.
Aaron risked a glance back. Lyra was moving like the wind, her bow a blur, but the Accord warriors were relentless. One of them slashed the air, and a ripple of force tore through the ground toward her. She leapt aside just in time, but the ripple split the earth where she'd stood.
Aaron didn't realize how far he'd run until the sounds of the fight faded. He stumbled to a stop, chest heaving, and leaned against a tree. His wrist burned hotter than ever, the silver lines glowing faintly even in the daylight.
Somewhere deep in the forest, a low voice spoke his name.
Not Lyra's. Not anyone he knew.
A voice that knew him anyway.
---