The forest was breathing.
Not with air, but with something older—thicker. A weight that clung to the bones and pressed upon the soul. Elias—no, Nathan—stood at the edge of that breath, a boy carved from memories not entirely his own, shivering in a body too small to contain so much grief.
His bare feet sank into damp moss, the cold seeping into his borrowed skin. Above him, the moon hung carved with shifting runes, pulsing faintly like the heartbeat of a waking god.
The bow was gone.
Vanished as though it had never been.
He turned in circles, searching for the stone gate—the one that had whispered madness and promises in the voice of a dead woman. But the forest was whole now. Endless. The trees stood as sentinels, tall and unyielding. The air carried no wind, no sound, only the stillness of something waiting.
He stumbled forward.
Every step was a question.Every breath, a denial.
What am I? Where am I? Why here?
The questions burned hotter than the cold. He tried to remember what had happened the moment he stepped through the gate. The blur of pain. The tearing of thoughts. The way his mind had unraveled and rewoven itself with threads not entirely his own.
It had not been a crossing. It had been an ordeal.
Slowly, memory returned—not as words, but as knowing.
Luna, the unwanted daughter. Her name etched in fire above the gate. Not a voice, but a scar branded into his soul.
He had not been born into this world in peace. He had been cast into it, like an unwanted coin tossed into a cursed well. The forest was his crucible.
And he was not meant to be found.Not yet.
Hours passed. Perhaps days. Time stretched and folded within the forest like damp cloth left to rot.
Elias wandered. Hunger gnawed his belly, dull and cold. His limbs trembled with exhaustion. He drank from streams that tasted of copper. Ate berries that numbed his tongue. Slept beneath twisted roots that whispered dreams in languages he could not understand.
And somehow, he survived.
Children could not survive this place.
And he was no longer a man.
At night, the moon would rise, and with it came howls—distant and warped. Not wolves. Not beasts. But things that remembered they had once been human. Once, far away, he glimpsed a bent figure slipping between trees, its face masked by shadows that pulsed like oil. He did not scream. He did not run.
He only hid. And waited.
This was not land.
It was something older. Wilder.A world bleeding beneath the surface.
And on the fifth morning—if it could be called morning—he woke to the sound of hooves.
Not far. Not fast.
His body still ached, still felt strange, but instinct drew him toward the noise more than will. He found them through a veil of vines and low branches.
Two men in light armor, mounted on horses. A black-and-silver banner rippled behind them, bearing a sigil he did not know: a fang piercing the sun.
Their language was foreign. And yet, not.
The words twisted in his ears, comprehensible as though the world itself was stitching them for him.
"Gods," one whispered, reining in his horse. "A child. Alone?"
Elias opened his mouth, but no sound came.
The second man dismounted. He knelt, his expression stern, but not cruel. "What's your name, boy?"
A thousand names fought their way to his throat.
Nathan. Doctor Ashford. Ghost. Monster.
He opened his mouth.
"...Elias," he said. His voice cracked like ice beneath a boot.
The man's gaze sharpened—golden hair streaked with dirt, crimson eyes faintly glowing even in daylight. Recognition flickered across his face. Fear? Awe?
"By the flame…" he whispered. "It's him."
Elias blinked. "Who?"
The soldier did not answer. He turned to his companion. "We must inform the estate. The Marquess has been searching for this boy for weeks."
"Are you certain it's him?" the older knight frowned.
The kneeling man did not hesitate. "Ruby eyes. Hair like fire. Exactly as described."
Elias swayed.
Described?Marquess?
He did not know these names, these titles. But the search for words ignited something strange in his chest. Warmth. A spark of safety.
He wanted to believe it.
"Come, my lord," the man said gently. "Let us take you home."
Elias allowed himself to be lifted onto the horse.
The forest was silent behind him.
But even as they rode, he could not shake the sense that something was watching.
The journey out of the forest was slow and uneasy. The horse beneath him moved with practiced grace, but Elias swayed in the saddle, unaccustomed to its rhythm. The armored man—Sir Calden, as he later learned—kept one hand on the reins and the other steady on Elias's shoulder, anchoring him whenever the path grew rough.
They spoke little.
Each time Elias tried to ask—Where are we going? Who is the Marquess? Why were you searching for me?—the words felt too large to speak. His voice was that of a child, though his mind still carried shards of Nathan's silence.
The second knight, older and heavier, watched Elias with wary curiosity. His name was Bram. He carried a longbow strapped across his back, and rode with the confidence of a man who expected danger.
"Strange place to find a boy," Bram muttered under his breath. "Not a scratch on him. Not even a torn sleeve."
Calden said nothing.
They rode through narrow paths, past twisted trees and forgotten stone shrines, until the forest gave way to rolling fields, mist curling over the grass like smoke.
And then Elias saw it.
The estate.
Not quite a castle, not merely a manor. Built of gray stone, braced with towers, it loomed over the land like a silent sentinel. Ivy crawled across its walls. Banners hung in the still air, bearing the same sigil he had seen before—a fang piercing a golden sun.
Something shifted within him at the sight. Not fear. Not dread.
Something quieter.
Recognition.
Though he had never seen this place before.
At the gate, iron doors creaked open, and Elias was handed over to a servant in deep blue robes. His face was lined with age, but his movements were sharp.
"The Marquess is not in residence," he said quickly, glancing at the dirt smeared across Elias's cheeks. "But Lady Emily will wish to see him at once."
He turned to a maid. "Warm water. Clean clothes. Quickly."
Then, to Elias: "Follow me, young master."
The words hung strangely in the air. Young master.
Elias followed, his feet aching, his head swimming.
The halls were vast, echoing with every step. Tapestries covered the walls—scenes of hunts, of sigils, of beasts with wings of fire. Chandeliers swayed faintly above, though no wind stirred.
Every servant they passed stopped to look.
Not with confusion. But with recognition.
As though they knew him.
As though they had been waiting.
He was bathed and dressed in fine clothes.
At last, they brought him to tall polished-oak doors. The servant knocked once, opened them, and stepped aside.
The room within was warm, sunlit. A wide window overlooked a courtyard where roses bloomed despite the late season. A table beside it held fresh tea and sugared fruits.
And beside it—
A woman rose from a cushioned chair.
She was beautiful, but not with the cold beauty of paintings or statues. Hers was a living beauty. Her golden hair fell in loose waves, slightly disheveled as if she had run her hands through it. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed from weeping.
When she saw him, she froze.
"Elias?" she whispered.
He did not know how to answer.
But the sorrow on her face melted into wonder, and she crossed the room swiftly. She knelt, drawing him into her arms.
"You're home," she murmured, again and again, a haunted litany. "You're home, you're home, you're home…"
At first Elias stiffened. Her embrace was warm, too warm. Real in a way he had not felt in years. She smelled of lavender and bread.
Like—Like a grandmother.
His chest ached.
He wanted to pull away.He wanted to stay.
When she finally released him, her eyes shimmered with tears. She cupped his face in both hands, wiping the dirt from his cheeks with her thumbs.
"You're thinner, your hands are cold—why were you in the forest? Did someone take you? Did something happen?"
He opened his mouth, but the words tangled.
"I… don't remember," he said softly.
A lie.
But not entirely.
Some truths were too broken to speak aloud.
She did not press him. She only smiled, trembling, and held his hand.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "You're here now. That's what matters."
They brought him food—warm broth, bread slicked with melted butter, slices of peach in syrup. He ate slowly, his muscles trembling with weariness. Emily sat beside him the whole time, smoothing his hair back gently.
"There's no need to talk," she said. "Not yet. Just rest. I'll be here."
And for the first time in years, Elias did not feel the weight of judgment in someone's eyes.
She did not see a killer.She did not see a failure.
She saw her son.
Even if he wasn't.
Later that evening, as the sky deepened to violet and firelight flickered, Emily led him to a room on the second floor.
"This was always your room," she said, opening the door.
It was spacious, yet modest. A soft bed. Shelves lined with old toys. A small desk and chair beside the window. Curtains embroidered with drifting clouds.
Elias stepped inside as though trespassing on someone else's dream.
Emily lingered at the doorway.
"If you need me," she said, "I'll be at the end of the hall."
He nodded.
But before she left, he whispered, "Emily."
She turned. Smiled.
"Thank you."
She didn't answer. She only stood there for a moment, her eyes glistening.
Then she left him in silence.
That night Elias could not sleep.
He sat by the window, watching stars bloom one by one above the estate grounds. The moon still looked strange. Still too close. Still carved with shifting runes.
He thought of the forest.
Of the voice that had led him here.
Of his grandmother, fading in her hospital bed.
You'll find the door, she said. It's yours now.
And somehow… he had.
But what came after?
Who was he in this world?What did they want of him?
He looked down at his hands—small, pale, unfamiliar.
"I'm not your son," he whispered into the dark.
But the house did not answer.
Only the stars listened.