Veirdan's forests had a way of swallowing sound whole.
Elira moved like a shadow, barefoot through the cold earth, the hem of her cloak brushing frost-bitten leaves. The wind whispered secrets, but the trees held their tongues tight. She had learned to listen for what was not said.
The silver pendant around her neck pressed against her chest, a constant weight she could neither explain nor remove. Sometimes, at night, it glowed faintly—like a heartbeat.
Her thoughts drifted back to the medallion from the ruins. The winged wolf. Why did her bloodline bear its mark? Why did the symbol stir something buried deep, yet beyond reach?
The curse bound her to life—a cruel, endless thread she hadn't asked for. She had lived centuries haunted by memories that weren't fully hers. Faces she could barely recall. Voices she tried to forget.
Tonight, a dream returned. Her mother's voice again—soft, urgent, almost pleading.
"Live... remember... the blood remembers."
Elira shivered.
From the shadows, a rustle. She froze. A man stepped forward—tall, cloaked, eyes shadowed beneath a silver mask.
"Virellian," she spat, voice steady though her heart pounded.
He lowered his hood, revealing pale skin and sharp features—a nobleman trapped in time. "You run far, witch. But you cannot outrun the past."
Elira's hand twitched to the dagger at her waist. "Your kind killed my family."
Caelum's eyes darkened. "You believe a lie."
She took a step back. "Then tell me the truth."
He studied her silently, then spoke, voice low: "There are things you do not know. The world is not as black and white as you wish."
Before she could respond, a scream shattered the night. The two instinctively turned. From the depths of the woods, a child stumbled into the clearing, eyes wide with terror.
Elira's hand went out, calming. "What hunts you?"
"Monsters," the child gasped. "They took my father."
Caelum's gaze met hers—an unspoken understanding passing between them. The hunt was far from over.