The pre-dawn chill wrapped itself around Lira like a cloak as she stepped onto the palace's northern gate, the massive oak doors creaking shut behind her. High Warden Marek rode at her side, his dark cloak flaring in the pale light. Two royal guards brought up the rear, their armor gleaming dully. Lira's harp was slung in its case across her back; at her side, the scroll of the Wolf Queen's verse was secured in a leather tube. Behind them, the last lights of Windvale flickered in the distance, then snuffed out as the city fell quiet once more.
Marek spurred his gray stallion forward. Lira, seated upon a borrowed mare, felt each hoofbeat jolt her nerves. The air tasted of damp earth and pine. When she dared, she glanced back at the stone towers of her home, now fading into the mists. For a moment, guilt and fear threatened to choke her—fear of what she'd done, guilt for the sister she'd left behind, the family she'd risked. But then she recalled the note that had first called her, like a whisper in her blood, and she straightened in her saddle.
"Are you well, bard?" Marek's low voice broke her reverie.
Lira nodded. "Yes, Warden." She corrected herself. "Marek."
He gave her a sidelong look. "It is true, then, that you can hear it? The Queen's melody?"
She drew in a steady breath. "More than hear. I feel its pull, as though it threads through my very bones." She remembered the first verse on the scroll, how the words glowed in her mind: "When shadows weave upon the moor…." "But only that one fragment. I don't yet know how to summon more."
Marek's black stallion slowed to match the mare's pace. "Once we reach the Moonstone Glade, we will see whether your gift is real. If you can awaken that verse in the Queen's shrine, the power there will guide you."
They rode in silence until the road petered out, and the horses trotted single file along a grassy track. Ancient forest rose on both sides, gnarled roots gripping the earth like watchful sentinels. The trees were tall and straight, their trunks gray in the dawn gloom. Mist curled around moss-covered boulders; distant birdcalls echoed like soft cries of warning.
Lira felt the scroll at her hip vibrate, as if it, too, recognized the territory. She dismounted and stretched unsteadily. Marek followed suit, patting his horse's flanks.
"This far in, we continue on foot," he said. "The path disappears; the Wildwood claims its secrets fiercely."
Together, they shouldered their packs and began into the forest. Underfoot, the trail was a mosaic of fallen leaves, bracken, and exposed roots. Every snap of twig made Lira's heart hammer, yet she could not tear her gaze from the misty veils between trunks. She sensed movement—something watching, perhaps a stag or fox; perhaps something else.
Marek walked silently, hand on the pommel of his sword. Yet every so often, he would glance back at her, as though measuring her resolve. After a while, Lira found her pace, inhaling the scent of damp wood and resin. With each step, she felt the weight of palace intrigue and threatened treachery fall away, replaced by a raw connection to the world around her. Here, the court's decorum held no sway. Here, only truth mattered.
They had gone perhaps half a league when Lira spotted a series of carved stones set in a curve among the ferns. Each bore a single glyph: a crescent moon entwined with wolf teeth. Beneath the glyphs lay depressions once filled by offerings—crumbled nuts, wilted flowers, a lone charcoal stick.
"This is one of the old waymarkers," Marek said, his voice hushed. "Pathfinders of the Wolf Queen used these to guide pilgrims to her sanctuaries." He bent to brush away leaves, revealing a shallow basin carved into the stone. "If we are on the right track, the way leads deeper still."
Lira knelt beside him, tracing the glyph with a fingertip. A warmth spread from the stone into her palm. The image beneath her touch pulsed, faintly alive. Her breath caught. "It recognizes me," she whispered. "Or the song."
Marek's gaze held no surprise. "A rare gift. Few can commune with these relics." He stood and offered his hand. "Come."
They pressed on, leaving the markers behind. As they walked, the forest grew darker, the canopy overhead thickening until only slivers of sky pierced the gloom. Sunlight seemed a phantom here. Yet Lira felt guided, as though invisible threads tugged her forward toward some secret heart.
A mile in, they came upon a narrow creek, its water clear and cold. Moss-covered stones formed stepping-stones across its shallow bed. Marek tested one with his boot; it shifted precariously. He scooped water into a flask and motioned to Lira. She drank, the icy liquid bringing a sharp sparkle of life to her veins.
"This forest was once a royal preserve," Marek said, his tone distant. "The Queen kept its wolves at peace with the court. But after her passing, the Wildwood turned. Spirits grew restless; travelers vanished; old magics awoke without guidance. That is why we must hurry."
Lira shivered, not from cold but from the weight of what he described. "How many seek the song for power?" she asked.
Marek's jaw tightened. "Too many. Bandits, cultists, even desperate nobles. Any who assemble the verses could claim dominion over spirits older than our kings."
They paused where a fallen log formed a crude bench. Lira unstrapped her pack and removed the scroll tube. She drew it out, the parchment catching the dawn light filtering through leaves. Carefully, she unfurled it to the first verse. The carved glyphs danced before her eyes.
"I need to learn it," she murmured. She closed her eyes, plucking a tentative chord on the harpstring she carried wound at her belt. The note rose soft and pure in the clearing. "When shadows weave…." She sang the line, voice scarcely above a whisper. The words tumbled out—tentative, trembling.
The forest held its breath.
In that hush, Lira sensed a ripple through the trees, a gentle stirring as though the whole wood listened. Leaves trembled on distant branches; the ground beneath her boots thrummed faintly.
She swallowed. "It works," she said, astonished.
Marek watched her with a measured expression. "Good. Rest now. Tonight, you will sing again."
They spent the midday hours following a meandering deer track that ascended a gentle slope. Lira's legs burned, but her spirit soared. She glimpsed deer tracks and, once, a flash of copper among the trunks—a stag with antlers like branches. It regarded her with calm curiosity before vanishing into the gloom. She wondered whether the Queen's spirit rode on its back.
By late afternoon, they reached the forest's core—a vast glade rimmed with ancient oaks whose trunks were wider than Lira's arms could span. At its center lay the Moonstone Shrine: a circle of standing stones carved with musical notation and lupine imagery. Each monolith was topped with a disc of pale quartz that gleamed like cracked moonlight.
Lira dismounted, her legs shaking with exhaustion and exhilaration. Marek knelt at one stone, tracing its runes. "This is where pilgrims first awakened the Queen's spirit," he said. "The stones hold the first song's echo. You must harmonize with them."
She approached reverently, the harpstring in hand. The standing stones towered above; the quartz discs reflected every stray beam, casting ghostly patterns on the grass. A fine mist hovered at their base.
Lira closed her eyes, inhaled the earth's scent, and positioned herself at the shrine's center. She plucked the string—a pure A—and let it ring twice. The stones responded with a low hum, as though they were part of a giant chord. She opened her scroll to the verse:
"When shadows weave upon the moor,
And wolves sing low at twilight's door,
Let mortal voice the chorus swell—
To wake the queen who in darkness fell.''
Her fingers found the notes, and she sang. The sound wove around her, rippling through the clearing. The quartz discs glowed softly, and mist drifted higher. The stones vibrated in silent resonance.
As she sang the final line, a wind sighed through the glade, curling around her ankles. Shapes formed in the mist: the outline of a lupine head, then a faint, regal face that hovered above the stones. Lira's heart thundered. She pressed on, voice steady despite the surge of emotion.
At the last syllable, the vision solidified: the Wolf Queen's spectral form, half-woman, half-wolf, with eyes that held infinite sorrow and fierce hope alike. For a breathless moment, Lira met her gaze.
Then the vision faded; the stones dimmed. Silence reclaimed the glade, deeper than before. Lira's voice echoed once, then died.
She stood trembling, tears in her eyes. Marek knelt beside her. "You have done it," he breathed. "You are the first in a century to awaken her."
Lira's legs gave way. He caught her before she fell, guiding her to sit on a root. Her fingers trembled on the harpstring. "I saw her," she whispered. "Her face…her eyes."
Marek placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Rest, Lira of Windvale. You have earned it. Soon, you will learn the next verse." He offered her water from his flask. She drank, savoring its cool comfort.
As dusk deepened, the clearing glowed faintly under a rising full moon. Somewhere in the woods, a wolf howled—a long, mournful note that echoed Lira's voice. The call answered her song, weaving through branches and returning in layered chorus.
A thrill of triumph and wonder sprang in Lira's chest. She wrapped her arms around her knees, gazing at the standing stones. The road ahead would be fraught with danger—other verses to find, rival seekers to outwit, and the ever-watchful eyes of those who feared the Wolf Queen's return. But for this moment, she tasted a power older than kingdoms, felt a connection that transcended fear and duty.
Marek rose and beckoned her to stand. "Tomorrow, we head for the Ruins of Silverfen, where the second verse awaits." His tone was gentle but firm. "Rest now."
Lira nodded and looked skyward. The moonlight bathed her face, as though blessing her quest. She felt the first true stirrings of belonging—no longer court musician, no longer captive to fear. She was a vessel for something grand and necessary: a melody that could heal a broken world.
That night, as she drifted to sleep beneath the roots of an ancient oak, the Wolf Queen's chorus echoed in her dreams, guiding her deeper into the Wildwood's mysteries—and into the next verse of her own awakening.