For one hour, the village held its breath.
No birds sang. No wings stirred in the canopy. Even the crows—guttural and constant as gossip—fell silent. It wasn't absence. It was omission, as if some unseen hand had plucked sound from the air like a note unplayed.
Evelyn noticed first. She always listened more than most.
At the well, the rope creaked as she drew water, its groan unnaturally loud in the hush. The bucket struck the surface with a splash that echoed too far, too long, across the dusty square. She paused, fingers resting on the handle, eyes darting toward the treeline.
Nothing moved. Not a squirrel, not a rabbit. No birds.
Only stillness.
She turned to find Torren standing a dozen paces away, sweat darkening his tunic. He'd been training again, wooden staff in hand, fresh bruises blooming along his arms.
"You feel it too?" she asked.
He didn't nod. Just stepped beside her and scanned the trees.
"It's not just quiet," he murmured. "It's wrong."
They waited, but the silence held.
When it finally broke, it was only because her mother rang the iron bell that hung from their lintel—a soft chime to call her in for tea. Even the bell seemed too bright in the still air.
Later, at supper, her father brought word.
"The Warden post didn't report in."
Evelyn's spoon paused in her stew.
"They're late?" she asked.
Her father nodded. "Four days overdue. The guild's either slow or dead. Not sure which worries me more."
Her mother's spoon clinked gently against her bowl. "You know better than to say such things at the table."
"But it's true."
"True things still carry weight."
That night, Evelyn couldn't sleep.
She crept from her bed after midnight, feet bare against the cool wooden planks. Outside, the forest loomed, dark and hulking against the silver spill of moonlight. The humming had started again.
Soft. Constant. Like a lullaby played on strings thinner than breath. It came from the edge of the trees—just beyond where the wardposts burned faintly with protective sigils. She stepped to the window, breath held, staring at the elderwood grove beyond the fences.
Something moved between the trunks. A shimmer. A suggestion.
She blinked. It was gone.
Evelyn crawled back under her quilt, but the humming clung to her ears long after she buried her head beneath the fabric.
And when sleep came, it came with flame.
She stood in a field of ash. Fire danced along the horizon—not red, not orange, but white-blue and alive like lightning frozen mid-breath.
Black flowers cracked under her feet. Smoke spiraled up from the soil in slow, deliberate curls, each one bearing a different scent—charred cedar, snowmelt, blood.
A woman stood at the center of the plain.
Her robes were black, shot through with lines of silver that pulsed like veins. Her hair drifted weightless behind her like ink in water, and her eyes—silver, depthless—gleamed like moons in eclipse.
She was singing.
No words. Just tone. Harmony and dissonance woven into a thread of melody that pulled at Evelyn's spine like a tether. It was ancient and raw and true.
Evelyn stepped forward. Her feet didn't move. The ground did.
The woman turned.
And whispered her name.
Not Evelyn. Not quite.
A name older than speech, spoken like a chime of glass breaking beneath stars. It split her in two, that sound. Broke her open like a shell. And within—burning behind her ribs—was something bright, wild, and waiting.
Then she woke.
Drenched in sweat. Heart pounding. Nails dug into her palm. The humming had stopped.
Outside, birds were singing again.
But the air still tasted like ash.