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It is said that the forest whispered on nights like this.
Old stories told around Eldhollow's hearths spoke of a time when the trees weren't just alive...they listened. When the wind could steal your name, and the Blood Moon painted a lot more than just the grey sky which hovered above the people's heads, carrying in it mysteries that span time itself.
"If it rises red, stay clear of the woods," the elders usually would warn.
The cursed ones emerge during the Blood moon.
The girl never believed any of it.
Superstition, mostly... She'd say to herself.
Besides, the moon this night wasn't red but a pale hue, pale and distant .
Still, as she walked briskly through the stone path behind the forge...basket in hand, her boots damp with evening dew...she couldn't deny that the wind felt… different.
It was surprisingly not cold...
Not loud either...
It felt as though it was just watching. Like the quiet owl which observes atop the tree.
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She wasn't supposed to be out this late.
But when Grandma Elza's cough returned ...wet...rattling...worse than ever ...she didn't hesitate. No apothecary herbs in town. And the glade on the forest's edge had just what she needed.
She was always the one who went, not the neighbours' boys.
"You're the steady one," her grandmother would say. "Your hands don't shake when they should."
She didn't take it as a compliment.
---
Branches creaked as she walked deeper along the trail, the dim outline of the glade just ahead.
Fog drifted across the ground like it had been poured there... not rising from the earth, but set down like a veil over the forest.
She pulled her shawl tighter, an attempt to warm her body in the foggy...cold....night.
Humming softly...not a song, just a sound to keep herself company and to steer her mind away from the thought that the trees seemed to lean inward.
"You're not afraid",she told herself.
You've been here before. She further comforted herself.
But something prickled in her spine.
It was as though the forest had forgotten her.
---
She reached the clearing.
It looked the same, except for how quiet it was.
Not dead quiet, but too quiet. No crickets. No rustling of leaves in the wind.
It was as though the wind paused, like it was waiting for her to make the first move.
Kneeling, she plucked a handful of silverleaf and nightshade grass, doing her best at being careful not to bruise the stems.
Her mother had taught her how to speak to the plants...how to gather the herbs without offending them.
She whispered the old chant; half out of habit...half out of hope.
Then...snap!
A twig, maybe five steps behind her.
She rose slowly, turning to see behind her.
---
He was already there.
Tall..... Cloaked... his face shrowded and concealed by the hood.
He stood just inside the tree line, half-wrapped in fog.
Like he belonged to it..... One with it.
She said nothing at first.
Neither did he.
---
Finally, when her voice found her, she quivered.
"Are you lost?"
The man tilted his head, slightly. Dark, silver eyes glowed under the pale moonlight.
A magnetic feeling within them....
Or so she felt....
"No," he said calmly. "But you are."
His voice was smooth... deep, even gentle but wrapped in ice.
Like something royal that been unused for too long.
She took a step back.
Then another..... shakily.
Still, he didn't move.
Didn't threaten...
Didn't even look at her like prey.
It was more like… recognition.
Like he'd been waiting.
---
Moonlight shifted and she caught a flash beneath his cloak.
A silver mark.
On his neck, just above his collarbone.
It looked more like....
A rune.
Her heart beat skipped....She'd seen it somewhere before!
In an old scroll buried under her grandmother's floorboards.
A mark left behind by those the villagers called....
the Cursed-Blooded.
No... It can't be.
She steadied her breath.
"Who are you?"
Still, he didn't answer.
He stepped forward.
Not with menac but with purpose.
Each footstep soft, deliberate.
Then he stopped....
Bowed...
"I have come to claim my mate"
---
Her breath caught.
"…Your what?"
He said nothing more. Just watched her.
His silver eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood.
She didn't run.
But she wanted to.
Instead, she reached for the only thing she had...the herb basket and hurled it at him.
It struck his shoulder, scattering leaves and roots like startled birds flying frantically in the forest.
Then she turned and fled.
But the fog obscured her sight.
Her boot caught on a root.
She fell down hard, hands scraping against cold earth.
She rolled, ready to crawl... fight... something.
But he hadn't moved.
He was still standing ,exuding the same calmness... still watching
---
Then his voice came gain.
Deep....
Icy....
"If I meant to harm you," he said, "you'd be bleeding by now."
Her heart thundered. "That's not comforting."
"No," he agreed. "It isn't meant to be."
She pushed herself upright, mud on her knees, blood on her palm.
"You're mad". Her voice came out more clearly this time.
Then his tone changed.
It became softer... Clearer.
"Aryn of Eldhollow."
She froze.
Her own name hit harder than anything else he'd said.
She hadn't told him.
Hadn't said a word about it ever since she left home.
So how did a complete stranger whom she had never met or seen before know her name?
"How do you know that?!!"
He didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Just let her hear the wind.
Then turned and disappeared into the trees.
No rustle.
No crunch of leaves.
It was as if the fog took him back like he was one with the forest.
Only the earlier quiet atmosphere ensued as if all that was just her imagination. But the she knew...
It definitely happened!
---
She stood there, breathing hard, unsure if she was frozen from fear or the cold night air.
Finally... she ran, not caring to look back.
Not once.
---
Just then, she saw it...
A tree trunk... just off the path.
Freshly carved.
Four deep claw marks, jagged and wide.
And between them, written like the bark had been pierced from the inside out stood out clearly:
ARYN.