The fire had died.
Elowen sat curled beside its ashes, her arms wrapped around her knees. The silver lines on her skin had faded into soft scars, but their heat lingered. Even in sleep, her blood whispered—restless, stirring with voices she didn't yet understand.
A new dawn had not come.
There were no mornings in the Stillwoods. No sunrises. Only grey light that never shifted. The trees stood the same as before, frozen sentinels in a world that refused to change. But Elowen had changed. The forest may not move—but she would.
She rose, brushing the dirt from her dress. Her body ached from the power that had torn through her the day before, but something inside her had settled. Not peace—no. Something older. Heavier.
Purpose.
She remembered the voice from beneath the root. Find the three marks… one in bone, one in flame, one in dream.
If she was to survive, she needed to begin the search. And the first was bone.
Elowen walked for hours, or days—it was hard to tell. The forest gave no sign of time passing. Trees blurred together. Fog rolled thick, curling through the woods like smoke.
Her feet carried her deeper into the heart of Stillwoods, where even the trees had begun to change.
Their bark turned pale and brittle, like old parchment. Their limbs hung low and bare, twisting down toward the soil as if pulled by something beneath. The silence grew louder. Not emptier—just heavier. As if she were walking through a forgotten graveyard.
Then she saw it.
A tree stood apart from the others—taller, smoother, bone-white from root to crown. Its bark gleamed like polished ivory, and tangled in its roots were skulls.
Dozens of them.
Not fresh. Old. Clean. Staring with hollow eyes at the sky that never changed.
Elowen approached slowly, her breath catching in her throat. As she stepped into the clearing, the air shifted. It smelled of dust, ash, and sorrow.
The ground beneath her feet cracked faintly as she walked—thin bones hidden beneath the soil.
This was no tree.
It was a grave-marker.
Her fingers brushed the trunk, and the moment her skin touched the bark, a sound erupted inside her head.
A scream.
A battlefield.
Steel clashing with bone.
And above it all—her own voice shouting a name she no longer remembered.
She staggered back, her chest tight, her blood burning. Her hands trembled. A name rested on the edge of her mind, but it wouldn't rise.
"You're close."
The voice was not hers.
Elowen turned, fast. A girl stood behind her.
Not a woman. Not a child.
Somewhere in between.
Her skin was pale as snow, her eyes black as ink, and her dress made of stitched leather and feathers. Around her neck hung a chain of finger bones. She smiled—not kindly.
"You've awakened the Bone Tree," the girl said. "It remembers you. That's rare."
Elowen stepped back. "Who are you?"
"A daughter of the Stillwoods. Like you."
"You're not me."
"Not yet," the girl said, grin widening.
Elowen glanced at the tree again. Something pulsed inside it. She could feel it—a memory. A key.
"I need the mark," she whispered.
"Then bleed for it," the girl replied simply. "All power in this forest is drawn by pain. Haven't you learned that yet?"
Elowen looked down at her hand.
Trembling.
She didn't want to.
But part of her did.
She took the small dagger from her belt—the one she'd found tangled in her cloak the day she awoke. Its hilt was carved with strange letters she didn't understand. The blade gleamed like it had just been sharpened.
She drew it across her palm.
A sharp hiss. Warm blood welled to the surface.
She pressed her hand against the tree.
The moment blood touched bark, the tree pulsed. The skulls at its base shivered. Light crawled up the trunk in a web of silver, branching like veins.
A deep, grinding creak echoed through the woods.
And from the heart of the tree, something opened.
A hole—round and smooth—like an eye.
Inside it, half-buried in bone, lay a fragment of ivory, carved with a familiar mark: a crescent moon pierced by three thorns.
Elowen reached in, pulled it free.
The moment her fingers closed around it, a new burn spread through her arm—painful, but not wild. Not out of control. It felt like… belonging.
The fragment sank into her skin, disappearing beneath the silver scars.
And then, silence.
The tree stopped glowing.
The girl tilted her head. "You've claimed the first mark. The forest will know you now. He will know you too."
Elowen looked up, heart racing.
"He's watching?"
The girl only smiled.
"He never stopped."
Then she stepped backward, fading into mist like a shadow in water.
Elowen stood alone beneath the Bone Tree, her blood still dripping, the mark now inside her.
One down.
Two to go.
But far, far away, beneath black stone and broken stars, the god who had once been a man opened his eyes again—and whispered her name with a voice made of fire and bone.