Elowen stood at the heart of the tree.
Silver fire flickered across her skin, glowing from the inside like a lantern made of flesh and memory. The runes on the walls whispered in a language her mouth could not shape, but her blood understood.
In this place, time did not move. It remembered.
And it remembered her.
The voice returned — no longer echoing, but close, as if just behind her ear.
"You are not the first to carry the flame, Elowen.
But you may be the last."
The bark ahead cracked and fell away like old skin.
And beyond it, a vision formed.
A forest — still and gray, long before the Mask came. Trees tall and proud. Rivers bright with moonlight. The Stillwoods, in their truest form.
And standing in its center…
A girl. No older than sixteen.
Hair like wild roots, eyes like stormclouds, and a crown of woven thorns upon her brow.
"This is Seris," the voice said.
"The first daughter of the bloodline."
Elowen stepped closer, heart racing.
The girl — Seris — held a blade made of white flame.
And in front of her knelt a boy, weeping.
Elowen recognized him. Though younger. Less twisted.
The Mask.
"Before godhood.
Before madness.
They were bound by love… and betrayal."
The vision shifted — Seris raised the blade.
The boy looked up.
"Forgive me," he said.
She struck.
The forest screamed.
The vision ended.
Elowen stood alone again.
The silver light faded from her arms.
Tears clung to her face, though she hadn't realized she was crying.
"She killed him…" Elowen whispered.
"But he lived."
The voice answered:
"He changed.
Took the flame meant to destroy him.
Twisted it.
Became the Mask."
Elowen's throat tightened.
"And Seris?"
"She vanished. Her name erased.
But her fire lives in you."
The tree groaned.
Its roots trembled beneath her feet.
Suddenly, the floor split open — not violently, but like a mouth opening to speak.
Rising from the center was a spear, carved from the spine of an ancient beast. Runes ran along its shaft. Its tip was forged of crystalized moonlight.
Elowen reached for it.
Pain bloomed through her arm — sharp, burning — but she did not flinch.
When her fingers closed around the weapon, the runes blazed.
The voice whispered once more:
"You carry the name of the flame.
You carry the grief of Seris.
Now rise, Elowen of Thorn and Fire."
She stepped out of the tree.
Ashen stood waiting, eyes wide as he saw the spear in her hand, the crown of faint silver rising above her brow like smoke.
He bowed his head.
"You remembered," he said.
"I saw her," Elowen whispered. "She was like me. But stronger. Sadder."
Ashen nodded.
"She was the beginning. You are the reckoning."
A sound split the quiet — a low hum, followed by shouts.
The thorn wall was burning.
The Mask's Hunters had returned — and this time, they brought fire made from stolen light.
Ashen's expression hardened. "We have to move. The Grove can't hold them again."
Elowen looked at the spear in her hand.
The pain was still there. But now, it had purpose.
"I'm not running this time," she said.
"Then we fight."
She stepped toward the flames.
The forest around her bent low, as if listening.
And Elowen, Daughter of the Stillwoods, raised her weapon to the sky—
And the trees moved.