Aurora knelt in the meadow, her fingers brushing across petals of moon-blooming flowers. They glowed faintly, their pale light painting her hands silver. To anyone passing by, she would have looked almost ethereal—golden hair catching the starlight, eyes like fragments of dawn.
But Aurora was no princess, no sorceress. She was simply Aurora of Kaelridge, a girl who loved the earth beneath her feet and the sky above her head.
"Aurora," her mother's voice called from the cottage at the forest's edge. "The herbs, darling. Don't forget the nightroot."
"Yes, Mother!" Aurora replied, her voice soft but carrying on the night air. She gathered the roots carefully, humming an old lullaby.
The air shifted. A chill swept over the meadow. Aurora straightened, her eyes narrowing. The forest was never truly silent, yet now, even the owls had hushed.
Then she saw him.
A figure, cloaked in black, stood between the trees. His presence was a shadow that bent the world around him. Aurora's breath caught.
He should not have been there—Kaelridge was a simple village, far from noble courts and wandering knights. And yet, he stood there, tall and otherworldly, as if carved from the night itself.
Their eyes met. His were the color of storm clouds, deep and endless. For a heartbeat, Aurora could not move.
The man inclined his head, almost respectfully, then vanished into the woods.
Aurora's heart pounded. Who was he? A traveler? A sorcerer? A threat? She wanted to dismiss it as her imagination, but the air still hummed with power, as though the earth itself had been stirred.
She whispered to herself, "What are you?"
And deep in the forest, the stranger whispered her name.