Morning crept through the ashes like a shy apology. Kael woke to the smell of smoke and the hush of a world that had nearly burned. The fire was out, but the forest beyond Cinder smoldered—its edges glowing faintly where roots still breathed heat.
The silver mark on his palm remained. It didn't ache, but it thrummed, faint and rhythmic, as though something beneath his skin had learned to breathe on its own.
He pulled his sleeve down to hide it and walked toward the ranger outpost. The town looked different now: blackened trees on the horizon, soot clinging to rooftops, rangers moving like ghosts through the haze.
"Kael!" A woman's voice cut through the quiet. Captain Brinna, head ranger, her red-braided hair dulled with ash, strode toward him. "Your mother's looking for you. Thought you were trapped in the blaze."
"Sorry, Captain." He lowered his gaze. "I—I was helping near the treeline."
"Helping?" She frowned. "With what?"
He hesitated. A talking raven with silver eyes wasn't going to sound sane. "Just… clearing debris."
Brinna studied him a long moment, then sighed. "You've got your father's stubborn streak. Be careful, lad. The Ashenwild's restless. Rangers are saying the spirits stirred last night."
Kael nodded, trying to ignore the pulse in his hand. Restless spirits. That made too much sense.
He slipped away from the main road, following a deer trail toward the forest's edge. Each step brought whispers—the rustle of leaves that seemed to shape words too soft to hear. When the last houses of Cinder vanished behind him, the mark on his palm glowed faintly again, answering the sound.
"You're not going to behave, are you?" he muttered to it.
No, something seemed to whisper back, not in words but in a brush of warmth.
The forest opened into a glade where a small stream wound through moss and stone. The air shimmered faintly, and on the far side knelt a figure in green.
At first he thought she was a ranger. Then she turned, and Kael saw the faint tattooed lines of vines across her cheeks, the small crystals woven into her dark hair. Her eyes were the color of deep water. A druid.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly. "The forest watches today."
Kael froze. "I—I live in Cinder. I just came to—"
Her gaze fell to his hand. The sleeve had slipped, revealing the faint silver feather. Her expression changed—curiosity laced with something like awe. "You touched one of them."
"One of what?"
She stood, stepping closer. "The wild messengers. The forest sent ravens last night to test the hearts of men. Yours answered."
"I just helped it," Kael said. "It was caught in a snare."
"That was enough." She reached out, almost touching his palm but stopping short. "You bear a mark I thought lost with the ages. What is your name?"
"Kael. Kael Thornhart."
The druid smiled faintly. "I am Lyra of the Greenwood Circle. And you, Kael Thornhart, may be the first Beastbinder reborn."
The word struck him like thunder—echoing with something ancient, vast, and frightening.
They spoke beside the stream while sunlight filtered through the smoke. Lyra told him stories of the old magic: how true Beastbinders could hear the hearts of creatures, share their senses, even merge their spirits in battle. The art had vanished when the Wardens outlawed wild magic centuries ago.
"But the forest remembers," she said, tracing runes in the water. "It chooses its vessels carefully."
Kael laughed nervously. "It chose a hunter who can barely shoot straight?"
"Perhaps because your heart listens when others do not."
Before he could answer, the mark on his hand flared again. From the north came a shrill caw—Riven's cry. Kael looked up to see the silver raven sweeping low over the glade, feathers flashing.
Lyra's eyes widened. "It returned to you."
Riven landed on a nearby branch, tilting its head. We are not finished, human, the voice echoed in Kael's mind.
"I noticed," Kael murmured.
Lyra smiled. "Then your training begins sooner than I thought."
As dusk fell, Lyra led him deeper into the Ashenwild. The trees grew ancient and vast, their roots like the ribs of sleeping giants. She spoke of balance, of listening instead of commanding. Kael tried, closing his eyes, feeling the pulse of the forest through the mark.
At first, only silence. Then faintly—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, circling them.
"Fenra," Lyra whispered. "Do not startle her."
A shape emerged from the mist: a silver wolf, larger than any Kael had seen, eyes like liquid moonlight. Her fur rippled with pale energy.
"She's wounded," Lyra said softly. "Trapped by poachers two nights ago. I could not reach her without aid."
Kael's hand burned, the mark glowing bright enough to light the ferns. Fenra's gaze met his, and in that moment, he felt her pain—sharp, cold, and proud.
"Easy," Kael whispered, stepping closer. "I can help."
Fenra growled but didn't attack. He reached out, palm glowing against her flank. Light spread like silver threads through her wounds. When it faded, the wolf was whole again.
Lyra watched, astonished. "You healed her through the bond."
Fenra sniffed his hand, then bowed her head in acknowledgment. A second pulse of light linked them—quieter this time, gentle as snow. Kael felt a surge of warmth and a thought not his own: Pack.
He smiled. "Guess that makes three of us now."
Riven cawed overhead. Lyra laughed softly. "You're rewriting the laws of nature, Kael Thornhart."
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I'm just listening."