The morning air in Sylvenmere carried the scent of frost and pine, brushing Elara's cheeks as she opened the shutters to her small window. Her thoughts were far from the present, still tangled in the memory of Kaelen's eyes—silver like shattered stars.
Had it truly happened? Or had she conjured him from loneliness and longing?
She turned from the window and caught sight of the pendant around her neck. A shard of moonstone, dull to anyone else, but now... it glowed faintly. She clenched it tight. She hadn't imagined him.
As the village healer, Elara had her routines—brewing tinctures, tending to fevers, helping mothers through childbirth. But today, the forest hummed louder in her ears than any of the patients' complaints. She barely heard old Marren talking about his aching knees as she packed herbs into cloth pouches.
"You look pale, child," Marren said. "Did the woods take something from you last night?"
She stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"Only that the veil's thinnest in spring. Folk forget that trees remember things." He gave her a long look. "Be careful where you step."
When he left, she bolted the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. She wasn't just imagining danger—others felt it too. Maybe Kaelen was right. Shadows were stirring.
She reached beneath the floorboards and pulled out an old leather-bound book—her mother's journal. Most pages were blank, except a few cryptic entries:
> "The blood sings loudest in spring."
"Do not trust the ones with golden fire in their eyes."
"Elara must never go to the mirror-lake. That is where the circle broke."
The circle.
Kaelen wore a broken circlet. Her mother warned of a broken circle. The connection chilled her. She traced the words on the page as if they might whisper answers.
A knock shattered her thoughts.
She opened the door cautiously.
It was Mira, the blacksmith's daughter, clutching her arm and sobbing. "I saw something in the woods… not far from the stream. A man. Eyes like silver."
Elara's blood froze. "Did he speak to you?"
"No," Mira whispered. "He just looked at me, then disappeared. I think he was… Fae."
Elara ushered her inside, calmed her, and gave her tea laced with poppy to settle her nerves. But dread coiled tighter in her stomach.
Kaelen had promised to meet only her.
Why was he still near the village?
Night fell heavy and fast. Elara walked toward the forest again, drawn by an invisible thread. When she reached the stream, he was already waiting.
"You shouldn't have stayed," she said.
"I didn't," Kaelen replied. "But others have come. They can smell your blood."
"Why are you warning me?"
He looked at her as if the answer were obvious. "Because if they take you to the Mirror-Lake, you'll awaken something no one can stop."
Elara stepped closer. "Then help me. Teach me."
Kaelen looked torn. "My exile forbids me from touching the old magics. But if you truly wish to walk this path…"
He held out his hand. A flicker of moonlight danced across his palm, then solidified into a slender, glowing shard—a piece of his broken circlet.
"Take it," he said. "It will protect you from the veilwalkers. But it will also mark you."
Elara took it. As soon as her fingers closed around the metal, she felt a jolt—like lightning through water. Visions flickered behind her eyes: a woman who looked like her, dressed in silver robes… standing on a burning bridge… holding hands with Kaelen.
The same Kaelen.
She gasped and dropped the shard. "What was that?"
He didn't answer. His voice was low. "You saw it too."
"We've met before," she said. "Haven't we?"
Kaelen nodded slowly. "Not in this life."
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind shifted. The trees groaned.
Kaelen's voice dropped to a whisper. "They've found us."
From the shadows of the trees, eyes blinked open—dozens of them. Figures with golden fire in their gaze emerged from the mist, wearing cloaks of woven smoke.
"Elara," Kaelen said, drawing a curved blade from his side, "run."
But she didn't.
She stood beside him, trembling, eyes wide—but steady.
"If I'm part of this… I'm not running anymore."
And so began their first battle—not of swords, but of loyalty and fate.
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