Lira’s fingers brushed the moss-caked stone, and the forest held its breath. The air smelled of damp earth and iron, a metallic tang that clung to her tongue. She had always felt the forest more than others—how the roots pulsed beneath her boots, how the wind whispered through the pines like a voice just beyond comprehension. But tonight, the silence was different. It pressed against her ears, heavy and deliberate, as if the trees themselves were waiting.
A rustle in the underbrush. Lira froze. Her pulse thudded in her throat, louder than the distant hoot of an owl. She crouched low, fingers curling into the soil. Something moved—too fast, too smooth, like a shadow given form. Her breath came shallow, but she didn’t run. Running had never saved anyone.
The figure emerged from the gloom, its shape shifting like smoke. Lira’s stomach twisted. She had seen this before, in dreams that left her drenched in sweat and confusion. The creature’s eyes were voids, swallowing the dim light. It tilted its head, and a voice slithered into her mind, not spoken but felt: *You are late.*
She staggered back, but the ground was no longer solid beneath her. The forest around her blurred, trees stretching into infinity, their trunks bleeding dark tendrils. The creature stepped closer, and Lira’s vision fractured—images blooming in her mind: a fire that never died, a child’s laughter echoing through ash, a hand reaching for hers from a mirror’s surface. She gasped, doubling over as pain lanced through her skull.
*You remember.*
The voice was gone. The forest was still. Lira clutched her temples, her nails biting into her skin. The dreams had always been fragments, but this—this was a memory. A truth she had buried deep, even from herself. She swallowed hard. If the forest was warning her, it meant the end had already begun.
—
The village square was a patchwork of stone and timber, its buildings leaning like tired soldiers. Lanterns flickered in the dusk, their light barely piercing the gathering gloom. Lira moved through the crowd, her boots crunching over gravel. The air reeked of woodsmoke and fear. Children huddled near their mothers, eyes darting to the forest’s edge as if expecting it to swallow them whole.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” a voice muttered. Lira turned. Old Man Jorren stood by the well, his face etched with wrinkles that looked like cracks in dried clay. His gaze lingered on her hands, which she quickly tucked behind her back. “The forest’s restless,” he said, voice low. “Things are… changing.”
“It’s just the wind,” Lira said, though the words felt hollow. She had heard the stories—how the trees had begun to shift when the moon was full, how villagers claimed to see shapes moving in the mist. But she had never believed them. Not until tonight.
Jorren’s eyes narrowed. “You feel it, don’t you?”
Lira hesitated. The question hung between them, thick as the smoke from the hearth fires. She nodded, barely a flick of her chin. Jorren exhaled sharply, as if releasing a breath he’d been holding for years. “Then you need to see this.” He turned, limping toward the edge of the square where a crude wooden door stood. It was carved with symbols Lira didn’t recognize, their edges worn smooth by time.
“What is it?” she asked, but Jorren didn’t answer. He pushed the door open, revealing a narrow passage that reeked of mildew and old paper. Lira followed, her pulse a frantic rhythm in her ears. The corridor ended in a small chamber, its walls lined with scrolls and books. At the center stood a table, its surface scarred with deep gouges.
“This is the Archive,” Jorren said. “The last of the old records. Before the fire.” His voice was bitter, laced with something deeper—grief, perhaps, or guilt. Lira’s gaze drifted to the table. The scars looked like claw marks. “You think the forest did this?”
“I think it’s trying to remember,” Jorren said. “And it’s not the only one.”
—
The next morning, Lira stood at the forest’s edge, her cloak heavy with dew. The village had gone quiet, as if holding its breath. She traced the symbols on the wooden door, feeling the grooves beneath her fingertips. The Archive had given her nothing but questions. But the forest—its silence, its warning—had shown her something else. A path, winding and uncertain, leading into the unknown.
She stepped forward. The trees closed around her, their branches weaving a canopy that filtered the sunlight into fractured gold. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of moss and decay. Every step felt like a descent, as if the forest itself was pulling her deeper. Then she heard it—a sound like a heartbeat, slow and deliberate, echoing from the shadows.
Lira froze. The sound was close now, pulsing in time with her own breath. She turned, her hand brushing the hilt of the dagger at her side. Nothing. Just the rustle of leaves, the creak of branches. But the heartbeat didn’t stop. It grew louder, more insistent, until it was all she could hear.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
No answer. The forest seemed to hold its breath again, as if waiting. Lira pressed on, her fingers tightening around the dagger. The path ahead twisted, leading her toward a clearing where the trees stood in perfect symmetry, their trunks blackened and cracked. At the center stood a stone monument, its surface etched with the same symbols as the Archive door.
She approached, heart hammering. The symbols glowed faintly, pulsing like a living thing. As her fingers brushed the stone, a surge of heat coursed through her, and the world around her dissolved into darkness.
—
Lira awoke to the sound of weeping. The clearing was gone, replaced by a vast expanse of shadow, where figures moved like smoke. She stumbled forward, her vision swimming. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and something sharper—blood, maybe, or iron.
“You shouldn’t have come,” a voice said. Lira turned. A woman stood among the shadows, her face obscured by a veil of black cloth. “The forest is not what it was. It’s remembering. And it’s not done yet.”
“Who are you?” Lira demanded.
The woman stepped closer, and the shadows parted around her. “I am what remains of those who tried to stop it. The ones who forgot their names.” Her voice was hollow, as if spoken from a distance. “You have the same eyes as they did. The same power.”
Lira’s breath caught. “What power?”
The woman lifted a hand, and the shadows around them coalesced into shapes—figures of people, their faces blurred, their mouths open in silent screams. “The forest feeds on memory,” she said. “It takes what it needs to survive. And it needs you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are the key.” The woman’s voice hardened. “But if you fail, it will take everything. Including you.”
—
Lira returned to the village at dusk, her mind a storm of questions. The forest had shown her visions—of fire, of loss, of a choice she hadn’t yet made. She needed answers, but the villagers would only offer fear. So she sought out Jorren again, finding him in the Archive, hunched over a scroll that seemed to glow with its own light.
“You’re back,” he said without looking up. “I thought you’d run.”
“I didn’t come for answers,” Lira said. “I came for a choice.”
Jorren finally looked at her, his eyes dark with understanding. “The forest doesn’t give choices, child. It takes them from you.” He stood, stretching his aching back. “But if you’re ready to hear the truth, I can tell you what little I know.”
Lira nodded. The weight of the forest’s warning pressed against her chest, a constant ache. She had to know. She had to understand.
Jorren led her to the back of the Archive, where a door stood slightly ajar. Inside, the air was colder, the walls lined with paintings and maps that shifted when she looked at them. “This is what’s left of the old world,” he said. “Before the fire, before the forest changed. Before we forgot who we were.”
Lira stepped closer, her breath catching as she saw a painting of a woman with eyes like hers, standing before a tree that stretched into the sky. “Who is she?”
Jorren’s voice was barely a whisper. “The first keeper. The one who bound the forest to this land. But something broke the bond. And now it’s trying to remember.”
“And me?”
He met her gaze, sorrow etched into every line of his face. “You’re the next. The last. And if you don’t stop it, the forest will consume everything.”
—
The night Lira left the village, the sky was a deep violet, streaked with clouds that moved like living things. She carried nothing but a satchel of supplies and the weight of the forest’s warning. The path ahead was uncertain, but she didn’t look back. The village had been her home, but the forest was her truth.
As she reached the edge of the trees, she paused, glancing one last time at the lights flickering in the distance. The villagers would never understand. They would cling to their fears, their stories, their lies. But she had seen what lay beyond the veil—the memories, the choices, the cost of forgetting.
The forest called to her, its voice a low hum in her bones. She stepped forward, into the shadows, and let the trees take her. The journey was only beginning.
