Lysandra didn't stop walking.
She could still hear the whisper of her name in the wind, but she refused to acknowledge it. A part of her knew that once she did, it would mean something—it would give whatever was watching power over her.
The prince strode ahead, silent and unreadable.
The night stretched on, thick with shadows and an unnatural stillness. The forest should have been alive with the sounds of rustling leaves, the distant hoots of owls, the whisper of the river—but there was nothing. No wind. No life.
It was as if the very world was holding its breath.
She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.
The gods were watching.
And she had no idea what they were waiting for.
They walked until the sky lightened into a deep, bruised purple. The first hints of dawn peeked through the dense canopy above, but the eerie silence did not break.
It wasn't until Lysandra finally stopped, pressing a hand against a tree to catch her breath, that the prince spoke.
"We need to reach the ruins before nightfall."
She glanced up, wiping sweat from her brow. "What ruins?"
He hesitated, as if debating how much to tell her. Then, he said, "The ruins of the last cursed heir."
Lysandra stiffened.
"What happened to them?"
The prince exhaled. "They tried to break the curse. Alone."
Her chest tightened. She already knew how that story ended.
She pushed away from the tree. "Then we're going the right way."
The prince gave her a long, unreadable look before turning away.
They continued walking.
By midday, the silence broke.
It started as a distant rustling—something moving through the trees. Lysandra's instincts screamed at her that it wasn't natural.
She slowed, glancing toward the prince. He had stopped, one hand resting near the hilt of his blade.
Then—a whisper.
Lysandra.
Her blood turned to ice.
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the prince.
The voice came from the shadows.
Then—movement.
A shape crawled from the darkness between the trees.
Not an animal. Not a person. Something wrong.
It had no eyes, only hollow sockets dripping with something dark and endless. Its body shifted as if it wasn't entirely solid, like a living shadow given form.
And there were more.
Shapes emerging from the darkness. Crawling. Slithering. Watching.
Lysandra took a step back, her breath shallow. "What are they?"
The prince's voice was tight. "The Forgotten."
Her stomach twisted.
She had heard that name before. In old myths. In warnings.
The Forgotten were souls claimed by the gods—beings erased from history. Those who had once been human but had been taken, their existence devoured.
And now, they were here.
Watching her.
One of them moved.
It didn't walk—it glided, too smooth, too silent. Then it spoke, but its mouth didn't move.
You were not meant to leave.
Lysandra's heart pounded.
The prince grabbed her wrist. "Run."
But the shadows moved faster.
The Forgotten lunged.
Lysandra barely had time to react before the world exploded into motion.
She dodged, barely avoiding the cold grip of something that wasn't quite solid but still very real. The prince unsheathed his blade, the silver steel glowing faintly in the dim light.
He swung.
The blade sliced through one of the figures, but instead of blood, only dark mist spilled from the wound. The Forgotten hissed, its hollow sockets narrowing.
Lysandra moved.
Instinct drove her—she didn't know how or why, but something inside her reacted.
The mark on her hand burned.
She thrust her palm forward—
And the shadows shuddered.
The Forgotten recoiled, as if something unseen had struck them.
The prince's eyes widened.
Lysandra's breath came in ragged gasps. Her hand was glowing—a deep, shifting black that pulsed like living ink.
The Forgotten hesitated.
Then, one of them whispered, The gods have marked her.
And just like that, they vanished.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lysandra stood frozen, staring at her hand. The glow faded, but the mark still throbbed beneath her skin.
She turned to the prince, expecting an explanation.
But he was staring at her like she was something he couldn't quite understand.
Finally, he spoke.
"You are more dangerous than I thought."
Lysandra swallowed hard.
For the first time, she wasn't sure if that was a good thing.