The forest was calling her again.
Elara stood at the threshold, just beyond the final cottage of Eldwyn, where the cobblestones gave way to moss and root. Morning sunlight tried to pierce the fog, but here it was always dim—like the forest swallowed light as easily as sound.
The Bell Tree behind her rustled, though the air was still.
She hadn't meant to wander here. One moment, she was staring out her window, and the next her feet had brought her to the edge of the woods, like something inside her remembered a path her mind could not.
She took a step forward.
And the woods *breathed*.
Not with wind, but with presence. The air shifted around her, growing heavier, like she'd stepped into a forgotten cathedral where the gods were older and crueler.
She should have turned back.
But something moved beneath her skin—an itch, a memory, a fragment. She followed it.
---
Behind her, the villagers whispered.
They had seen her leave again that morning, barefoot and unbothered by the cold. Mara had tried to stop her—called out to her from the porch—but Elara hadn't looked back.
"She's drawn to it," the innkeeper whispered.
"She's not right," said the mayor.
"She belongs to the forest now," murmured Widow Thorne, clutching her charm of salt and iron.
They began placing wards on their doors. Hanging thistle bundles and shards of mirror in their windows. Even those who once loved Elara now crossed the street when they saw her.
---
Elara followed the invisible trail through the woods, deeper than any child had ever dared to go.
The trees grew older here. Thicker. Their trunks twisted in silent agony, and their roots writhed beneath the moss like sleeping serpents. Birds did not sing. No squirrels or foxes dared stir. Even time itself felt slow, syrupy.
She came upon a clearing.
In its center sat a stone arch, half-swallowed by ivy and earth. It looked ancient, far older than Eldwyn—its surface carved with sigils she didn't recognize but felt in her blood. Symbols pulsed faintly when she stepped closer, as if awakening to her presence.
One word echoed in her mind, unbidden.
**"Hollowpath."**
She whispered it aloud, and the wind responded, lifting her hair like ghost fingers. Beneath the arch, there was only shadow—no path, no exit. Just darkness so complete it felt alive.
She reached out.
The instant her fingers brushed the stone, a flash tore through her mind—
A woman screaming her name.
A river of stars.
Eyes without faces.
Hands pulling her down, down into a place of teeth and whispers.
She stumbled back, gasping.
Voices followed.
**"She sees. She remembers."**
**"The Hollowpath is not yet open."**
**"But soon."**
---
Elara ran.
Branches tore at her arms, the forest groaning around her like a great beast waking from a long sleep. She didn't stop until she broke through the treeline, falling to her knees in the meadow below the Bell Tree.
Mara was waiting there.
She rushed to the girl, pulling her close, brushing leaves from her tangled hair. "Elara, what did you see?"
Elara didn't answer.
She looked at the locket again, heart pounding. The once-faded sketch inside now shimmered faintly, as if reacting to the forest's call.
"I've been there before," she whispered. "That place... Hollowpath."
Mara's face turned pale.
"You must never say that name aloud," she said. "Not here. Not where they can hear."
---
That night, Mara went into her cellar, past barrels and jars and dusty keepsakes, to an old iron chest sealed with seven locks. She hadn't opened it in fifteen years.
Inside were journals. Maps. Bones carved with runes.
And a letter written in trembling script:
*If Elara ever returns, the Hollowpath will awaken with her. Keep her safe. Or destroy her.*
She lit a candle, hands shaking.
The watchers were no longer sleeping.
The girl had come back.
And the door was beginning to open.