The moon hung low over Eldenbrook, its silver light spilling across the sleeping village like a whispered secret. The air was still, thick with the scent of moss and distant rain. From the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a soft hum echoed—barely audible, yet persistent.
Seraphina brushed a strand of dark hair from her face, her fingers stained with ink and candle wax. She'd stayed up late again, pretending to copy herbal notes for the apothecary, but truly, she was scribbling dreams. Dreams she couldn't explain. Dreams of a man cloaked in moonlight, his eyes glowing like starlit lakes, and a voice that called her name with aching familiarity.
The same dream. Night after night.
She closed the worn leather journal in her lap and leaned out the creaky window of her attic room. From here, she could see most of Eldenbrook—the crooked chimneys, the cobblestone streets, the flickering lanterns in the old market square. Beyond that, the hills rolled into darkness, where the Forbidden Forest began—ancient, wild, and full of whispers.
Most feared the forest.
Seraphina didn't.
It called to her.
A sharp whistle broke her thoughts. "Oi! Dreaming again?"
She blinked down. Elyas stood beneath the lamppost, arms folded, hair wind-tousled. He wore that familiar lopsided grin—the one that had gotten them both into and out of trouble too many times to count.
"You call it dreaming," she replied with a crooked smile. "I call it… advanced thinking."
He rolled his eyes and climbed over the short fence, hopping onto her windowsill like he'd done since they were kids.
"Last time you said that," he said, "we nearly burned down the bakery."
"That was not my fault," she defended. "You dared me to light the cinnamon roll."
"It was a candle, Sera. Not a bonfire."
They both laughed, and for a moment, the weight in her chest eased. Elyas had always been her anchor—a storm of laughter, reckless plans, and warm hands that had pulled her from more than one darkness.
They'd grown up in Granny Merle's house, practically siblings. She'd been the orphan girl with the strange silver birthmark and a stare too serious for her age. He was the wild village boy who once tried to fly off the roof with bedsheets.
Opposites, but bound by mischief.
"You've got that look again," Elyas murmured.
"What look?"
"The 'I don't belong here' look."
She hesitated. "Maybe I don't."
"You belong with me."
The words landed with quiet force.
Seraphina turned away, eyes on the distant forest. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me," he said. "Don't shut me out."
"I'm not," she whispered. "I just… I feel like there's something out there, Elyas. Something waiting. Something pulling me."
He was silent.
Then, softly, "What if it's dangerous?"
"Or what if it's the only thing that's ever truly been meant for me?"
He let out a short laugh. "You sound like one of those Moonlit cultists."
"They're dreamers," she corrected. "Just like me."
"You're lucky you're pretty," he muttered. "Otherwise, I'd drag you to the village priest myself."
She elbowed him. He gasped dramatically, flailing backward like a wounded hero.
"There! She strikes!" he cried. "The savage forest girl returns to finish me!"
She giggled, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're stubborn," he grinned. "But I guess that's why I like you."
Her smile faded slowly. The space between them stretched—full of things unsaid.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of damp leaves. In the forest beyond, something shimmered beneath the trees. She couldn't see it, not fully… but she could feel it.
A presence.
A pull.
---
In the heart of the forest, beneath the roots of the oldest tree, a king stirred.
The moonlight touched his cursed skin.
And his eyes—silver and sorrowful—opened for the first time in a hundred years.
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