Chapter 1: The Dream in the Forest

The wind moved like breath over the slumbering village of Hollowmere, whispering ancient secrets through the trees. Branches groaned under the weight of midnight fog, and the full moon hung low, casting silver ribbons across the earth. The ash trees stood tall and ancient, their bark scarred with the touch of centuries.

Amara Elwood stood at the edge of the forest, barefoot, her nightdress fluttering in the wind. Her fingers lightly brushed the gnarled bark of the oldest tree—one she always found in her dreams. Its roots coiled like serpents into the ground, and carved into its trunk was a strange symbol that pulsed faintly with light.

She had not meant to leave her bed, nor did she remember waking. But here she was again—standing in the same place she had seen a hundred times in her sleep.

The dream never changed.

There were always whispers. Soft voices carried on the wind, calling her name in a language both foreign and familiar. Faces flickered in her mind: a woman with gold-threaded hair sobbing beneath the moon, a man in a long coat standing among crumbling ruins, and a child with eyes too old for his face.

But tonight, something was different.

Tonight, the veil was thinner.

A sudden rustle of leaves pulled her from her thoughts. She turned quickly, heart thudding, but saw only mist curling through the trees.

“Amara,” a voice whispered behind her.

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat. The voice had shape, presence. It was no longer part of the dream. It was here.

Slowly, she turned back.

A man stood a few paces away, his figure almost lost in the fog. He wore a long, dark coat, and his eyes—storm-gray and ancient—bore into hers.

She stepped back instinctively, but her feet felt like they were sinking into the earth. Her chest tightened. She wanted to ask who he was, how he knew her name, but her lips wouldn’t move.

“Do you remember me?” he asked softly.

His voice was mournful, fragile—as though made of cracked porcelain.

“I—I don’t,” she managed to say, her voice barely more than a breath.

His gaze held hers for a long moment. Then he smiled faintly, bitterly.

“You will.”

A sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing. Leaves danced wildly around them. And just as quickly as he had appeared, the man vanished.

Amara gasped and stumbled back, her hands gripping the tree behind her. Her heart pounded like a war drum. She blinked, searching the darkness.

He was gone.

Only the tree remained, its ancient trunk warm beneath her hand. The symbol etched into the bark now glowed softly—pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

Chapter 2: A Stranger at Hollowmere

The sun peeked reluctantly over the hills as Hollowmere began to stir, its morning air crisp with the lingering chill of early spring. Smoke rose from stone chimneys, and the scent of peat and damp earth hung thick in the air. Horses clopped along the cobbled road, their hooves echoing off the worn facades of timber-framed cottages.

The townsfolk spoke of little else that morning—a stranger had arrived.

No one saw him enter. No one heard the approach of his carriage. Yet at first light, it stood beside the old inn, black as pitch and glistening with dew. The coach was marked with no crest or insignia, its wheels unsoiled by mud despite the season’s thaw. Its driver, gaunt and silent, wore a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face and took no coin for his service.

The stranger had stepped out alone, tall and sharply dressed, his dark overcoat sweeping the ground like shadowed wings. He carried no luggage, only a slim leather-bound book tucked beneath one arm and a silver amulet around his throat—etched with runes no one recognized.

Behind the glass of her aunt’s apothecary, Amara Elwood watched the town buzz like a disturbed hive.

Her aunt, Hilda, ground dried sage with a mortar and pestle behind the counter, mumbling under her breath. “Mark me, child. Nothing good comes from Hollowmere drawing outsiders. It stirs things. Old things.”

Amara half-listened, but her thoughts were far away. Sleep had offered her no rest. The images from the night before—the forest, the voice, the glowing tree—clung to her like ivy around the ribs. She could still hear the man’s voice whispering her name as if it had been carved directly into her memory.

“Are you even listening, girl?”

Amara blinked. “Yes. I mean—no, sorry. What did you say?”

Hilda snorted, shaking her head. “Just like your mother. Always chasing shadows. Mind my words. He may look proper, but his kind bring ruin. There’s always a price.”

Amara turned her gaze back to the window just as the stranger emerged from the inn. He stepped into the sunlight without flinching, his presence quiet but commanding. His eyes swept the square slowly, until—

—they found hers.

Gray. Not like stone or sky, but like the stormed sea before a ship is torn in two. Cold, ancient, and oddly familiar.

Amara’s breath caught.

He held her gaze for what felt like forever. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked across the square, the crowd parting for him without a word.

Amara stepped back as the door to the apothecary opened with a soft chime.

Up close, he was even more striking. His coat was embroidered at the collar, tailored in a style at least fifty years out of fashion. The amulet against his chest shimmered faintly in the light, as if made of moonlight instead of silver. He looked at her like someone searching a face they hadn’t seen in centuries.

“You dream of the forest,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I—” Amara hesitated. “Who are you?”

He inclined his head. “Lucien Virell.”

The name struck her like a bell tolling in her chest. It meant nothing, and yet everything. As if it had always belonged to a part of her she'd forgotten.

“I’ve come,” he said softly, “because time is running out. For you. For me. For everything that binds us.”

Before she could speak again, he turned and stepped back into the fog that rolled in from the trees.

She stood frozen in place. Not with fear—but with recognition.

Though she’d never met him before, a part of her knew she had waited her whole life for this moment.

Chapter 3: Whispers in the Walls

Night came early to Hollowmere.

Fog rolled in thick and pale, curling between buildings like the breath of something ancient and unseen. The lamps along the narrow streets flickered as if reluctant to push back the dark, and doors were bolted tightly long before midnight.

In the attic room above the apothecary, Amara lay wide awake, the covers pulled to her chest, heart still unsettled by her encounter with Lucien. She had tried to make sense of it—tried to tell herself he was just another stranger with odd manners and stranger words.

But the way he had said her name…

She turned toward the window.

The moon stared back at her—full, bright, and distant. Beyond the glass, the branches of the ash tree outside scraped softly against the panes. She heard it then: a whisper.

Amara sat up.

It was faint at first, like wind through the rafters. But then it came again—clearer. A voice.

“Come back…”

She rose, breath caught in her throat, and tiptoed to the wall beside her bed. The whisper seemed to be coming from the timber frame itself, like words soaked into the wood long ago and now rising up like vapor.

“Come back to us... before it’s too late…”

A shiver ran down her spine.

She pressed her ear to the wall.

The voice was gone—but in its place came a strange warmth in the wood. As if the wall itself had a heartbeat, slow and rhythmic. She stepped back, her own heart now racing.

Below her, the stairs creaked.

Amara grabbed her shawl and slipped quietly from her room, making her way down the narrow staircase. Aunt Hilda’s snoring could be heard behind her bedroom door, undisturbed.

But something in the shop below was not at rest.

The air in the apothecary was heavy, still. Shadows loomed large across the glass jars and shelves of dried herbs. The hearth embers glowed red, and for a moment, Amara thought she saw someone standing by the fireplace.

She blinked—and the figure vanished.

With trembling steps, she approached the workbench, where Hilda kept her herbal notes and tools. Resting beside the mortar and pestle was something that hadn't been there before: a yellowed page, torn from an ancient journal.

It was not Aunt Hilda’s handwriting.

The ink was faded, the language older than any Amara knew—but her eyes caught on a name scrawled at the top:

Eleanor Virell.

She didn’t know who Eleanor was. But the moment she said the name aloud, something shifted in the room. The hearth flame crackled sharply, and a gust of wind blew open the back door.

Amara turned slowly, heart hammering. The forest beyond the threshold looked impossibly dark—like a mouth opened wide in warning or invitation.

And standing just beyond the tree line…

Lucien.

Watching.

Waiting.

Not moving.

His presence felt like thunder before a storm.

Amara stepped back, but the page in her hand began to glow faintly. The same symbol from the tree—the one from her dreams—was drawn in its center.

The whispers in the walls returned, louder this time, calling her by name, pleading, begging:

“Break the curse… find the truth… remember us…”

She shut the door.

And locked it.