Chapter 1: The Dream in the Forest

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.

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