Chapter 5: Eyes Like Winter

Chapter 5: Eyes Like Winter

The next morning brought a biting wind that carried with it a strange hush, as if the village itself were holding its breath.

Amara rose early, disturbed by another restless night. This time, the dreams were sharper—visions of fire in the woods, a cloaked woman standing at the edge of a cliff, and hands reaching out from beneath the earth. But always, at the center of it all, were his eyes.

Not just gray—but storm gray. Deep and endless, like cold skies before a tempest. They followed her everywhere, even behind closed eyes.

She wrapped herself in her shawl and stepped outside, drawn by a pull she no longer tried to resist.

The air was sharp and scented faintly of wet leaves. Birds didn’t sing. The trees stood still, not a single branch moving. She passed the well and paused, tracing her fingers once again over the etched symbol in the stone.

It was no illusion.

She glanced around—no one else was near. Hollowmere’s villagers were not early risers on cold mornings. They liked their hearths and hot porridge, not whispered magic and ghost stories. But Amara had never been like them.

She followed the winding path toward the woods, her boots crunching over brittle frost. Though the forest stood just beyond the fields, no one ever entered it willingly. Tales of lost travelers and ghost lights had stained its reputation for generations.

But Amara stepped inside.

The forest welcomed her.

Not with warmth, but with recognition. Like it had been waiting.

The deeper she walked, the more she noticed—the trees leaning ever so slightly inward, the pale moss glowing faintly on the trunks, the way the fog curled around her ankles like silk. And then she saw it.

Lucien.

He stood beside the old ash tree, one hand resting lightly on its bark, as if greeting an old friend. He did not turn as she approached, but she knew he was aware of her.

“You came,” he said without looking.

“I had to.”

He turned, and there they were—those eyes. Like winter sky. Like old sorrow.

She swallowed hard. “What is this place? Why do I keep seeing it? Why do I keep seeing you?”

Lucien stepped closer, his gaze never breaking from hers.

“Because you remember,” he said quietly. “Even if you don’t realize it yet. Part of you knows me. Part of you always has.”

Amara’s breath caught. Her heart beat too fast.

“This tree,” she whispered, “I dream of it constantly. I used to think it was just fantasy, but now... it’s real.”

Lucien nodded. “This is where it began.”

“What began?”

He touched the symbol on the tree—it glowed faintly under his hand.

“A story that never finished. A curse that never lifted. A love that never died.”

She took a shaky step back. “This is madness. I don’t even know you.”

“Not in this life,” he said. “But in the ones before, you did.”

Amara shook her head. “How is that even possible?”

Lucien sighed, lowering his hand. “The veil between life and death… it’s thinner here. Some of us slip through, cursed to remember. Some are born again, whole but with ghosts in their bones.”

He took a step closer, voice quiet.

“You are one of them, Amara. You are the key.”

“The key to what?” she whispered.

“To breaking what began centuries ago. But the window is closing.”

She looked at him—really looked. There was sorrow in his face, yes, but also longing. Like a man who had waited lifetimes for this moment.

“I need to show you something,” he said. “But when I do, you’ll never be able to go back to the way things were.”

She hesitated.

And then nodded.

“I’m ready.”

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