Chapter Two: Whispers Beneath the Roots
The forest didn't smell like it used to.
Gone was the damp scent of pine and soil. In its place came a dry, brittle aroma—like burned parchment and old bones. Kael pressed forward, each footfall muffled by thick moss and an eerie quiet that clung to the air like fog. Even the birds had gone silent.
It wasn't fear that prickled Kael's skin—it was recognition. Somewhere, deep in his chest, a memory stirred. Not his, but ancient, like it had been placed there before he was born.
By nightfall, he'd made camp beneath a twisted ash tree with bark like petrified leather. He struck his flint, and the spark caught faster than it should have. Flames flared blue, licking the wood without smoke. Kael stared into them until shapes began to form—antlers, wings, eyes like molten gold.
Then a voice.
"The forest remembers you, even if you do not."
Kael stood, knife drawn. "Who's there?"
The flames danced, coalescing into the vague shape of a woman. Her features shimmered, indistinct and shifting—sometimes young, sometimes ancient.
"The blood you carry was once bound to this land. That bond is waking."
Kael's grip tightened on the knife, though he didn't move. "What do you mean, bound?"
The woman's eyes flashed. "You were never meant for the village. You were placed there. Hidden. A seed buried in stone."
Lightning flashed through the trees without thunder. In its wake, Kael saw them—figures at the edge of the firelight. Tall, antlered, draped in moss and shadow. Not men. Not quite.
The Rootbound.
Kael had only heard stories—children's tales whispered to keep them from wandering too deep into the woods. But they were real. And they were watching him.
The flame-woman turned her head toward them. "They remember your name, Kael. Not the one the village gave you. The true one."
Kael took a step back. "And what name is that?"
The woman smiled, teeth like flickering embers.
"Ashren. The Last Heir of Hollowthorn."
And then the fire went out.