Mist curled around their ankles as Lira and Marek descended the gentle slope out of the Moonstone Glade. The memory of first awakening the Wolf Queen's spirit still shimmered within Lira's chest—a soft pulse that echoed with promise and power. Beyond the glade lay the Forest of Silver Leaves, its maples and birches carpeted in pale foliage that caught moonlight like scattered coins. Somewhere within this forest murmured the third shrine, where the lost verse awaited.
"How do you read the map?" Lira asked as they trudged along the root-crisscrossed path. Her boots spattered dew, and each breath sent wisps of vapor into the air.
Marek unrolled a parchment he'd kept tucked in his cloak. It bore a rough sketch of the forest's contours, annotated in his precise hand: "Old Watchtower Ruins," "Stream of Fallen Petals," "Whispering Stones." A dotted line traced a route, pausing at a small symbol—two interlocking silver leaves.
"Here," he said, pointing. "The Whispering Stones lie beside the Stream of Fallen Petals. Legend calls it the 'Silver Leaves Shrine.' Our verse should awaken when the silverleaf maples weep beneath their boughs."
Lira nodded, folding the map. "I can almost hear them already." The forest was alive with soft susurrations: wind stirring through leaves, distant drip of water, the occasional rustle of small creatures.
They walked in silence for nearly an hour, guided by Marek's map and Lira's growing intuition, until the trees thickened and a faint glimmer of silver floated on the wind. She paused beside a gnarled oak whose bark was mottled with pale lichen.
"Here," she whispered. "Do you feel it?"
Marek closed his eyes, listening. "Yes." He led her through a tangle of brambles and under low-hanging branches. Soon they emerged into a triangular clearing dominated by a shallow, moss-lined pool. Around it stood three ancient stones, each etched with a wolf's head and musical glyphs. Fallen silver leaves floated on the water's surface, drifting in gentle circles.
Lira's heart quickened. This was the shrine. She dismounted, brushing brambles from her cloaked shoulders. The air here felt charged—electric, as though the forest held its breath.
They set their gear aside: the harp stripped to a single, taut string; the scroll tube secured at Lira's hip; Marek's sword sheathed but within easy reach. The shrine's stones formed a perfect triangle, their faces tilted toward one another, enclosing the water as though safeguarding a secret.
"The verse," Marek murmured, drawing the parchment. He read aloud the third stanza:
"Where silverleaves weep under ancient boughs,
And silent grief unbinds forgotten vows,
Let mortal heart embrace their pain,
And sing the song that heals the slain."
Lira closed her eyes, letting the words settle in her mind. She stepped to the water's edge and knelt, cupping her hands to gather a handful of the silverleaf-flecked water. It was cool, tinged with a metallic sweetness that hinted at hidden minerals.
"Let them hear your compassion," Marek coached gently. "Feel the sorrow beneath their beauty."
She tipped the water to her lips. A tingling warmth spread through her chest, as though the forest's grief coursed through her veins. She lifted her head and pressed her palm against the nearest standing stone. Its carved glyphs pulsed under her touch.
Lira inhaled, then placed the bowl of water on a flat rock beside the pool. She drew a slow breath and plucked the harpstring, its note pure and resonant. The water trembled in reply, sending ripples that caught stray moonbeams.
Her voice rose, soft and clear:
"Where silverleaves weep under ancient boughs…"
The stones hummed, their glyphs glowing faintly. Silver leaves drifted from the trees above, descending in a delicate rain. Each leaf seemed to carry a whisper—fragments of lost memories: a mother's lullaby, a child's laughter, the howling of wolves beneath the full moon.
Lira let the sorrow of those echoes fill her voice:
"…And silent grief unbinds forgotten vows…"
Her knees trembled. She pressed her hand to her heart, feeling an ache as old as root and soil. The stones responded with a deeper hum, vibrating through the earth into her very bones.
She raised her eyes to the moon-filtered canopy and poured renewed strength into the final lines:
"Let mortal heart embrace their pain,
And sing the song that heals the slain."
At the last syllable, the tranquil pool flared with light. The water leapt from the surface, forming a translucent dome that hung suspended above the stones. Within its shimmering walls, images flickered: spectral wolves circling lost hunters, grieving widows strewing flowers at hidden graves, the Wolf Queen herself cradling injured spirits in her arms.
Lira's breath caught. She watched, tears glinting like silver rain on her cheeks, as the dome pulsed—once, twice—then shivered and collapsed inward, the water cascading back into the pool in soft incandescent droplets.
Silence reclaimed the clearing, but it was alive with resonance: the stones glowed softly in the dim light, as though breathing. The silver leaves carpeted the moss in a living mosaic of pale green and gold.
Marek moved beside her. "You have awakened the shrine," he said, voice hushed. "The forest's sorrow and hope both answer to your song."
Lira remained kneeling, absorbing the hush. "I felt every heartache," she whispered. "Every silent vow." She pressed her hands to her palms, licking the moisture from her fingers. "This magic… it's alive in every leaf and drop of water."
He knelt across from her, offering a waterskin. "Drink, bard," he said. "You've sung on an empty hearth for too long."
She took the waterskin, tipping its cool contents between eager lips. When she set it aside, her gaze met his in the soft glow of the stones.
He offered a small smile. "Come, let us rest before dawn."
They built a small fire outside the clearing, careful that its light would not disturb the shrine's hush. Lira wrapped herself in her cloak, cradling her harpstring between her palms.
Marek stirred the embers with a stick. "What did you see in the dome?" he asked.
She sighed, gazing into the flames. "At first, wolves hunting in the mist—hunters who had forgotten compassion. Then widows—lost souls who laid flowers on unmarked graves. And lastly… the Queen, holding wounded spirits like they were her own children."
Marek nodded. "Each vision spoke of what the Queen protected—and mourned when she vanished." He paused, drawing a slow breath. "You have borne these echoes in your song. You carry the forest's grief and grant it release."
Lira stared into the fire, tears pricking her eyes anew. "It's a heavy gift," she said softly. "I feel as though I've carried every sorrow in the world in my veins."
Marek placed a hand on her shoulder. "You're not alone. Magic binds us together—it is neither burden nor blessing until we choose how to wield it."
She looked at him, the flickering firelight revealing the lines at the corners of his eyes—shadows of countless battles, both martial and moral. "I…I don't know if I can do this alone," she admitted.
He offered his hand. "You will not have to."
She took it, and for a moment the fire's warmth paled beside the ember glow in his eyes. The forest around them sighed in the wind, as though sharing in their quiet understanding.
They slept fitfully under the silver leaves, the shrine's unveiling still vivid in their dreams. In the pre-dawn hush, Lira woke to the sound of Marek humming—a low, tentative melody drawn from the Wolf Queen's first verse. He sat a few paces away, polishing his sword in the half-light.
She slipped from her cloak and crept beside him. "You know the verses?" she whispered.
He paused, looking up. "I've studied the codices. But it's different hearing them sung." He smiled ruefully. "Your voice brought them alive."
Lira's cheeks warmed. "I should be the one humming them." She offered her harpstring. "Play with me?"
He took it, fitting his fingers around the taut wire. She plucked the first note—clear and bright—and he matched it with a gentle accompaniment. Together, they sang the initial couplet:
"When shadows weave upon the moor…"
Their voices wove through the silverleaf canopy, rising until each leaf trembled and caught the faintest glow. The forest stirred around them, the trees leaning close to hear.
When they finished, Lira sank with satisfaction. "We make a good chorus," she murmured.
He chuckled, his breath warm against her ear. "A rare compliment from the Wildwood's fiercest critic."
She nudged him playfully. "Better to be criticized than ignored."
Marek's gaze softened. "Better to be heard," he agreed.
They rose as dawn light filtered through branches. Breaking camp, Lira felt renewed—stronger, as though each verse had welded her spirit to the forest's heart. The final shrine awaited: the Court of Echoes at the Wolf Court on the frontier, where the Queen's last sacrifice lay buried beneath time and stone.
They retraced their steps to their horses, leaving the Whispering Stones glowing softly in their wake. The forest seemed to bid them farewell: a lone wolf's howl echoed from deep within the trees, fading into the stillness.
As they rode onward, Lira touched the scroll tube at her hip. Three shrines unveiled, three verses gathered—each a strand of the Wolf Queen's legacy. Now only one remained, and with it the culmination of her quest: to sing the full song in the Wolf Court's halls and awaken magic across Aedern once more.
Her pulse strengthened with purpose. "To the borderlands," she said, voice bright with resolve.
Marek bowed his head, guiding his horse alongside hers. "At dawn tomorrow, we cross the frontier. The Wolf Court awaits."
Lira looked ahead, where rolling hills dipped into shadowed valleys. On the horizon, a lone tower marked the edge of human lands. Beyond it lay the ruins where only the brave—or the foolish—dared tread.
But Lira felt neither fear nor foolishness. She carried the Wolf Queen's song in her voice, the forest's sorrow in her heart, and Marek's steadfast support at her side. Whatever secrets lay beneath the silver leaves had revealed their lament—and their hope. And she would carry that hope to the Wolf Court, where magic's dawn would break at last.