CHAPTER THREE

The whispers started from the village.

At first, I catch bits and pieces of conversations. A few words from people chatting at the well, hushed comments in line at the bakery, laughter that stops too quickly when I walk by.

"They say he's waking…"

"The curse might not be asleep after all…"

"A bride. That's what the treaty says, right?"

The baker's wife won't look at me when she wraps my bread. Her hands shake a bit, hardly noticeable unless you're paying attention.

I keep quiet.

Asking questions brings too much attention, and I've learned how to blend in over the years.

But the chatter keeps getting louder. By the time the third full moon rolls around, it's no longer just whispers.

These are warnings.

I hear kids singing a new tune by the well:

"Silver crown and broken eyes,

In the dark, the cursed one cries.

Bride of fire, bride of fate,

Chosen girl, it's much too late…"

Their voices are bright and cheerful, unaware of the weight in their game. They turn around, laughing, until old Bess yells at them to be quiet.

They didn't see me in the alley, holding a bundle of thyme close.

The words settle deep inside me.

The dreams I'm having are getting worse and terrifying.

I wake up every morning drenched in sweat, breathless, my fists clenched. I can't remember what the dream is all about, it's just that I feel like I'm being watched. It feels like something from another world is around me. The scent of smoke clings to me, even though the fire hasn't been lit all night.

And the mark on my wrist glows brighter.

It's not painful, but it won't stop. It feels like it's trying to tell me something I can't hear.

Tomas shows up with a sick child again, and I notice he lingers by the door, not because he's protective, but because he's cautious.

When I lean down to whisper to the girl, Tomas clears his throat.

"They say the Shadow Kingdom sent riders north," he says.

I don't look up. "Really?"

"They haven't officially crossed the border in ages."

"Maybe they're just curious about their crops."

He falls silent.

I know what he's asking. Is it true? Will someone from our village be taken?

I could say no. I could try to ease the tension with false reassurances.

But I don't even believe that myself.

At the edge of the forest, the trees seem more restless. They're whispering louder now, not the wind or birds, but soft voices that carry an ancient fear. Sometimes, I hear them call my name when I'm alone, walking under the trees where the light fades fast.

The line between our world and theirs feels thinner.

I don't need the elders to tell me that. I feel it every time the mark on my wrist lights up unexpectedly. Every time I touch certain plants and they bloom under my fingers. Every time the crows gather at my window, and just sit there quietly.

The Earth is shifting.

And it's keeping an eye on me.

When the village square is lit up with fires, I realize how deeply fear has settled in.

People gather in tight groups, their voices low and tense. The elders sit at the center, cloaks pulled up, glancing at the road to the south. Toward the border.

They've put up lanterns like it's a festival, but no one's in a celebratory mood.

Mara finds me at the edge, arms crossed.

"You heard, huh?" she asks.

I hear everything," I reply.

She nods, looking tense. Her fingers twist the edge of her shawl.

"They're coming," she whispers. "Before the solstice. Not to talk. To take."

I look at the flickering firelight, watching how it dances on the faces I've known forever. Some look away, while others offer tight smiles.

"They think it will be me," I say quietly.

Mara doesn't respond, and that says everything.

After the gathering, I head home alone. My feet know the way, even as my mind drifts.

I can't help but wonder when the village stopped feeling like home. It could be when my grandmother died or the first time I healed someone too quickly; it could be that it never belonged to me in the first place.

Moonlight peeks through the trees, lighting the path. The crows follow me, hopping from branch to branch. They didn't make a sound.

They're waiting too.

At my door, I pause. I feel a shift in the air behind me, so slightly I might not have noticed it if I didn't know how the wind usually sounds this deep in the woods.

I turn slowly.

Nothing there.

But the mark glows faintly under my sleeve.

A warning.

Or maybe a welcome.

Inside, I start a fire I don't need, just to keep my hands busy, and flip through my grandmother's book until I land on a page I've never dared to read.

It's not in a language I recognize.

But tonight, it speaks to me.

I touch the ink, and the symbols glow golden under my fingers. A warmth spreads in my palm, and suddenly, I'm not alone in the room.

Not in body, but something feels close. Like breath on my neck.

I sense a voice moving through my thoughts, fewer words, more feelings.

Prepare.

I pull my hand back, slamming the book shut.

Outside, the wind screams.

The crows scatter.

And somewhere among the trees, something starts to cross the boundary.