The morning mist clung low to the forest floor, curling like ghost-breath around Cira's boots. Above, the sun filtered through the canopy in pale ribbons—but down here, between mossy roots and crooked branches, light was a shy guest.
They returned to the hollow where the crescent was carved. It hadn't changed—but the air had.
Still.
Expectant.
Cira crouched near the tree again, fingertips trailing the groove of the moon-like mark. She didn't touch it this time—just watched the way dew settled in its curve, as though nature itself was preserving something sacred.
"I had a dream," she murmured suddenly.
Elian's gaze flicked to her. "Another memory?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Her eyes didn't leave the carving. "I saw… a well. Or maybe a pool. Surrounded by roots. The water was still, but it reflected stars that weren't in the sky. And I think… I think I heard my name."
Elian's expression shifted subtly—his jaw tightening.
"You think it's real?"
She nodded. "Like the first time. Like the silver tree."
Lumen let out a quiet growl—not angry, but alert. He'd stopped a few paces away, sniffing the earth near a ring of stones half-buried in soil.
Cira stood and walked toward him.
"Elian, look at this."
The stones were arranged in a broken circle—like an old fire pit, but colder, older. Something pulsed faintly beneath them, like the hum of a buried heartbeat.
And there—etched faintly in the side of one stone—was the same crescent.
No spiral this time, but the same curve. The same mark.
Cira crouched again, brushing away dirt.
"Another piece," she whispered. "A trail."
Elian looked around. The hollow seemed to curve inward, subtly sloping. And at the center, just beyond the circle of stones… was a dip in the earth, covered in tangled roots and fern.
Without thinking, he stepped forward and knelt, fingers brushing the roots.
They moved.
Not violently. Not magically. But like they were… breathing.
And between them, something glimmered faintly—a silvery glint of moonlight caught beneath the soil.
Cira crouched beside him.
They didn't speak. They just felt it.
Something was buried here.
Something waiting.
Before either of them could touch it, a voice—quiet and weightless as smoke—brushed their minds.
"To unlock what was sealed…
Understand what has already been said."
The air turned colder.
Elian stood sharply, eyes narrowing. "The Guide."
But there was no one there.
Only that echo. That lingering message.
Cira rose slowly, her pulse quickening.
"They want us to solve something," she said. "A riddle. A pattern. Something we missed."
She reached for her sketchbook, flipping back to where she'd drawn the spiral and crescent. The silver tree. The mark on Elian's chest.
"They're connected," she whispered. "They're not just symbols. They're… a language."
Elian looked down at her, brow furrowing. "Then we need to translate it."
Cira nodded. "And I think… the answer is hidden in what we've already seen. The first seal. The tree. The memory I saw."
"Understand what has already spoken…"
They stood there for a long moment—caught between the past and something just out of reach. The hush of the hollow deepened, as though the forest was waiting.
Watching.
As they stepped away from the hollow, the roots behind them stirred—very slightly.
As if something beneath was listening.
And remembering.
The forest air had never felt quite like this.
There was no weight in the wind today—no pull or strange resistance, no voices brushing past their ears. Only the rustle of leaves in their late afternoon shimmer and the golden flecks of sunlight dancing on damp bark.
Cira walked slightly ahead, Lumen weaving between ferns beside her. Elian's footsteps followed quietly behind, his eyes moving—always watching, always scanning. But this time, not from caution. From thought.
The deeper they wandered, the more familiar everything began to feel. And not in a comforting way.
Cira paused by a small ridge, one hand brushing the edge of a vine-wrapped tree. "It's strange," she said softly, "this part of the forest... I swear I've been here before. But it also feels… wrong. Like it's pretending to be what it used to be."
Elian stopped beside her, arms crossed. His gaze swept the woods like they were lying to him.
"Some places wear time like a mask," he said. "You only see the truth when it slips."
Cira turned to him. "Was that a proverb?"
A slight, almost imperceptible lift touched the corner of Elian's mouth. "Would you prefer I said it sounded spooky?"
She smirked, nudging a pebble with her boot. "I prefer when you sound like someone who's lived a thousand years."
His tone dipped lower—calm, almost teasing. "And you sound like someone who forgets she fainted in my lap yesterday."
She whipped around to face him, flustered, eyes narrowing. "I did not faint. I collapsed with purpose."
Elian arched a brow. "Of course. Very heroic."
"I was just overwhelmed by powerful ancient magic!" she huffed. "It happens!"
He didn't laugh—Elian didn't laugh often—but his silence now held the warmth of someone amused.
Cira crossed her arms, pretending not to smile.
They continued forward, moving through a narrow path lined with thick tree roots that tangled like veins. The air shifted again—cooler. Still.
Suddenly, Lumen stopped.
His ears flicked forward. Then he darted ahead, nose close to the ground. Cira and Elian exchanged a glance before following him through the underbrush.
Just beyond a broken thicket, they found it.
A large stone arch stood half-buried in moss and cracked vines. Symbols—aged and nearly erased—lined its base. The stone glimmered faintly with the same silvery shimmer that marked Elian's chest. But this time… there were two interlocking spirals, not one.
Cira stepped closer, kneeling to brush the moss aside.
"It's not the same," she murmured. "But it's connected."
Elian crouched beside her, his fingers hovering above the markings but not touching them.
He didn't speak right away. His eyes narrowed—focused.
"It's a seal," he finally said. "Or part of one."
A gentle breeze swept through, carrying a whisper. Not words—just a hum. Low, vibrating. Like breath through hollow stone.
Cira straightened. "Do you think this is the second?"
Elian didn't answer. Not yet.
From behind them, the Guide's voice arrived like mist.
"It is a door."
They turned sharply. The Guide stood further back, leaning against a tree as if they'd always been there.
"But doors only open," they continued, "when you understand what was locked away."
Cira stepped forward. "What do we need to understand?"
The Guide's gaze flicked between her and Elian. "You hold fragments. Emotions. Images. But without clarity, memory is nothing but a storm."
They approached slowly, placing one hand on the edge of the arch. "Solve the memory's shape. What was taken. Why it burned. Who chose to forget."
Elian's voice was quiet, but sharp. "And if we don't?"
"Then the next seal will not yield," the Guide said. "The forest does not give freely. It remembers… and it waits."
They turned, beginning to walk away into shadow.
Cira blinked. "Wait—where are you going?"
The Guide didn't look back. "To where I am needed next. You know enough… for now."
And then they were gone. No sound, no shimmer. Just vanished like wind through mist.
A quiet fell again. The arch stood before them, unmoving. Waiting.
Cira stared at the intertwining spirals. "So… we have to solve it. Whatever it is."
Elian stepped beside her. His eyes hadn't left the mark.
"We don't just solve it," he said. "We remember it."
They lingered there for a while longer—two souls bound by things neither fully understood—before turning back toward the path home.
The shadows were longer now, brushing the forest floor like ink in motion.
As they walked, Cira kicked at a fallen leaf. "When you said I fainted—"
"I didn't."
"You totally implied it."
"I observed. You filled in the rest."
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled.
Behind them, the stone arch stood silent. But not sleeping.
What was locked... had begun to stir.