Chapter Ⅱ — Elara
1117 Words
That night, no one truly slept.
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The fires were kept burning longer than usual, and the guards patrolled the perimeter of the village with heightened alertness, spears held firmly in their hands.
There was no official announcement, but none was needed. Silence carried enough answers.
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I went to bed early, as ordered, but sleep did not come easily. The wind whipped against the wooden walls of the cabin, making them creak in an irregular rhythm. Every sound felt larger, closer, more alive.
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I closed my eyes and tried to pray—not to a specific god, but to the ancient custom of asking for protection from whoever might rule the world. The village women always said that faith did not need a name to be heard.
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Even so, my heart refused to calm.
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At some point before dawn, I woke with the unmistakable feeling that I was not alone.
I sat up abruptly, my breath caught in my chest. The cabin was dark and silent — exactly as it should have been. My mother and sister slept nearby, their faces far too peaceful for what I was feeling.
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That was when I realized.
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It wasn’t a sound. It was a presence.
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Something beyond the walls, beyond the village, beyond the reach of my sight. It wasn’t threatening — and that was what unsettled me most. There was weight to it, yes… but also attention.
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As if I had been noticed.
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I pushed the thought away the moment it surfaced. Thoughts like that were dangerous. Humans who paid too much attention to the unseen were often labeled unstable — or worse, reckless.
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When day finally broke, it brought with it a thick, low fog that drifted between the huts like a veil. The cold felt sharper, and the scent of the forest had changed. Stronger. More present.
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"Today, no one leaves," announced one of the elders at the center of the village. — All tasks will be done here. Children are to remain within sight.
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No one questioned it.
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His words were not a request. They were an order, shaped by experience.
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I spent the morning helping prepare food and sort fabrics. Conversations were scarce — whispered, and always cut short when someone drew too near. The fear there wasn’t panic. It was respect. An ancient respect, learned through force over generations.
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"You look pale," murmured one of the women as we folded cloth. "Did you sleep poorly?"
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“Just restless dreams,” I replied.
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She nodded, as if it were too common to deserve concern.
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"The forest has been calling to a lot of people in their dreams lately."
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My stomach tightened.
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"Calling… what?" I asked, forcing my tone to sound casual.
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She shrugged.
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"Everyone feels it differently. Some listen. Others simply know."
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I didn’t press further.
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At noon, I was sent to the granary near the inner edge of the village to fetch grain. It wasn’t far, but it lay close enough to the forest that my pace slowed without me realizing it.
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As I walked, the air around me seemed to shift. The sounds of the village grew distant, muffled, as though I had crossed an invisible boundary. My heart began to race — not out of fear… but because of something I couldn’t name.
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I stopped.
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That was when I felt it.
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A strange heat beneath my skin, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. My breathing turned uneven, and I was struck by a clear — undeniable — sense of being watched.
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I lifted my gaze slowly.
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Between the trees, nothing moved.
And yet, my body reacted as if it were facing something far greater than me — something that saw me entirely. Not my movements or my face, but who I was.
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I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to contain that absurd feeling of belonging — and loss.
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“This isn’t real,” I muttered.
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I took a few steps back, breaking the strange moment.The sounds of the village gradually returned, and the heaviness in the air dissolved, as if it had never been there.
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But I knew. Something had changed.
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That afternoon, the guards returned earlier than expected. Their expressions were closed, their voices too low to be heard. One of them bore a fresh cut along his arm, and no one asked how it had happened.
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Asking too many questions was considered reckless.
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As the sun began to set, a warning spread through the village: doors were to be closed before full darkness.Meals would be eaten inside the houses. No exceptions.
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My mother locked the door with deliberate care, as though the gesture itself carried ritual weight.
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“Stay close to us,” she said. “Whatever it is… it’s old.”
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I sat on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees. My body still reacted to what I had felt that morning, as if something had been awakened within me — something that now refused to fall back asleep.
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Outside, a howl echoed in the distance.
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It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t long. But it was enough to make the blood run cold in my veins.
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And, irrationally — impossibly — my heart answered it.
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In that instant, I understood with frightening clarity that I was no longer just part of the village.
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I had been seen.
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And somewhere beyond the forest, something — someone — now knew exactly who I was. But I knew. Something had changed.
- Writer
