POV: Ember Wellesley.
The trail behind the cabin wasn’t marked on any map. It curved like instinct, winding through moss-covered roots and cold streams until it opened into a quiet glade — one Ember hadn’t seen since she came to Raven’s Peak.
The trees there stood older, taller, closer together. Their branches knotted like clasped hands. The air shimmered with the hush of something ancient and watchful.
Ember stepped into the center, barefoot, the hem of her dress soaked from dew.
She could feel the pull. Not just in her blood—but in her bones. Like the very earth was reaching up to cradle her.
She knelt.
Laid both palms to the ground.
Closed her eyes.
And listened.
No incantation. No ceremony. Just stillness.
At first, there was nothing but the wind.
Then, a low hum beneath it.
