Whisper Of The Beast

Episode Three: The Second Call

The day unspooled in fragments, ordinary tasks bound together by an unease that Elena could not shake. Morning light spilt through the cottage shutters in pale slats, painting stripes across the shelves of herbs and jars. Wren had her working with steady hands: hanging rosemary sprigs in bundles, sifting dried yarrow into cloth sachets, grinding valerian root with a mortar whose stone lip had worn smooth from decades of use.

It should have been comforting these familiar motions. Yet the weight of the night before clung to her shoulders. Each time her hand brushed the wooden pendant at her neck, her chest tightened. It was not just her mother’s memory she carried. It was a warning, a link to Rowan, and a tether to a forest that would not release her.

Wren worked beside her in silence, moving with a precision that revealed more than words. Her grandmother’s eyes lingered too long on the salt jar, too long on the shutters, too long on Elena herself. The silence was protective, but it was also heavy. Elena’s questions pressed against her teeth, but she kept them caged. Wren would not answer—not yet.

By midday, the square filled with life. Carts rolled over cobblestones, their wheels squeaking as farmers unloaded baskets of apples and sacks of barley. Smoke rose from the smithy where iron rang sharp against iron. The baker’s stall filled the air with the warm scent of honey loaves. Children darted between the stalls, chasing one another with sticks while chickens flapped indignantly.

Elena walked with a basket on her arm, Wren’s coin purse tucked beneath the cloth. She should have felt safer here among neighbours, but unease trailed her steps. Even under the bright sun, she saw how often people glanced toward the forest as if its shadow pressed further across the fields each day.

“Oi, El!”

The voice belonged to Mara Iverson, elbow-deep in flour at her father’s stall. Her dark hair had been bound into a loose braid that dusted her shoulder, and her grin was quick as always. She waved her over.

Elena slipped through the bustle until she reached her friend. “You look like you’ve been rolled in dough.”

Mara snorted, brushing her hands on her apron. “A true artist never apologizes for her medium. Tell me why you look like you’ve been chewing secrets instead of bread. You’re pale as frost.”

Elena forced a laugh. “Maybe I need one of your loaves to fatten me back up.”

Mara leaned closer, her tone sharpening. “Don’t play coy. Something’s sitting heavy on you, and it’s not stew. Was it last night? Did you see something?”

The words lodged in Elena’s throat. She longed to spill everything: Rowan at the river, the way his eyes gleamed like embers, the pendant from her mother. But to speak it aloud was to break the fragile barrier between her thoughts and the world. Secrets carried weight, and once dropped into the square, they would not stay hers.

“I went walking,” she said finally. “To clear my head.”

“Walking where?”

“The river.”

Mara arched a brow. “Elena, do you know how many times my mother has told me to never fetch water after dark? And you just stroll to the cursed river as if it’s a flower meadow?”

“I wasn’t alone.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Mara narrowed her eyes. “Who was with you?”

Elena quickly shook her head. “No one you’d know. Forget it. I’m fine.”

Her friend studied her for a long moment before sighing. “You’re impossible. If you start sprouting wolf ears, I expect you to tell me first.”

Elena managed a smile, but her stomach twisted. If only you knew, Mara.

Before she could answer, the iron bell tolled.

The sound dropped like a stone into the square. Children froze in their games. Conversations snapped off. The butcher’s knife halted above his block, meat forgotten. The bell tolled again, slow and heavy, sending a shiver down Elena’s spine.

Reeve Marten mounted the well’s steps, his two wardens at his back. His beard glinted with its silver tags, each chime of movement commanding attention. He raised his hand for silence, though none was needed.

“Tracks,” he announced, his voice steady but edged. “Fresh this morning. Too close to the Founder’s Stump. Wolves are testing us again.”

Murmurs swept through the crowd. The stump lay well inside the Hemlock Line, where villagers left their midsummer offerings. If wolves were circling there, they were no longer content to haunt the deeper wood.

“The Whisper grows restless,” Marten continued. “We will not feed its hunger. Doors locked. No wandering after sundown. Wardens will patrol, but safety depends on obedience. Anyone who strays risks not only themselves but all of us.”

His gaze skimmed the crowd, settling briefly on Elena. A flicker of recognition passed between them, too pointed, too deliberate. Her throat dried.

When the bell ceased, the square burst back into motion, louder than before, as if volume could mask fear. Mara muttered under her breath, “Every speech of his sounds like a threat hidden in honey.”

Elena couldn’t disagree.

The rest of the day crawled. Elena returned home with her basket full but her mind heavier than when she left. The Reeve’s warning gnawed at her. She caught herself glancing out the window too often, listening for footsteps that weren’t there.

By evening, Wren moved briskly through the cottage, laying protections. She scattered salt along the lintel, tucked sprigs of sage into the fire, and hung iron nails above the shutters. She did not speak except to instruct: “Fetch rosemary. Stir the broth. Bar the back door.”

Elena obeyed, though her fingers trembled with every task. The pendant weighed against her chest like a heartbeat, not her own.

When the moon’s first silver edge slid through the cracks of the shutters, Elena felt it.

The second call.

It struck not as sound but as sensation—an ache deep in her bones, a hum beneath her ribs, a pressure that made her breath hitch. Then the word unfurled in her mind like smoke: Elena.

She gasped, clutching the pendant.

Wren’s head snapped toward her. “What is it?”

“It’s—” Elena struggled for air. “It’s calling again.”

Her grandmother crossed the room in three strides, seizing her shoulders. “Look at me. Do not answer.”

“I’m not,” Elena whispered, though her lips burned with the urge to reply.

The voice coiled deeper, soft, coaxing. Elena… come.

Her knees buckled. Wren’s grip tightened, anchoring her. “Hold fast,” she commanded.

The hearth fire guttered, throwing shadows across the walls. The air thickened until it seemed the cottage itself was listening.

Elena shut her eyes, fighting the pull. She thought of Rowan’s warning: If the third call comes, come to me before you go to it.

Her pulse thundered. She wanted to run, scream, to claw her own skin to release the voice humming through her veins.

“Elena,” Wren said sharply. “Stay with me.”

Elena forced her eyes open, locking onto her grandmother’s. The storm inside her eased slightly, though the voice still throbbed faintly in her chest.

At last, the call receded, retreating like a tide sliding back into the sea. Elena collapsed into the chair, gasping, her hands trembling around the pendant.

Wren’s face was pale, drawn with lines of old fear. “That was the second,” she said grimly.

Elena nodded weakly. “And the third?”

Her grandmother’s eyes darkened. “The third will not be far behind. And when it comes, child, the forest will not take no for an answer.”

Sleep would not come. Elena lay in her bed, staring at the rafters, every creak of wood sounding like a whisper’s breath. The night pressed close against the shutters. She turned the pendant over in her hands until the flower’s carving marked her skin.

Rowan’s words echoed again: If the third call comes, come to me.

The thought frightened her. Yet it steadied her, too. He understood this curse in a way no one else did. Wren’s protection was strong, but even salt and iron could only hold for so long.

When at last her eyes closed, she dreamed of the forest leaning in to watch her, its branches bowing low, and of golden eyes gleaming through the mist.