Chapter 1 — <strong>The Forest's Warning</strong>

The scent of damp earth and wildflowers lingered thickly in the Heartwood Glade, blending with the faint tang of decay. Lyric knelt in the mossy clearing, his fingers trembling as they brushed the rough bark of a dying oak. It wasn’t just any tree—this oak had been the first to respond to him as a child, the first to recognize his gift. The ancient tree’s silver-veined trunk, once vibrant with life, sagged under its own weight, its leaves withered and brown. The hum of the forest—the steady rhythm of life that Lyric had known his entire life—was strangely faint here, as though its heartbeat were faltering.

“You’ve stood for centuries,” Lyric whispered, his voice almost pleading as his amber eyes flared with silent determination. “Don’t let it end like this.”

He pressed his palm flat against the oak’s bark, reaching out to the thread of magic that bound him to the forest. It was a sensation he had always known, as natural to him as breathing—a current of energy that pulsed in the roots beneath his feet and the canopy above. But today, that current was weak, frayed, as if the thread were unraveling in his grasp.

His fingers trembled—not from exhaustion, but from a creeping hollowness that settled beneath his ribs. It was like losing part of himself, like watching a thread that had once been stitched into his skin slowly unravel. The forest wasn’t just pulling back. It was withdrawing. And something inside him recoiled in fear.

Lyric closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, focusing on every detail around him: the cool dampness of the moss beneath his knees, the golden, hesitant light filtering through the branches, the faint shudder in the air that carried the forest’s unease. He spoke to the oak—not with words, but through the silent language the forest had taught him, a communion of energy and intent.

Come back to me.

For a moment, the thread of connection flickered in response, a faint pulse of life stirring deep within the tree. But then it faded, slipping through his grasp like sand through fingers. A cold dread crept up Lyric’s spine as the decay seemed to deepen before his eyes. The bark beneath his hand grew brittle, splintering under his touch. The tree groaned—a hollow, mournful sound.

From deep within the trunk, a faint crack sounded—sharp, splintering, like bone snapping under strain. A bitter scent rose from the bark, acrid and metallic, cutting through the damp air like rusted iron. Lyric jerked his hand back instinctively. The tree was not just dying. It was rejecting him.

He leaned closer, pouring what little magic he could muster into the oak, willing it to mend, to heal. The effort left him gasping, his pulse pounding in his ears as if his very lifeblood were being drained into the tree. Still, the oak remained lifeless, its branches drooping like arms too weary to reach for the sky.

What kind of protector fails his first tree?

He drew back slowly, his shoulders slumping as exhaustion washed over him. The glade felt heavy now, suffocating. He wiped his dirt-streaked palms on his trousers as he rose unsteadily to his feet. The moss no longer glowed. One wildflower had blackened at the edges, like a candle snuffed too soon. Even the air felt different—thicker, pressing against his skin like a suffocating weight.

Lyric knelt again, brushing his fingers over the fading moss, his brow furrowed in concern. “What’s happening to you?” he asked softly, though he knew the forest couldn’t answer.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. His father’s voice echoed through his mind, sharp and unrelenting like the crack of a whip:

“You waste your time with those trees while the pack struggles to survive! Strength is what matters, Lyric—not this delusion.”

The words struck as fresh as the day they were spoken. Lyric clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. His father had never understood—none of them had. The forest wasn’t just trees and roots and foliage. It was alive, a sacred being that breathed and whispered and needed care. Needed someone to protect it.

And yet, what use was his gift if he couldn’t stop the Withering?

He looked at the oak, his amber eyes burning with a flicker of defiance. “You’re wrong, Father,” he muttered under his breath, his voice steadier now. “There’s more to survival than strength. I’ll prove it.”

He straightened, the pendant around his neck catching the light as it shifted against his chest. His fingers brushed over the small wooden carving of a leaf, smooth from years of touch. His mother had given it to him when he was a child, her soft voice full of conviction as she told him he was special—that his connection to the forest was a gift. A gift older than even the oldest tree.

But now it felt different.

He held the pendant tight. Beneath his fingertips, the wood pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. The warmth was real—and yet otherworldly. As if the pendant remembered something he hadn’t yet learned. As if it were more than a keepsake—perhaps a relic of the first Pacts, woven with ancient magic.

A sudden breeze stirred the glade. It was faint at first, a cool whisper that rustled the brittle leaves of the dying oak. But then it grew stronger, swirling through the clearing with unnatural urgency. The air grew cold, and the faint scent of wildflowers was overtaken by the sharp, acrid tang of decay—like rust and wet iron.

Lyric froze.

Around him, the forest seemed to shift. The hum of life rose into an uneven, mournful chorus. The sound was soft at first, like the murmuring of distant voices, but it grew louder—a cacophony of whispers that filled the glade.

The voices weren’t like before. Not the forest’s usual language of wind and leaf, root and water. There was something artificial in them—like a reflection misaligned, the cadence wrong, the breath missing. They spoke in rhythms that mimicked the forest but never quite belonged to it. As if something else had learned the language and twisted it into a weapon.These whispers were wrong—jagged, like fractured bone. As if something else had learned to mimic the forest but missed the rhythm, the meaning. A hollow echo of what once was.

His breath hitched as a particular phrase pierced through the others, clearer than the rest:

“You failed us.”

The words weren’t spoken, not truly. But they etched themselves across his mind like scars, and something inside him cracked. Shame lanced through his chest—because part of him believed it. He had waited too long. He had let the tree fall silent.

He stumbled back from the oak, his knees pressing into the dimming moss. “No,” he whispered, though he didn’t know if he was denying the message—or agreeing with it.

His fingers closed around the wooden pendant.

The leaf, carved long ago, pulsed once against his skin. Warm. Real. A heartbeat from another time.

His mother had said it was a gift. But it had always felt heavier than memory. As if it remembered something older than her, than him.

And then—movement.

A flicker of white in the trees.

But this time, it didn’t vanish. It paused.

It watched.

The shape was too still, too precise to be mere mist or illusion. Not animal. Not entirely human. It shimmered at the edge of perception—half-formed and yet intimately known. Something in Lyric’s chest pulled toward it, even as every instinct warned him to look away.

Not a threat. Not a ghost. A mirror, just beyond reach.

Its presence felt... familiar. Not to the mind, but to the forest inside him. As if it were made of the same thread.

And then it was gone.

Lyric rose slowly. The oak still sagged, but the whispers had faded. The forest exhaled—but it wasn’t peace.

It was preparation.

He turned toward the deep woods, where the stones lay waiting.

He didn’t know yet what the forest wanted.

But someone—or something—had heard his promise. And this time, it would not wait.

The forest had spoken through silence. Now, it was asking him to choose.