Chapter 1 — The Quiet Life

Skylar

Dawn broke over Willow Falls with the faintest blush of light, the kind that barely kissed the tops of the trees before dissolving into the gray of early morning mist. Skylar Thorn stood at the edge of her garden, fingers brushing against the soft leaves of lavender, her breath curling in the chill air. The world felt poised, as if holding its breath, the occasional trill of a bird hidden in the forest canopy the only sound that broke the stillness.

The solitude was comforting, familiar. She didn’t need the townsfolk of Willow Falls to tell her she belonged on the outskirts of their world; she had chosen this life deliberately. The herbal shop was a buffer, providing just enough interaction to keep her from being a complete recluse without inviting intimacy. People came to her for tinctures and teas, not conversation. The few who lingered often found her quiet intensity unsettling, though they rarely said so aloud.

Skylar crouched by the thyme, her slender fingers working deftly to pluck a few sprigs for drying. The damp earth clung to her boots, and the earthy scent of the garden mingled with the faint smoke drifting from her chimney. She felt the weight of the Moonstone Pendant against her chest, cool where it rested atop her sweater.

Her hand lingered on the pendant for a moment, her fingers tracing its smooth surface. Last night, it had glowed faintly again in her dreams—wolves with molten gold eyes, fire licking at the edges of her vision, howls that stirred something deep and aching within her. These dreams had plagued her for weeks now, sharp and vivid enough to linger long after waking.

She pushed the memories aside, though they clung stubbornly, like burrs caught in fabric. “Focus,” she murmured, her voice quiet, as though the forest itself might overhear. She stood, tucking the thyme into her basket, and cast a glance toward the woods that crowded her property. The shadows seemed deeper than usual, the kind of darkness that felt alive, watchful. A faint breeze teased the edge of her scarf, carrying with it the faintest, unidentifiable scent—sharp, metallic, and fleeting. She shivered, dismissing it as her imagination.

Inside her shop, the air was warm and heavy with the scents of dried lavender, sage, and chamomile. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars of herbs, roots, and tinctures, their contents labeled in her meticulous handwriting. Her tools lay scattered on the workbench—a mortar and pestle, a pair of dulled scissors, scraps of cloth for wrapping bundles. The mess grounded her, the familiar routines of her work offering a distraction from the unease that lingered at the edges of her mind.

The door creaked open, and the chill of the morning swept in, accompanied by the metallic chime of the bell overhead. Skylar stiffened, instinct prickling at her senses. She turned sharply, but it was only Mrs. Henshaw, her graying hair tucked under a knitted hat and her hands clutching the straps of a worn bag.

“Morning, Skylar,” Mrs. Henshaw greeted with a tentative smile. Her gaze darted around the shop, lingering briefly on the jars and shelves. “I hope I’m not too early.”

Skylar allowed a polite smile to settle on her lips. “Not at all. What can I help you with?”

Mrs. Henshaw hesitated, glancing toward the shelves. “The tea you gave me last week—it really helped my husband. I was... hoping for more.”

“Of course.” Skylar moved to gather the necessary ingredients, her hands steady as she mixed the herbs into a pouch.

“You’re a miracle worker, you know,” Mrs. Henshaw said, her tone tinged with awe. Her fingers fidgeted with the small wooden charm around her neck, carved into the shape of an eye.

Skylar stiffened almost imperceptibly but masked it with a dry remark. “It’s just plants, not magic.” She handed over the pouch, her green eyes meeting Mrs. Henshaw’s briefly before sliding away. “Let me know if he needs anything else.”

Mrs. Henshaw nodded, though her gaze lingered. “Thank you, Skylar. Really. You’ve got a gift.” She hesitated, as if on the verge of saying more, then adjusted her charm and stepped out. The bell chimed softly as the door clicked shut.

Skylar released a slow breath, tension draining from her shoulders. She didn’t enjoy being the subject of curiosity, however mild. The more people wondered about her, the closer they got to questions she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, her time divided between harvesting, drying, and organizing. Outside, the mist clung stubbornly to the trees, wrapping the forest in an otherworldly stillness.

Around noon, Skylar ventured into the woods to gather yarrow and feverfew. The forest welcomed her with its quiet, the sound of her boots muffled by the thick carpet of moss and fallen leaves. She moved with practiced ease, her senses attuned to the subtle shifts in light and sound.

Yet, as she filled her basket, a prickle of unease began to crawl up her spine. She paused, her hand hovering over a cluster of feverfew, and turned her head slowly. The forest seemed unchanged—serene, almost indifferent—but the feeling persisted, a weight pressing against her chest.

She scanned the shadows between the trees, her pulse quickening. A faint rustle reached her ears, too soft to pinpoint but loud enough to set her nerves on edge. The pendant at her throat grew heavier, its surface warming slightly against her skin.

Her fingers tightened around the basket handle, her thoughts racing. *It’s nothing. Just the wind. Just a squirrel, maybe.* But the whispers of her dreams clawed at the edge of her mind, and for a brief, irrational moment, she felt as though molten gold eyes were watching her from the shadows.

The rustling came again, closer this time. Skylar froze, her breath catching as she darted a glance toward the sound. Her muscles tensed, every instinct screaming at her to run, but she forced herself to hold her ground.

The shadows shifted—or had they? She couldn’t be sure. The forest seemed to breathe around her, its stillness a living thing. The pendant pulsed faintly, the soft warmth blooming against her skin.

She exhaled shakily, adjusting her scarf with trembling fingers, and began walking back toward the shop. Her pace was brisk but measured, her steps deliberate. The weight of unseen eyes lingered long after she’d left the forest behind.

When she reached the edge of her garden, the feeling of being watched ebbed, though her unease clung to her like the mist. She glanced back once, her green eyes scanning the dark spaces between the trees, then stepped into the sanctuary of her shop.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of routine, though Skylar found little comfort in it. By evening, she sat by the fire with a steaming cup of tea, her legs curled beneath her on the worn armchair. The flickering flames cast warm light over the pages of her grimoire, its weathered leather cover familiar and comforting. She traced a sketch of wolfsbane with her finger, her thoughts circling the dreams that had plagued her for weeks.

Her fingers brushed the Moonstone Pendant absently as her mind lingered on the golden eyes and haunting howls. The pendant had been hers for as long as she could remember, yet it was a stranger to her—not unlike the fragmented memories that lurked in the shadows of her past.

When sleep finally claimed her that night, it was far from restful. The dreams returned, sharper and more vivid than ever. Flames roared around her, licking at the edges of her vision, and wolves circled in the darkness, their eyes like molten gold. A voice whispered her name, low and haunting, but when she turned to find its source, there was only the snapping of jaws and the rush of wind.

She woke with a start, her chest heaving and her hands clutching the pendant. It glowed faintly in the dim light of her room, its warmth seeping into her skin. Skylar stared at it, her heart pounding, and for the first time, she couldn’t dismiss the thought that something was coming.

Something she wasn’t ready for.