Chapter 2 — Whispers of the Past

Naomi

The Depthwoods never let her forget. It was an unrelenting presence—a predator in the shadows, a whisper just at the edge of hearing, a pulse that crawled beneath her skin. As Naomi wove through the labyrinth of twisting trees and glowing fungi, her mark tingled faintly, signaling the forest’s awareness of her every step. Above, the canopy thickened once more, blotting out what little light there was, and the air grew heavier, carrying the sweet, cloying scent of decay.

She knelt by a patch of moss that glimmered faintly in the bioluminescent haze, her fingers brushing against its soft surface. It would make a decent poultice if she needed it later, though she wasn’t sure how far she trusted the Depthwoods’ gifts. Every plant, every root, every shimmering mushroom felt like part of the forest’s game—tempting, but never without cost. Still, she tucked a few strands into her pack, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.

The act was grounding, almost meditative. She let her breath slow, focused on the rhythm of gathering—pluck, check, stow. For a brief moment, the forest seemed to watch in silence. But the stillness was treacherous. A breeze—not natural, never natural here—whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faint echoes of voices.

Naomi froze, her breath hitching. The voices grew louder, indistinct yet painfully familiar, like a melody half-forgotten. Her hand drifted to the hilt of her knife.

“Naomi.”

Her name, spoken in that lilting, familiar cadence, sent a jolt through her chest. She stood abruptly, her pulse hammering in her ears. She scanned the trees, her piercing green eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Nothing moved, yet the voices continued, threading through the air like gossamer strands pulling at her memories.

“Do you remember?” The voice was clear now, sharp and achingly familiar, cutting through the forest’s hum. It was Matron Lira’s voice—the woman who had taught her to grind herbs, to stitch cuts, to read the subtle signs of the land. The woman who had stood silent as the council cast their vote against her.

Naomi’s throat tightened. “You’re not real,” she muttered, her voice low and steady despite the tremor in her chest.

“Do you remember the fields, Naomi?” the voice asked, closer now. A shadow shifted between the trees, indistinct but unmistakably human. “The way you used to laugh with the children?”

Her fingers clenched around the strap of her pack. Her muscles were taut, ready to move, to fight—but fight what? There was nothing to strike, nothing to face but the forest’s relentless illusions.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She turned sharply, her breath quickening, as figures began to form in the gloom. They stepped from the shadows one by one, their faces blurred but familiar. Her clan.

They surrounded her, their expressions unreadable, their eyes piercing as they stared her down. The circle tightened, and the air grew colder, the forest’s hum rising to a drone that pressed against her skull.

“Why did you betray us, Naomi?” one figure hissed. The voice was Elder Kiran’s, but the face was wrong—warped, distorted, a grotesque mockery of the man she had once revered.

Her heart pounded, a sharp, staccato beat against her ribs. “I didn’t,” she said, her voice hard but strained. “I didn’t betray anyone.”

The figures murmured, a low, accusatory chorus that swirled around her. “You did,” they said. “You killed him. You killed him, and the forest marked you for it.”

Her mark flared abruptly, a sharp, searing heat shooting up her arm. She hissed through her teeth, clutching it instinctively as the light pulsed brighter. The figures recoiled slightly but didn’t disappear.

Naomi’s breathing grew ragged. The memories rushed in, unbidden and suffocating. She saw the village square, the circle of elders, the cold, unyielding faces of the council as they passed judgment. She heard her own voice, raw and desperate, as she shouted her innocence. She felt the weight of Elder Kiran’s blood on her hands, though she knew she hadn’t spilled it.

The voice of Matron Lira pierced through the cacophony, sharp and cutting. “You let him die. You were supposed to protect him, and you failed.”

“Stop it,” Naomi snapped, her voice cutting through the rising din. “You don’t know anything. You’re not real.”

The figures advanced, their movements disjointed and unnatural. “Do you even know the truth yourself?” one asked, its tone mocking, laced with venom.

Her grip on her knife tightened. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she said, though the words felt brittle in her mouth. Her chest was tight, her pulse erratic, and a flicker of doubt twisted in her mind. Did she know the truth? Or had she buried it so deeply she couldn’t see it anymore?

The circle of figures pressed closer, and the forest itself seemed to close in with them. The trees loomed, their twisted trunks bending unnaturally, their roots writhing like serpents. Shadows pooled at her feet, icy tendrils crawling up her legs. The voices grew louder, overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and doubts.

“You failed us.”

“You should have protected him.”

“You don’t belong here.”

Naomi’s mark burned brighter, the vines writhing as if alive. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to stand tall despite the tremors that wracked her body. The Depthwoods was feeding on her, she realized—twisting her memories, amplifying her guilt, drawing strength from her pain.

Her fingers brushed the glowing vines on her arm, and for a brief moment, she let the forest’s magic flow through her. It was dangerous, she knew. Every time she embraced it, she felt herself slipping further from who she used to be. But she needed its strength now.

“Enough!” The word tore from her throat, her voice reverberating through the clearing. Her mark blazed, its green light searing through the gloom. The figures froze, their forms flickering, and then shattered like glass, dissolving into the air.

The oppressive hum receded, leaving only the faint, rhythmic thrum of the Depthwoods’ heartbeat. Naomi staggered, her knees nearly buckling as the tension drained from her body. Her hands trembled as she pressed one against the rough bark of a tree, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

The forest was quiet again, but its presence lingered, heavy and suffocating. Naomi’s mark dimmed, the light fading to its usual faint glow, but the tingling sensation remained—a constant reminder of her bond to this place.

She straightened slowly, forcing her muscles to obey, her skin clammy with a cold sweat. “Nice try,” she muttered, though her voice was hoarse and lacked its usual defiance.

The path ahead had shifted again, the underbrush weaving into a new, narrow corridor. Naomi adjusted her pack and started forward, her steps slower this time, her knife still in hand.

Her thoughts churned as she walked, the forest whispering faintly at the edges of her awareness. The illusions had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. She didn’t trust her memories anymore—didn’t trust herself. The Depthwoods had a way of twisting the truth, but what if it wasn’t twisting anything? What if it was only showing her what she had refused to see?

She shook her head sharply, trying to banish the thought. It didn’t matter. She’d find the sanctuary. She’d uncover the truth. One way or another, she’d make sense of the chaos that had consumed her life.

Ahead, the trees began to thin slightly, the canopy letting in faint ribbons of light. The underbrush pulsed faintly, leading her deeper into the forest’s heart. Naomi pressed on, her jaw set, her eyes sharp.

The Depthwoods wasn’t finished with her. Not by a long shot. But she wasn’t finished, either.