Chapter 3 — Echoes of Defiance

Mirra

The morning after the ritual dawned shrouded in mist, as always. The air was cool and damp, clinging to my skin as I stepped outside. The village square lay quiet now, the oppressive altar standing silent at its heart. Its once-pulsing glow had faded, leaving behind only the cold, lifeless stone. It loomed against the mist like a sentinel, indifferent and unyielding. I forced my gaze away. I couldn’t bear to look at it for too long; it felt as though it could still see me, still judge me.

Every muscle in my body ached, a dull, insistent pain that pooled in my joints. The transformation always left me feeling fragile, hollowed out, as though something essential had been ripped from me and replaced with a force I didn’t want to understand. But worse than the ache was the memory of my howl—raw, unbidden, a sound neither human nor beast but something trapped between. It had carved through the synchronized chant of the ritual like a blade, and the weight of the elders’ scornful gazes still burned against my skin. They had always marked me as different, but last night felt heavier, more deliberate. More dangerous.

I needed air. Space. My thoughts were a tangle of shame and defiance that tightened with every shallow breath. The forest called to me, its whispers threading through my mind like a persistent hum. I grabbed a basket and an old knife, giving myself the excuse of gathering herbs—plausible enough for anyone who might question me. Aunt wouldn’t approve, but she wouldn’t stop me either. Not today. Not when the ritual’s aftermath had left her too drained to argue.

The village faded quickly as I slipped into the trees, their towering forms swallowing me whole. Here, the mist felt heavier, curling around gnarled roots and glowing fungi that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The silence of the forest wasn’t the empty stillness of the square; it was alive, dense with sound and movement just out of sight. My senses, still heightened from the transformation, caught every faint rustle of leaves, every subtle shift in the mist. The forest felt sharper today—more awake, more aware. As if it was watching me.

I walked slowly, weaving my way along narrow trails and over twisted roots, the basket swinging in my hand. The earth beneath my boots was soft, damp, and rich with the scent of moss and decay. The act of walking, moving, felt grounding, but it didn’t quiet the storm in my head. My thoughts kept circling back to the ritual, to the altar, to the way the forest seemed to call louder with every step I took.

I knelt beside a cluster of moss-covered stones dotted with pale, luminescent mushrooms and began to cut them carefully, their delicate stems resisting the blade. The repetitive motion calmed me, gave me something to focus on beyond the chaos of my thoughts.

“You shouldn’t be here, girl.”

The voice was rough, cracked with age and disuse, and it startled me so badly that I dropped the knife. Whipping around, I saw him—a gaunt old man standing a few paces away, his figure half-obscured by the mist. His tattered clothing hung loose on his bony frame, and his face was weathered, lined with years of hardship. But it was his eyes that pinned me in place—sharp, unnervingly bright, and far too knowing.

I straightened slowly, my heart racing. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer right away, stepping closer instead. The mist seemed to part for him, curling and shifting as though it obeyed his movements. There was something off about him, something that set my teeth on edge. My fingers tightened around the basket handle, ready to defend myself if I needed to.

“You’re the troublemaker, aren’t you?” he said at last, his tone almost amused. “The one who doesn’t belong.”

I bristled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He laughed—a dry, brittle sound that held no warmth. “Don’t play coy with me, girl. I heard your howl last night. Felt it in my bones. You’re different, and they know it.”

My breath hitched. How did he know? He wasn’t part of the village. Everything about him—the ragged clothes, his frail but unyielding posture—screamed exile.

“Who are you?” I demanded again, my voice sharp with an edge of defiance. “What do you want?”

He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made my skin crawl. “Call me whatever you like. It doesn’t matter. What matters is why you’re here. Wandering the forest, pretending to pick herbs. You’re hunting answers, aren’t you?”

My grip on the basket tightened. “I’m collecting herbs,” I said, lifting it as if to prove my innocence. “Nothing more.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Herbs, she says. You call them herbs, but you’re really chasing the truth, aren’t you?”

The truth. The word landed like a stone in my chest.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them.

“I know more than you think.” His voice softened, but his eyes didn’t. “I know about the ritual. About the curse. About the lies they’ve wrapped you in to keep you obedient.”

My chest tightened. “What lies?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze boring into mine like he was weighing the risk of speaking. Then, with a sigh, his shoulders slumped, and he looked away, as though the weight of his own knowledge was too much to bear.

“The altar,” he said, his voice low and rough. “The elders. The pact. It’s not what they’ve told you. It’s not what you think.”

I took a step back, my mind reeling. “What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “The truth is buried deep, girl. Beneath the altar. Beneath their rules and their fear. And if you go digging, you won’t like what you find.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. My throat tightened. “Why are you telling me this?”

His lips twitched into a bitter, broken smile. “Because you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone who also thought they could change things.”

I hesitated, a pang of something sharp and familiar—guilt—twisting in my chest. “What happened to them?”

“They didn’t listen to the warnings,” he said softly. “And they paid the price.”

A chill ran down my spine. “What kind of price?”

He didn’t answer, his eyes growing distant. After a long pause, he turned away, his figure blurring as the mist swallowed him. “Beware the shadows that whisper truths,” he said, his voice a faint rasp. “They’ll lead you to answers you’re not ready to face.”

I stood frozen long after he disappeared, his words looping through my mind like a chant. The air around me felt heavier, darker. The whispers I’d always heard in the forest seemed louder, more insistent, tugging at the edges of my thoughts.

Finally, I shook myself free of the haze and grabbed my basket and knife with trembling hands. I needed to leave. Now. The mist clung to me as I turned back toward the village, its tendrils wrapping tight like it didn’t want to let me go. My steps quickened, each one fueled by a growing unease that chased me all the way home.

But even as I stepped out of the forest and into the village, the old man’s words stayed with me, echoing louder than the toll of any bell.

Beware the shadows that whisper truths.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. About the altar, the elders, the lies. About the price of asking questions. The forest outside my window seemed alive, its whispers louder than ever, calling to me, daring me to seek the answers I craved.

And I would. I had to. No matter the cost.

The next full moon was only days away. And this time, I wouldn’t stand on the edge of the ritual, silent and submissive. This time, I would find the truth.

Or die trying.