The forest did not answer her at once.
Elaria stood beneath the towering trees, her breath unsteady, her heart still racing from the voice that had spoken to her as though it knew her soul. Moonlight spilled through the leaves in broken patterns, painting silver across the ground.
"Are you still there?" she asked softly.
"Yes," the voice replied, close now, though she could not tell from where. "But you are weakening."
"I feel…" She pressed a hand to her chest. "Strange."
That was the only word she could find for it. The world felt heavier, as though the air itself had thickened. A warmth spread beneath her skin, slow and steady, starting at her wrist and creeping upward like an unseen tide.
"What is happening to me?" she whispered.
"You have been running," the voice said gently. "Crying. Singing. Choosing."
Elaria swayed. She reached for the trunk of a nearby tree, her fingers brushing rough bark just in time to steady herself.
"I didn't choose anything," she murmured. "I only wanted to escape."
"Escape is a choice," the voice answered. "And you made it with your whole heart."
Her vision blurred at the edges. The forest seemed to tilt, the trees bending inward as if to cradle her.
"I feel dizzy," she admitted, fear creeping back into her voice. "Am I dying?"
A sound like a soft breath of amusement drifted through the air. "No, little songbearer. You are only being prepared."
"For what?" she asked, panic rising.
"For rest," the voice replied. "And for what comes after."
Her knees weakened. She slid down slowly until she was seated at the base of the tree, cool earth pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. The warmth beneath her skin pulsed once, faint and unseen, like a heartbeat not her own.
"I don't want to sleep," she said weakly. "What if I wake up and everything is worse?"
"Then you will face it," the voice said softly. "But not tonight."
Elaria's eyelids grew unbearably heavy. Her thoughts tangled, memories blurring together her mother's smile, her father's absence, Lady Virelle's cold eyes, Lyssara's cruel laughter.
"Will they find me?" she whispered.
"Yes," the voice said after a pause. "But not in the way they expect."
Her breathing slowed. The forest seemed to hum, a low, soothing sound that wrapped around her like a lullaby she had once known.
"Will you still be here when I wake?" she asked.
"I will hear you," the voice answered. "Always."
The last thing Elaria felt was the earth beneath her turning warm, roots shifting gently as though to shield her from the cold. Then the world slipped away, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep beneath the listening trees.
Far away, something ancient took note.
---
Lady Virelle knew something was wrong the moment the messenger failed to return.
She stood behind the tavern counter, fingers clenched around a clay cup, her eyes fixed on the doorway as though she could will the girl to appear.
"She should be back by now," she muttered.
Lyssara, seated nearby, lifted her head slowly. "You sent her to clean the back rooms," she said. "She never lingers."
Virelle turned sharply and mounted the stairs, her steps heavy with impatience. She did not knock when she reached Elaria's room. She shoved the door open.
The open window greeted her first.
Then the emptiness.
Virelle froze.
"No," she breathed.
Lyssara appeared behind her. "Mother?"
"She's gone."
Lyssara's brows furrowed, though there was something calculating behind her eyes. "Gone?"
Virelle crossed the room in three long strides, peering out the window, then spinning back as though Elaria might be hiding behind the bed.
"That foolish girl," she snapped. "Tonight of all nights."
Lyssara's lips parted. "Tonight?"
Virelle rounded on her. "Do not pretend ignorance. Elder Corvain is arriving at first light. The agreement has already been spoken."
Lyssara's eyes widened then softened. "Oh."
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
"If she is not here," Lyssara said carefully, "what will you tell him?"
Virelle's jaw tightened. "I will not be made a liar."
"She cannot simply disappear," Lyssara added. "Not when coin has already changed hands."
Virelle's hand slammed against the wall. "Exactly."
She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. "If the girl thinks she can shame me by running, she has forgotten who raised her."
Lyssara tilted her head. "What will you do?"
"What must be done," Virelle replied coldly. "We find her."
They descended the stairs together. The tavern was quieter now, the night deepening. A few men lingered over their cups. Virelle's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"I need lanterns," she said. "And men who can walk without losing their nerve."
One man frowned. "What for?"
"My stepdaughter has fled," Virelle said. "On the very night she was to be prepared for her marriage."
That stirred murmurs.
"Marriage?"
"To whom?"
Lyssara answered smoothly, "To Elder Corvain. A generous man."
A few exchanged uneasy looks.
"She wouldn't run for nothing," someone said.
"Girls run when they forget their place," Virelle snapped. "And when they must be reminded."
The men rose reluctantly. Lanterns were lit. Cloaks pulled on.
"She couldn't have gone far," Lyssara said as they stepped outside. "She knows nothing of the world."
"And she will learn it the hard way if she ruins this," Virelle replied.
They moved toward the forest.
At the treeline, several men hesitated. The woods loomed dark and unwelcoming, ancient in a way that made even the bold uneasy.
"She wouldn't enter there," one whispered. "Not at night."
Virelle's eyes flashed. "She will be returned before dawn. Alive and unbroken."
Lyssara glanced into the forest, a strange tightness in her chest. "And if she refuses?"
Virelle did not slow. "Then she will be reminded that she owes her life to this house."
They stepped beneath the trees.
The forest answered with silence.
Lantern light flickered strangely, shadows stretching where they should not. Paths twisted subtly, guiding feet astray.
"Are we walking in circles?" someone asked.
Lyssara swallowed. "Mother…"
"Enough," Virelle hissed. "The girl cannot vanish into air."
But somewhere deeper in the woods, Elaria slept, untouched by their voices, the earth itself seeming to cradle her. Roots curved protectively around her resting place.
The forest did not intend to return what it had been given.
And far away, beyond coin and contracts, destiny shifted
not because a girl had run,
but because she had been claimed by something far older than marriage vows.
The search did not end all at once.
It unraveled.
Lantern flames guttered as the night deepened, their light thinning beneath the towering trees. The men moved more slowly now, their confidence worn down by twisted paths and the unnerving sense that the forest was quietly rearranging itself around them.
"She was here," one of the hunters muttered. "I swear it."
Virelle turned sharply. "Then keep walking."
"But the tracks..."
"There are no tracks," another said, voice tight. "Not anymore."
Lyssara clutched her cloak closer around her shoulders. The air had grown restless, leaves shivering without cause. "Mother," she whispered, "this place does not want us."
Virelle scoffed. "Nonsense. Woods do not want or refuse."
As if in answer, the wind rose.
Not suddenly. Not violently. At first, it was only a sigh through the branches, a low murmur that slipped between trunks and curled around ankles. Then it strengthened, threading itself through the forest with deliberate purpose.
Lanterns flickered. One went out entirely.
"Shield the lights!" someone shouted.
The wind pressed harder, tugging at cloaks, whispering through leaves in a language none of them understood but all of them felt. The trees groaned softly, bending just enough to loom closer, crowding the path.
"This is wrong," a man said, panic edging his voice. "We should turn back."
"We will not," Virelle snapped, though unease crept into her eyes. "She is here. I can feel it."
The wind surged.
It came in a great, sweeping force, not wild but commanding, pushing them backward as though invisible hands had laid claim to the ground beneath their feet. Lanterns were torn from grasping fingers. Flames died. Darkness swallowed the forest whole.
"Back!" someone cried. "We can't see!"
Branches lashed not to wound, but to herd. Roots rose just enough to trip, to confuse, to scatter. The wind howled now, a great breath drawn from the depths of the earth itself.
Lyssara stumbled, clutching her mother's arm. "Mother, please..."
Virelle tried to stand her ground, but the force was relentless. Step by step, the forest drove them out, spitting them back toward the edge like trespassers who had overstayed their welcome.
And then just as suddenly it stopped.
They stood at the treeline, breathless, shaken, staring into the dark that would not yield them even a whisper of the girl they sought. Beyond the first row of trees, the forest was still. Closed.
"She's gone," someone said hoarsely.
Virelle's face twisted with fury. "Gone where?"
No one answered.
The sky began to pale. Dawn crept in slowly, washing the world in gray and gold. With the coming light, the forest looked ordinary again silent, innocent, unchanged.
But none of them stepped forward.
The sound of wheels on stone announced the groom's arrival.
Elder Corvain's carriage rolled into the village square just as the sun cleared the horizon. It was a fine thing polished wood, brass fittings, and a crest etched into its side. Wealth without warmth.
Virelle straightened at once, schooling her expression into something resembling welcome. Lyssara moved to her side, face carefully composed.
The carriage door opened.
Elder Corvain descended with measured effort, leaning on an ivory-handled cane. His hair was thin and silver, his robes heavy with embroidery. His eyes, however, were sharp assessing.
"Lady Virelle," he said. "You rise early."
She bowed slightly. "A necessary habit, Elder."
His gaze flicked around the square. "I expected… preparations."
"They are underway," Virelle replied smoothly.
Corvain hummed. "And the girl?"
Lyssara's fingers curled into her sleeve.
Virelle hesitated only a heartbeat. "Delayed."
Corvain's eyes narrowed. "Delayed how?"
"A childish moment," Virelle said. "She wandered off. We searched through the night."
"Wandered," he repeated, voice cool. "On the eve of her marriage."
"She is young," Lyssara added softly. "And frightened of change."
Corvain studied them both, then glanced toward the forest. "The forest?"
Virelle lifted her chin. "It refused us."
Silence stretched between them.
"Forests do not refuse," Corvain said at last.
"Last night, this one did," Virelle replied. "But it will yield."
Corvain tapped his cane once against the stone. "I paid for certainty."
"You will have it," Virelle said quickly. "She cannot have gone far."
"And if she has?"
Virelle's jaw tightened. "Then she will be found."
Corvain exhaled slowly. "I do not enjoy waiting."
Lyssara forced a smile. "Nor do we."
The elder's gaze lingered on the forest once more, a faint crease appearing between his brows. "See that your house honors its word," he said. "I will not be made a fool."
He turned back toward his carriage.
Behind him, the village stirred uneasily. Whispers followed his steps. Eyes drifted toward the trees.
Deep within the forest, where dawn light filtered gently through leaves, Elaria slept on, unaware of the bargain unraveling beyond the roots that guarded her.
The wind lay still now. Its task was done.
And somewhere far beyond the village and its broken promises, destiny shifted
not toward a wedding,
but toward a crown waiting for a voice bold enough to claim it.