Chapter 2 The Watching Wood

The square didn't clear out all at once after the howl. People lingered in tight, whispering groups, their eyes flicking at me and then quickly away. No one needed to say my name. The looks alone said enough whatever the Moon Stone had awakened had pushed me onto the other side of some invisible line.

Elder Corvin raised his staff, and the murmurs slowly died.

"Head back to your homes," he commanded. "Lock your doors. No lights. This night is not for wandering."

That was all it took. One by one, torches were snuffed out, and shadows swallowed the square. Mothers clutched their children. Fathers walked stiffly, jaws tight, hands clenched at their sides. No one dared argue.

As we headed home, my mother didn't release my hand. Her grip was firm, almost too tight like if she let go, I might disappear. The path felt longer than usual, the darkness heavier. Every sound made me jump: the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, the distant hool

Aft of an owl.

Something was out there. I could feel it.

Inside, my mother bolted the door and yanked the curtains shut. Silence wrapped around us, thick and suffocating. She finally let go of my hand and turned to me, fear etched deep into the lines around her eyes.

"You listen to me," she said quietly. "No matter what you hear tonight, you stay inside. Do you understand?"

I nodded, though the restless energy in my chest thrummed harder. It felt like it was searching for a way out.

She hesitated, then touched my cheek with trembling fingers. "I wanted to believe you'd be like the others," she whispered. "That the stories were finally over."

"What stories?" I asked.

Her mouth tightened. "Not tonight."

A low growl drifted through the walls. My breath caught. It didn't sound threatening. It sounded... curious.

My mother stiffened. "Go to your room."

I obeyed even though every instinct begged me not to. The closer I moved toward my bedroom, the stronger the pull became, as if the forest itself was creeping to the edge of the village.

I sat on my bed, hugging my knees. Moonlight slipped through a crack in the curtain, drawing pale silver lines across the floor. My heart raced. My senses sharpened. I could hear my mother pacing downstairs. I could hear the wind shift.

And I could hear something breathing outside my window.

Soft. Steady.

I glanced toward the glass.

Two amber eyes stared back at me from the darkness.

I froze. Fear pinned me in place. The figure outside was tall, its outline blurred by shadow - but those eyes were unmistakable. Intelligent. Calm.

Not hostile.

The whisper returned, clearer now.

Come.

I pressed my palms to my ears and shook my head. "No," I whispered.

The eyes didn't vanish. They softened... as if the thing watching me understood.

Then, slowly, it stepped back into the trees and disappeared.

Heat flared through my chest. I gasped, clutching my shirt as images flooded my mind running through the forest, moonlight on leaves, the heavy rhythm of paws hitting earth. None of it felt imagined.

It felt remembered.

Downstairs, something crashed. My mother cried out.

I jumped to my feet and ran to the landing. The front door shook violently, as if something massive had brushed against it.

A howl split the air closer this time.

And in that moment, beneath the fear, one truth settled deep into my bones:

This wasn't over.

It was only the beginning.