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Her fingers reached for her pendant, breath shallow. “Wren… the forest isn’t just in pain... it’s under siege.”

Then the ground buckled beneath her knees.

And she collapsed.

8

ROLLO

Rollo had always respected the silence of the woods. Respected its rhythm, its breath, its balance.

But that night—under the full Pink Moon—the stillness went sharp.

He was waist-deep in the underbrush beyond the sanctuary’s boundary, foraging for wildheart root by lanternlight, when the pain hit him. Sudden. Deep. Right behind the ribs.

He staggered.

His hand clutched his chest like something had reached through his sternum and yanked.

Not pain exactly. Not physical. But tethered.

Delilah.

Her name echoed in his bones before he could stop it.

Then everything else—reason, caution, even the ache in his shoulder from hauling crates earlier—justfell away.

He dropped the basket of herbs. Let the lantern crash against a mossy stump. And ran.

The bear came fast—claws beneath skin, senses sharper than thought.

It took over like it always did when instinct called louder than logic. He didn’t shift fully, not this time. Just let the strength bleed through, his limbs looser, faster, his breath stronger.

The Whispering Woods parted like they recognized him. Or maybe they didn’t recognize who he was anymore.

But they led him. Straight to the clearing. And that’s where he found her.

Wren knelt in the dirt, her shawl smeared with ash, face drawn and furious. Thistle paced in a tight circle around a body.

Delilah’s body.

He hit his knees before his thoughts even caught up.

“What happened?” His voice cracked, raw and jagged.

“She went too deep,” Wren said, voice shaking but steady. “Tried to read the forest under the full moon. Spirits screamed at her. Something in there fought back.”

He looked at Delilah.

Still. Pale. A red welt along her jaw. And her lips—gods, they were too still.

“She spoke before she collapsed,” Wren continued. “Said the forest is under siege. Not natural. Not rot. Something’s moving in it like a sickness.”

Rollo brushed the back of his hand against Delilah’s cheek. “She’s cold.”

“Pulse is steady,” Wren said. “But she’s not waking.”

That did it. That cracked something.