It started with the wind.
Not the usual hush of country breeze, but something more sudden—like a gasp of air through weathered stone. Charlotte sensed it first, a chill ripple against her neck as she knelt at riverbed level, scrubbing an ancient-looking cloth clean.
"Elias," she cried out reflexively.
He was beside her in seconds, scanning the line of trees, hand on the hilt of the sword he still wore—though it seemed much too elegant for this world.
"Is something wrong?" he said.
She scowled. "I don't know. Just—something."
Finn ran up from the ridge, hair blown back, cheeks flushed. "There's something moving in the woods!" he exclaimed. "I saw it. A shape. It was like it was staring at us."
Charlotte got up, her heart pounding.
Not with terror.
But recognition.
A shiver of remembrance—her last days at the palace, whispers down the corridors, letters with veiled threats. The calm before the tempest.
Elias set out towards the trees.
Charlotte grasped his wrist. "Don't go by yourself."
His gaze softened. "I have no intention of doing so."
They walked together into the border of the forest. Trees here twisted and aged, the type of forest that knew things. Every step was like walking back in time, into something forgotten and half-remembered.
Then—crack.
A branch, broken just in front of them.
They stopped.
A form came out of the fog—not a man, not exactly. Cloaked, hooded, face obscured behind a bone-white mask. In its hand, it carried an orb that glowed weakly with silver light.
Charlotte's own breath was caught.
The power coming from the orb—it was familiar. Like something out of the palace records. Something older than their kingdom.
Elias moved forward. "Who are you?"
The figure cocked its head.
Then, it spoke—its voice textured, like two sounds together. "The threads are coming undone. She does not belong. And yet—she stays."
Charlotte put her hand over her chest.
The figure faced her. "Charlotte of the First World. You were not supposed to come back to life. And yet here you are, interfering. Binding others to your purpose."
"I didn't choose this," she snapped. "I died. I—
"You lived," the voice cut in. "And you altered the weave."
The orb blazed.
Elias moved between her and the speaker. Instinct.
Protection.
The figure paused. Then, ever so slowly, retreated into the trees.
"You have stirred echoes, Queen of Ash. The other realms awaken."
And it was gone.
The emptiness that remained was too thick.
Charlotte trembled on her knees. Not in fear.
In knowing.
"Elias," she breathed. "Something is coming."
He didn't debate it.
He simply nodded.
And said, "Then we prepare."
Later That Night
Charlotte sat at the table, Finn curled up near the fire. She stared at the blade Elias had laid on the table—cleaned, polished, waiting.
"I think we've started something," she murmured.
Elias, pouring tea, nodded. "We always do."
Outside, the wind stirred again.
Only this time, it didn't carry dread.
It carried purpose.