Chapter 93: Whispers Beneath the Green
The dawn after the stranger's arrival came softly, casting golden streaks across the mist-laced fields. Yet despite the calm sky and sprouting crops, a weight hung in the air—as if the village itself was holding its breath.
Elara stood outside the healer's tent, arms folded, watching the breeze ripple through the freshly grown leaves. Children still laughed as they watered young shoots, but even their joy seemed quieter today, as though some invisible hand had turned the world's volume down.
Inside the tent, Ariella sat beside the man. His breathing was steady, his expression lost in thought as he stared at the canvas roof above. A bowl of warm broth rested untouched in his lap.
He flinched when her hand brushed his.
"Sorry," Ariella said gently. "I didn't mean to startle you."
He shook his head, voice hoarse. "You didn't. It's everything else. The quiet. It's too… loud."
Ariella exchanged a glance with Elara as she entered. The man was speaking more now, but nothing he said brought comfort. His memories remained empty. He couldn't recall his name, where he came from, or why his body bore faint, branching scars that glowed when touched by moonlight.
"What do you remember about last night?" Elara asked.
The man hesitated. "A voice. Not mine. Something ancient, crawling under my skin. It… used me."
He looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers slowly. "It's still inside. Sleeping, maybe. But it's not gone."
Outside, the sound of a horn broke the silence. A group of villagers, muddy and breathless, hurried toward the tent. At their lead was the elder who had overseen the old grain rites.
"We went north," she said, voice tight. "To clear the stream near the forest. But the trees are wrong."
"Wrong how?" Elara asked.
"They're… weeping. Sap that smells of ash. Birds won't go near. And the ground—it pulses. Like it's breathing."
A hush followed her words.
The forest had always been mysterious, but this was new. Living earth. Rotten tears. As if the roots below knew something the sky didn't.
Ariella straightened. "We'll go."
The leader grabbed her arm. "No. Not yet. Let the land settle. You two already gave us back the fields. Let someone else handle this."
But the villagers nearby weren't nodding.
Some averted their eyes.
Others exchanged quiet whispers.
It was the same pattern again—faith bleeding into fear. Yesterday, they had sung the girls' names around fires. Today, they muttered them with wary glances.
Elara saw it. She said nothing, but her heart tightened.
They left the man under watch and made their way toward the forest's edge. The path was damp but sturdy, lined with the faintest shimmer of new life. Flowers peeked cautiously from the underbrush, as if testing the air.
But as they neared the border, everything changed.
The line where green met shadow was sharp—unnaturally so. Trees just steps away were lush, their trunks alive with ivy and birdsong. But one step beyond, the forest was a painting drained of color.
Bark had turned gray. Leaves hung limp, as if sighing. A single fox darted from the brush, eyes wide with panic, pelt matted with dust.
Ariella crouched and touched the soil.
It was warm. Too warm.
"Something's stirring beneath," she murmured.
Elara looked upward. The sky here was clear, but her skin bristled. "The land wants to heal. But something in this forest won't let it."
A sudden snap of a twig made them both whirl.
But it was only a boy—no older than nine—running toward them, panting. His tunic was soaked in sweat.
"They're saying the man… he started talking again."
"Talking?" Elara asked, already stepping forward.
"Not him. The other voice."
They hurried back, heartbeats drumming like thunder against ribs.
By the time they reached the healer's tent, a circle had formed outside. The man sat upright inside, eyes closed, hands raised slightly in the air as though balancing something unseen.
"The roots… the roots… not severed…" he whispered again. But this time, the words were slower. Sadder.
Elara and Ariella slipped inside.
The man opened his eyes. "It's not just a voice," he said weakly. "It's a memory. Not mine. Something old. It's clinging to this place like… mold."
"Do you feel it now?" Ariella asked.
He shook his head. "Only when I close my eyes. It speaks through dreams. Broken ones."
"What does it want?"
The man met Elara's gaze. "To return. To root itself again. But it's angry. The land fights it now."
Ariella stepped closer. "We changed the soil. That's why it's lashing out."
"Then we have to go deeper," Elara said quietly. "We can't just wait for it to surface. We need to know what it left behind."
Back outside, the whispers grew louder.
"They should leave it alone…"
"What if they bring another curse?"
"It always starts with someone lost in the woods…"
The same voices that had lifted their names with hope were now steeped in doubt.
Ariella drew her hood up, ignoring the stares. "If we've learned anything, it's that waiting lets the rot spread."
Elara nodded. "Then we move fast. Before it takes root again."
That evening, they met in the circle of stones beneath the sycamore tree—where the Blue and White Queens had once appeared. They lit no fire, only candles, their flames small against the dusk wind.
They knelt.
Closed their eyes.
And called.
Not for magic.
Not for answers.
But for truth.
The wind stirred.
The candles flickered.
And from the leaves above, a single whisper descended like dew:
"You cleansed the surface. But the shadow never lived above. It waited. Beneath. And now, it remembers its shape."
Elara opened her eyes slowly. Ariella's hand was already in hers.
The earth had bloomed.
But something older had stirred beneath its roots.
Later that night, while silence wrapped the village in soft shadows, a cry echoed from one of the homes near the well.
At first, Elara thought it was a scream of pain—but then came laughter. Weeping. Shouts of joy.
A child had been born.
Word spread quickly: a boy, early by almost a full month, but breathing strong and wrapped in pale linen as though cradled by light itself. His mother, Mira, who had barely shown signs of labor before, now held him with wide, disbelieving eyes. No midwife could explain how swiftly or smoothly the birth had occurred.
As the villagers gathered around the house, a strange sight unfurled silently above them.
From the sky, a thick smoke drifted down—not dark or choking, but silver-gray and shimmering. It curled along the rooftop and wound itself around the trees nearby, dancing softly in the moonlight. It pulsed slowly, almost like a heartbeat, circling once… then again.
As if it too had come to witness the boy.
As if it were celebrating. Or… claiming.
And no one noticed the smoke at all.