Time had woven swiftly through the tapestry of their lives, stitching fragility into permanence, turning grief into strength.

  Elara, now ten, had left for Ravendale’s Academy. Her departure had been bittersweet—tears hidden behind proud smiles, whispered promises exchanged as dawn spilled golden

  across the fields. She had stepped forward bravely, determined to return stronger, wiser, and ready to protect those she loved.

  At the cottage, life continued—never the same, but always moving forward. Malrik and Rowan, now five, had grown inseparable. Wild and curious, trouble followed wherever they tread, laughter echoing beneath the great trees of Ravendale. The forest had become their kingdom, full of wonders and hidden pathways, where rules were easily forgotten beneath the lure of adventure.

  But Malrik had always been different.

  While Rowan was bold, Malrik was more than just brave—he was drawn to the shadows, to the quiet places others overlooked. Mysteries whispered to him, secrets called from beneath stones and within forgotten hollows.

  He did not seek adventure for thrill alone.

  He sought answers.

  And one crisp autumn afternoon, beneath skies streaked with amber and gold, that call drew him somewhere forbidden.

  Malrik paused beneath a towering oak, its branches gnarled and ancient, roots knotted like veins into the earth. Something whispered beneath it—a voice without words, pulling him closer. He knelt slowly, brushing leaves aside, fingers digging into damp soil.

  A hole emerged—small, hidden beneath roots and vines, dark enough that even the daylight seemed hesitant to enter. Malrik's heart quickened, a shiver of excitement dancing down his spine.

  Behind him, Rowan shifted uneasily. "Malrik…" he murmured, voice shaking slightly. "I don't think we should go down there."

  Malrik peered into the shadows, silver eyes gleaming, already captivated by something just beyond reach.

  "I'll just look," he whispered, his voice low, conspiratorial. "Just for a second."

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Malrik—!" Rowan started, but it was too late.

  Malrik crawled forward, earth scraping against his knees, the air turning cool and stale as he pushed deeper. Behind him, Rowan's protests faded into silence.

  The tunnel opened suddenly, and Malrik stumbled forward, eyes widening in awe.

  An ancient ruin stretched before him, forgotten by time, untouched by sunlight for countless ages. Enormous stone pillars rose from the floor, cracked and draped with thick roots like ancient guardians frozen in slumber. The air was heavy, filled with the scent of moss, damp stone, and something faintly metallic.

  Malrik stepped slowly forward, breath hitching as he traced strange symbols carved deep into the walls—worn, faded, yet pulsing faintly beneath his fingertips, as if responding to his touch.

  He did not recognize the markings, but something deep inside him stirred.

  A feeling he couldn't explain, as though he'd walked this path before—

  As though he belonged here.

  The cold inside the ruin was different.

  It was not the natural chill of earth or stone, but something deeper—ancient, unnatural. It crawled across Malrik’s skin, sank into his bones, whispered softly at the base of his neck like the touch of unseen fingers.

  He stood frozen, breath fogging faintly in the darkness, heart thudding with an unfamiliar rhythm. He should have felt fear, yet all he felt was a strange, electrifying curiosity.

  And then, through the gloom, he saw them.

  Spirits.

  They drifted silently through the shadows—creatures unlike anything Lily or Alina had shown him in their picture books. Not beasts, not monsters, not even ghosts. They were something else entirely—wisps of shadow woven through with threads of ethereal mist, shifting constantly, their forms flickering between something vaguely human and something altogether beyond comprehension.

  One moved closer, drawn by his presence.

  It did not walk, nor float in any familiar sense—it glided, its shadowy form trailing mist as if stepping lightly upon the surface of some invisible, hidden lake.

  Malrik stood still, his small fists clenched at his sides. He did not run. He could not. The spirit’s approach was silent, gentle yet inevitable.

  And then—

  It stopped.

  Directly before him, its essence slowly coalesced. A vague semblance of a face emerged—blurred, distorted like reflections on dark water. Two glowing eyes opened, hollow yet luminous, their gaze piercing into Malrik’s very soul.

  He felt a whisper—not words exactly, but sensations, emotions sliding over his consciousness.

  Curiosity.

  Recognition.

  Connection.

  The spirit’s presence brushed against his thoughts like a gentle, questioning caress.

  It liked him.

  Malrik tilted his head slightly, silver eyes wide, unafraid.

  “What… are you?” he whispered, voice soft, innocent, echoing slightly in the silent ruin.

  The spirit gave no answer, but neither did it retreat. It hovered quietly before him, its mist-like form gently rippling, patient.

  Waiting.

  In that quiet darkness, surrounded by whispers of the forgotten, Malrik did not yet realize the significance of this encounter.

  But the spirit knew.

  The ruins knew.

  And soon enough, so too would Malrik.

  Because this moment—this quiet communion between a child and a spirit born of shadows—was not merely curiosity, nor coincidence.

  It was destiny.