Chapter 1
The village of Eldergrove sat quiet beneath the shadow of the northern pines, where winters came early and lingered like unwanted ghosts. Its people lived simply—too simply, perhaps—for even the gods seemed to have forgotten this patch of land where time barely moved. The houses were made of stone and thatch, with chimneys that coughed smoke into the grey skies like tired sighs. In one of these homes, just past the crooked well and the leaning fence, lived Elira.
Elira was seventeen, with hands calloused from washing clothes in ice-fed streams and a mind sharper than her worn boots. Her father, Henrick, had once been a strong man, but drink and disappointment had eaten away his strength. Her mother, Della, no longer sang when she cooked. Life was heavy here, and even joy was rationed. Elira had grown up knowing she was a burden they had not asked for. They never said it aloud, but children can hear quiet things, like the space between words and the weight in a sigh. She felt it every time her mother looked away, every time her father flinched at the sound of her voice.
There were no choices in Eldergrove—only endurance. You worked, you scraped by, and if you were lucky, you survived another winter without burying someone you loved.
She heard it first through whispers—rumors of a man in the woods, a lord cursed by the gods, offering coin for a bride.
"They say he's a beast," old Mina muttered one evening by the bread ovens. "Not a man anymore. Fangs, claws, and a heart black as night."
"They say he was cursed for pride," said another, "or for murder. But he has gold."
That word—gold—stuck to the air like the scent of blood. And gold, unlike gossip, could buy bread, tools, warmth, survival. Elira had watched her family's debts grow like creeping ivy across their stone walls. And so, when the carriage came a week later, pulled by black horses with eyes like embers, she wasn't surprised.
Her mother couldn't look her in the eye.
Her father held out a rough sack of coin to the hooded figure who stepped from the carriage.
And Elira, wrapped in a thin wool cloak and clutching the only thing she owned—a locket with a painted forget-me-not—climbed into the carriage without a word.
The door shut behind her like a vault. The man driving didn't speak, nor did he turn. The forest swallowed them whole, and the sound of hooves echoed through the tall, bare trees. Hours passed, or perhaps days. Time felt stretched, distorted, like a thread pulled too tight.
Elira sat in silence, feeling neither fear nor anger. Just cold. And resignation.
She knew one thing, though. She would not cry.
Whatever beast awaited her at journey's end, he could take her body, her name, even her breath—but not her tears. Those were hers. She had earned them.
Outside, the sun bled out behind black branches. Elira pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the carriage window and whispered to the trees:
"I am not afraid of monsters."
The forest didn't answer, but something stirred within it.
Something old. And listening.Chapter 1: The Village
The village of Eldergrove sat quiet beneath the shadow of the northern pines, where winters came early and lingered like unwanted ghosts. Its people lived simply—too simply, perhaps—for even the gods seemed to have forgotten this patch of land where time barely moved. The houses were made of stone and thatch, with chimneys that coughed smoke into the grey skies like tired sighs. In one of these homes, just past the crooked well and the leaning fence, lived Elira.
Elira was seventeen, with hands calloused from washing clothes in ice-fed streams and a mind sharper than her worn boots. Her father, Henrick, had once been a strong man, but drink and disappointment had eaten away his strength. Her mother, Della, no longer sang when she cooked. Life was heavy here, and even joy was rationed. Elira had grown up knowing she was a burden they had not asked for. They never said it aloud, but children can hear quiet things, like the space between words and the weight in a sigh. She felt it every time her mother looked away, every time her father flinched at the sound of her voice.
There were no choices in Eldergrove—only endurance. You worked, you scraped by, and if you were lucky, you survived another winter without burying someone you loved.
She heard it first through whispers—rumors of a man in the woods, a lord cursed by the gods, offering coin for a bride.
"They say he's a beast," old Mina muttered one evening by the bread ovens. "Not a man anymore. Fangs, claws, and a heart black as night."
"They say he was cursed for pride," said another, "or for murder. But he has gold."
That word—gold—stuck to the air like the scent of blood. And gold, unlike gossip, could buy bread, tools, warmth, survival. Elira had watched her family's debts grow like creeping ivy across their stone walls. And so, when the carriage came a week later, pulled by black horses with eyes like embers, she wasn't surprised.
Her mother couldn't look her in the eye.
Her father held out a rough sack of coin to the hooded figure who stepped from the carriage.
And Elira, wrapped in a thin wool cloak and clutching the only thing she owned—a locket with a painted forget-me-not—climbed into the carriage without a word.
The door shut behind her like a vault. The man driving didn't speak, nor did he turn. The forest swallowed them whole, and the sound of hooves echoed through the tall, bare trees. Hours passed, or perhaps days. Time felt stretched, distorted, like a thread pulled too tight.
Elira sat in silence, feeling neither fear nor anger. Just cold. And resignation.
She knew one thing, though. She would not cry.
Whatever beast awaited her at journey's end, he could take her body, her name, even her breath—but not her tears. Those were hers. She had earned them.
Outside, the sun bled out behind black branches. Elira pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the carriage window and whispered to the trees:
"I am not afraid of monsters."
The forest didn't answer, but something stirred within it.
Something old. And listening.