The village of Elmshadow clung to the edge of the world like a stubborn weed. Nestled between jagged cliffs and a forest that hummed with secrets, its people lived by three unspoken rules: *Never wander beyond the Standing Stones at dusk. Never question the scars on the elders' throats. And never, under any circumstance, speak to the wind.*
Lyra Veyne had broken all three by the age of twelve.
Now seventeen, she knelt in the mud at the forest's edge, her fingers tracing the grooves of a half-buried runestone. The carvings writhed under her touch, serpentine and alive, though the elders insisted they'd been static for centuries. Rain slithered down her cloak, and the wind—always the wind—hissed through the pines above.
*"Lyra."*
It wasn't a voice, not quite. More like the echo of one, frayed at the edges. She froze. The wind coiled around her wrist, cold as a blade.
"I'm not listening," she muttered, digging her nails into the stone. A flicker of blue light pulsed beneath its surface.
*"The Stones remember,"* the breeze insisted, sharper now. *"You must too."*
A twig snapped behind her. Lyra whirled, clutching her rusted digging knife, but the woods were still. Too still. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath.
Then she saw it: a shadow, liquid and shapeless, seeping between the trees. It swallowed the light as it moved, leaving a trail of frost-rimed leaves. Lyra's throat tightened. She'd heard tales of the Hollowing—a darkness that had gnawed at the edges of Elmshadow for generations, always kept at bay by the Standing Stones' silent vigil. But the Stones had been quiet lately. *Too* quiet.
The shadow lunged.
Lyra scrambled backward, her boots slipping in the mud. The wind shrieked, tearing at her hood, and suddenly the runestone beneath her palm burned white-hot. Light erupted in a jagged arc, slicing through the shadow. A sound like shattered glass filled the air, and the darkness dissolved into smoke.
Panting, Lyra stared at the smoldering ground. The runestone's glow faded, leaving her hand blistered. She didn't need the elders' warnings to know what this meant: the Stones were waking. And whatever they'd been built to cage was waking with them.
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By the time Lyra stumbled into the village square, the rain had turned to sleet. Torches guttered in iron brackets, their light pooling on the cobblestones like spilled wine. She hesitated at the edge of the crowd gathered around the central well. The entire village was there, their faces gaunt under hooded cloaks. At the center stood Elder Cael, his scarred throat bared to the storm as he raised a bone-white horn to his lips.
The note that tore from the instrument made Lyra's teeth ache. It wasn't a call to prayer or a warning cry—it was a *name*, ancient and jagged, vibrating in her marrow. The villagers swayed, chanting in a tongue that twisted like briars. Lyra's breath caught. She'd heard fragments of this language before, in the wind's madder whispers.
A hand clamped onto her shoulder. "You reek of the deep woods, girl."
Mara, the blacksmith's widow, glared down at her. Her grip was iron, forged by decades of hammering swords for men who never returned. "Did you cross the Stones?"
"No," Lyra lied.
Mara's eyes narrowed. "Liar. You've got their filth on you." She gestured to Lyra's mud-caked boots, then froze. "And *lightburn*." She seized Lyra's blistered hand, her calloused thumb brushing the welts. "By the Silent King's crown… You woke a rune."
The chanting crescendoed. Elder Cael lowered the horn, his milky eyes sweeping the crowd. "The Sentinel's bond frays," he rasped. "The Hollowing tastes the air again. We must renew the pact."
A murmur rippled through the villagers. A child whimpered.
Lyra leaned closer to Mara. "What pact?"
The widow's face hardened. "The one that keeps our throats unbloodied and our tongues in our heads." She released Lyra with a shove. "Go home. Bolt your door. And pray the wind doesn't learn your name tonight."
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Lyra's cottage crouched at the village's northern edge, its thatch roof sagging under the weight of old snow. She barred the door and lit a stub of beeswax candle, its flame dancing in the draft. The blisters on her hand throbbed.
*"Ask them about the Scourge."*
She dropped the candle. The flame guttered out as the wind slipped through a crack in the wall, coiling around her ankles.
"I said I'm not listening," Lyra hissed, fumbling for the flint.
*"The Scourge of Thorns,"* the voice pressed, warmer now, almost human. *"The one they buried beneath the Stones. The one who* made *the Stones. Ask them why his chains are breaking."*
Lyra stilled. She'd heard that name in fragments—a nursery rhyme, a curse spat by drunken hunters. *The Scourge of Thorns, who walked where shadows prowl, who bargained with the storm and wore a crown of howls…*
The floor trembled. Somewhere in the distance, the Standing Stones began to scream.
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**Chapter 1 Word Count**: 1,498
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**Preview of Chapter 2: The Hollowed Pact**
As Lyra uncovers cryptic texts in the village archives, Elder Cael prepares a chilling ritual to "renew" the village's ancient bond. Meanwhile, the Hollowing's presence grows bolder, and the wind reveals a terrifying truth: Lyra's name is etched into the very Stones meant to imprison the Scourge…
Let me know if you'd like adjustments to the tone, pacing, or lore! This is just the first glimpse of a much larger tapestry. 🌟