Torn Between Destinies
Chapter 40 - Forty

Chapter 40: Chapter Forty

At first, it was just the birds.

They used to sing at dawn, a chorus of chirps and whistles that woke us gently in Silverglen. But lately, they’d fallen quiet. I would stand outside our small cabin, Erya cradled against my chest, and listen to the eerie stillness. It felt wrong, like the air was holding its breath.

"Maybe it’s the season changing," Darius said when I mentioned it. "They’ll come back."

But the season hadn’t changed much. The sun still warmed the trees, the breeze still smelled of pine and wildflowers. Yet, something had shifted. The forest felt... watchful.

One morning, while gathering berries near the stream, I saw a deer. Not unusual—but this one stared straight at me, eyes wide, unmoving, even as I approached. Its sides heaved like it had run for miles, but it didn’t bolt.

I slowly backed away, chilled to the bone. When I turned around to walk back, I heard a whisper. Not wind. A voice.

"Luciana..."

I froze.

"Who’s there?" I called out.

Nothing.

Only the trees swayed gently, as if nothing had happened.

I didn’t tell Darius that part.

I didn’t want him to think I was overreacting, especially not after all we’d been through. But that night, I barely slept. My dreams were dark and cold, filled with fog and shadows crawling under my skin.

In one dream, Erya stood in the middle of the clearing, howling. But it wasn’t a baby’s sound. It was deep, guttural—wrong. Her eyes glowed silver, and the land cracked beneath her feet.

I woke with a jolt, gasping. My skin was damp with sweat. I glanced over at Darius. He slept soundly, one arm across his chest, brow relaxed. Peaceful.

I envied that.

By the third day, things got worse.

Our food stores—dried meats, grains, herbs—began to rot. Not slowly, but overnight. Bags that had been sealed, jars that had been smoked or dried properly now swelled with mold and stench.

Darius furrowed his brows as he inspected them. "This shouldn’t happen," he muttered. "The storage room’s cool and dry. No animals got in. No sign of damage."

"I told you something’s wrong," I said quietly.

He looked up at me, his eyes tired. "You think this is connected to the birds and that deer?"

"I know it is."

He shook his head slowly. "Luciana, we moved to Silverglen to start over. You’ve been on edge ever since we came back from Nefang’s pack. You think this is some kind of curse?"

I hesitated. I didn’t want to say it. But deep down, I felt something had followed us—or awakened when we arrived.

"Do you remember what Mayla said?" I asked. "The dreams she had about cursed lands. She warned us."

"That was about Thornridge," he replied. "Not this place. This land was untouched. We tested it, we listened. We felt the peace."

I took a step closer, lowering my voice. "But what if peace wasn’t the same as safety? What if something else was sleeping here, waiting?"

He looked at me, and for the first time in days, I saw the worry in his face. He wasn’t brushing it off anymore. He was scared.

That night, he stayed up to keep watch.

He thought I didn’t notice, but I did.

The fire crackled low as he sat by it, eyes sharp, Erya sleeping beside me with her small fingers curled around mine.

Around midnight, I heard a noise.

Not from the trees—but from inside the cabin.

A low thud, like something dropped.

Darius was on his feet in seconds, stepping carefully toward the back storage room. I followed, my heart hammering in my chest. He opened the door slowly.

Nothing.

Except... one of the shelves had collapsed. Our herbs were scattered on the floor.

And in the dirt spilled across the wood, there were tracks.

Not from a mouse or a raccoon.

They were clawed. Deep. Almost like wolf paws—but too narrow, too wrong.

He crouched down, fingers tracing the mark.

"Do you smell that?" he whispered.

I nodded.

Rot. Damp. A faint sulfur scent.

We cleaned it up in silence.

That morning, I took Erya and walked to the northern edge of Silverglen, near the old rocks that shimmered under moonlight. I sat on one and held her close, hoping to find clarity in the quiet.

But the quiet wasn’t comforting anymore.

It felt... hollow.

"I don’t know what’s coming," I whispered to her. "But I will protect you. No matter what."

She blinked up at me, then reached out and touched my cheek.

That night, the whisper came again in my dream.

"Luciana..."

But this time, it wasn’t a voice I feared.

It sounded like a woman. Familiar. Sad.

"Who are you?" I asked in the dream.

No answer.

Just the wind.

I woke with tears on my cheeks.

Darius held my hand tightly in his, still asleep. I looked at him, feeling the weight of everything. This land had welcomed us—or so we thought. But something ancient lived here too. And it was stirring.

Later that morning, we called the others.

The small group who had followed us when we left the pack gathered near the central stone ring. Rina, our fastest scout. Mikael, loyal and watchful. And Sora, the quiet healer who rarely spoke but always listened.

"We need to talk," I said. "Something’s wrong with this land."

They exchanged looks.

"We know," Sora said softly. "I’ve felt it. My herbs don’t grow right. The wolves avoid the stream. There’s... a hum in the soil."

"Why didn’t anyone say anything?" Darius asked.

"Because we hoped it would pass," Mikael replied. "Because we trusted this place to be our home."

"But now it’s speaking," I said. "And we have to listen."

That night, we circled around the fire. No one spoke for a while.

Finally, Darius broke the silence.

"We came here for peace," he said. "We have a child now. We can’t afford to ignore warnings."

"Do you think it’s a spirit?" Rina asked.

"Maybe," I said. "Or a force. Something older than us."

"What do we do?" Mikael asked.

"We don’t run," Darius said firmly. "Not unless we must. We face it. Together."

Sora nodded. "Then we start with the dreams. Luciana, tell us everything."

And I did.

From the deer to the spoiled food to the voice whispering in the dark.

The others shared their signs too. The unease. The strange weather shifts. Shadows moving when no one stood nearby.

When the fire burned low, we made a pact.

We would watch. We would listen. And if the land was testing us—we would not fail.

But deep in my bones, I feared this was no test.

It was a warning.

And we were already running out of time.