The road to the Bloodwood

Third-Person — Seren’s Memory

Sleep never came easily anymore. The forest whispered too loudly, threading dreams with memories until she couldn’t tell which was real.

Seren’s head rested against the cold wall of the hollow, eyes half-lidded. The rhythm of the roots pulsed in her veins, dragging her mind backward — to the day it all began.

⸻

A Year Earlier

The air north of the Frostline had smelled different — sharp, metallic, touched with the faint sweetness of rot. Even then, Seren had known the rumors were true: something was stirring beyond the old borders.

The rogues were changing.

Not just rabid or broken — organized. Driven by something that called itself truth.

She and Theron had gone north with purpose. The elders had begged them not to, warned that the Bloodwood was cursed, that even the goddess’s voice could not cross it. But Seren had felt the pull for months — dreams filled with crimson trees and a voice that wasn’t quite divine but heartbreakingly familiar.

She’d told Theron it was research.

He’d known better.

“You think it’s her,” he’d said one night by the fire. “The goddess.”

“I think it’s something she left behind,” she’d whispered. “Something waiting.”

And he’d followed her, because he always did.

⸻

The Crossing

They had reached the Bloodwood at dawn. The forest loomed like a wound against the horizon — every trunk red as flesh, every leaf trembling though there was no wind.

As soon as Seren stepped between the trees, her skin had prickled. It wasn’t evil. Not at first. It felt familiar.

The air was thick with whispers, like prayers spoken through water.

She’d heard one rise above the rest — a low voice that said her name with unbearable tenderness.

Seren… you have her eyes.

She had fallen to her knees.

For a moment, she’d thought it was the goddess speaking — welcoming her, thanking her.

But the warmth had turned heavy, then cold. The trees began to move, roots curling like serpents beneath the soil. Theron had drawn his blade too late. The forest had already chosen to keep them.

⸻

The Rogues

When she awoke, they were surrounded. Dozens of them — not the feral, half-mad beasts she’d expected, but wolves with purpose in their eyes. Their leader had knelt before her, pressing a hand to his chest as if before a queen.

“The moon’s blood returns to us,” he’d said. “You’ve come to awaken him.”

“I came to find answers,” she’d replied.

“And you will,” the leader had promised, his smile wrong, reverent. “When he wakes.”

That was the last sunrise she’d seen.

⸻

Now — Present

Seren blinked, dragging herself back to the dim red glow of their prison. Her body trembled from the memory, from the voice that had sounded so much like comfort until it wasn’t.

Theron watched her, concern etched across his tired features. “You went far away again,” he said softly.

“I remembered,” she whispered. “The first time he spoke. I thought it was her.”

Theron’s expression darkened. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have,” she said bitterly. “The goddess’s light never felt like that. It was warmth, not want. But he used her memory — her grief — to call me here. And I answered.”

She closed her eyes, voice barely audible. “That’s how he’ll reach her too.”

Theron’s jaw tightened. “Then we need to remind her who she is before he does.”

Seren nodded faintly, fingers brushing the cold stone beneath her. “If I could only see her… even once…”

“You will,” he said, though he didn’t sound certain. “And when you do, she’ll already know how to fight him.”

Seren looked toward the faint shimmer of silver still lingering in the roots — the echo of her earlier attempt to reach her daughter.

“Then let’s hope the goddess favors mortals one last time.”