Go… back.

As she walked back toward the Monastery, the sense of unease stayed with her. The air around her seemed heavier, the shadows deeper. And though she didn’t look back, she could feel the woods watching her, waiting.

Cerina strode purposefully, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the lingering whispers of the voice in her mind. Her skin prickled as she entered the cool shadow of the stone halls. The monastery always seemed to breathe differently from the outside world—its silence alive, oppressive, as though the building itself were watching.

The task. She had to focus on the task.

She reached her room quickly, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by the thick air. The Old Words. That was what the scribbles were called in the book Cerina had brought. Scribbles, because Cerina couldn’t read them. But the markings had been etched into her mind regardless—sharp lines, sweeping curves, and jagged angles that seemed to pulse with some unspoken rhythm. Her job was to match those to the ones in the lower halls. Simple enough. At least, in theory. But which words? All of them? One page? One line?

When she reached her room, she hesitated outside the door, her hand hovering over the handle. The memory of the black stone sitting on her bed—where it had no right to be—was sharp and fresh, like a splinter lodged under her skin. She couldn’t stop picturing it. Couldn’t shake the pulse she’d felt within it.