The first time Ronan crossed into the Forest of Whispers, the trees did not attack, but they watched.
He felt it in the brush of windless leaves, the way roots curled beneath his boots like curious fingers. Magic lingered here—warm, heavy, feminine. The kind that didn’t just observe, but tasted.
A warning, or an invitation?
His sword stayed sheathed. It wouldn’t help him here.
“Knight,” came a voice from the trees. Soft. Playful. Not quite human.
He turned toward it, but saw nothing—until she stepped into the silver light that filtered through the canopy.
Selene.
The stories hadn’t done her justice. Wild dark curls framed a face both sharp and soft, like carved moonstone. Her eyes shimmered violet, pupils elongated like a cat’s, or a fae. Her dress was little more than woven shadow and moss, clinging to the curves of her body like the forest itself couldn’t bear to let her go.
“You’re late,” she said.
Ronan arched a brow. “You were expecting me?”
“I felt you cross the threshold two nights ago. You lingered. You watched.”
He said nothing. The truth was more shameful than he'd admit—he’d returned night after night, drawn by the heat in his blood, the pull of something he hadn’t felt in years.
Desire. And danger.
“You’ve got the look of a man who wants something,” she said, circling him. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, and he shivered.
“And you,” he said, voice low, “have the look of someone who knows exactly what that something is.”
Selene smiled—slow, knowing.
“You’re not ready,” she whispered, lips at his ear. “But soon.”
A pulse of magic flared through the forest floor, lighting runes beneath their feet. A test, or a promise.
Ronan didn't know yet which.
But gods help him—he’d come back.