Eamon stood on the crest and glanced back once, the distant silhouette of Stonebridge barely visible through the trees. A pang of doubt tugged at him. This was farther than he'd ever ventured alone.

  He pushed past the tangled underbrush of the Whispering Woods, his heart pounding not just from the exertion but from a mix of fear and defiance. Callum's sneer replayed in his mind. "If you had any guts, you'd go see those ruins yourself." The memory of that smirk was enough to steel his resolve.

  The familiar sounds of Stonebridge had long since faded behind him, replaced by the eerie silence of the deep forest. The trees here were ancient, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, and every rustle made him flinch. But he pressed on, driven by a need to prove himself—to Callum, but more importantly, to himself.

  After what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, he arrived at a clearing. There, half-swallowed by the encroaching forest, stood the crumbling entrance to the ruins. The stone archway loomed ominously, its surface etched with faded symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.

  He hesitated at the threshold. A cold breeze emanated from within, carrying with it a faint, unsettling whisper that he couldn't quite make out. Eamon swallowed hard. This is it. No turning back now.

  Steeling himself, he stepped inside.

  The interior was dim, illuminated only by the shafts of light that pierced through cracks in the ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something else—a metallic tang that set his nerves on edge.

  As he ventured deeper, the corridor widened into a chamber. Ancient murals adorned the walls, depicting scenes of figures gathered around a glowing stone, much like the one Merrick had described in his tale. The atmosphere was oppressive, and a sense of being watched prickled at the back of his neck.

  At the center of the chamber lay a pedestal, and atop it, a single, weathered page. It seemed out of place—untouched by time, while everything else had decayed. The page shimmered subtly, the symbols on it almost beckoning to him.

  Eamon approached cautiously. His instincts screamed at him to leave, but curiosity—and pride—propelled him forward. He reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and picked up the page.

  For a moment, nothing happened. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The material felt cool and smooth, unlike any parchment he'd ever known.

  Suddenly, the symbols on the page began to glow, brightening until they were nearly blinding. "What the—" Eamon gasped, dropping the page. It hovered in the air for a heartbeat before disintegrating into a cloud of golden dust.

  The particles swirled around him, and a sharp whisper sliced through the silence: "Mine."

  A jolt ran through Eamon's body. The ground beneath him trembled violently. Cracks snaked across the floor, and chunks of stone began to rain down from the ceiling.

  Panic surged. He turned to run, but his foot caught on a loose stone. He stumbled, his leg kicking something small and hard. He noticed a golden stone skittering across the floor, disappearing into the shadows.

  There was no time to think. The ruins were collapsing around him. Eamon sprinted toward the exit, dodging falling debris. A massive slab crashed down behind him, sealing off the chamber he'd just escaped from.

  Breathless, he burst out into the forest, the roar of the collapsing ruins fading behind him. He bent over, hands on his knees, gulping in the cool air. His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  A sudden, eerie silence fell over the woods. The usual sounds of wildlife were absent. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  Then, a ripple—a palpable wave of energy—pulsed through the air, rustling the leaves despite the lack of wind. A cold whisper followed, seeping into his very bones: "Mine."

  Eamon spun around, eyes wide. "Who's there?" he shouted, his voice sounding small against the vastness of the forest.

  No answer came, but the sense of being watched intensified. He backed away slowly, every instinct telling him to flee.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Something brushed against his side. He glanced down to see his pouch bulging slightly. Frowning, he reached in and pulled out the golden stone he'd kicked in the ruins.

  "But how—?" he stammered. He hadn't picked it up. Had it somehow found its way into his bag on its own?

  The stone felt warm in his hand, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. The same strange symbols from the page were etched onto its surface, glowing faintly.

  Fear tightened its grip on him. This was no ordinary object. "I need to get rid of this," he muttered.

  He hurled the stone into the trees as hard as he could. It vanished into the undergrowth, and for a moment, relief washed over him.

  But when he looked back at his hand, the stone was there, resting in his palm as if it had never left.

  Eamon's breath caught in his throat. The whispers grew louder, overlapping in a cacophony of unintelligible words, but one stood out clearly: "Mine."

  His heart pounded. He shoved the stone back into his pouch, cinching it tightly. "This isn't happening," he told himself, taking off at a run toward Stonebridge.

  The forest seemed to close in around him. Branches snagged at his clothes, roots seemed to reach up to trip him, and shadows flickered at the edges of his vision. The path he had taken earlier was nowhere to be found.

  "Stay calm," he whispered. "Just keep moving."

  After what felt like an eternity, the treeline thinned, and the familiar sight of Stonebridge came into view.

  His heart was still pounding, but relief started to wash over him. He could still feel the weight of the golden stone in his pouch, pulsing softly against his side.

  Before he could fully catch his breath, the unmistakable sound of voices reached his ears. He froze, spotting the villagers gathered ahead. A group of them, armed with lanterns and hastily grabbed tools, was heading toward him. At the front of the group was Master Rowan, his brow furrowed with concern. Behind him, Callum stood with a smug grin on his face, clearly enjoying the spectacle. Maeve and Tomas were there too, but unlike the others, they seemed uneasy, their eyes darting between Eamon and the woods.

  “Eamon!” Rowan called out, his voice sharp. “What in the name of the gods do you think you were doing?”

  Eamon staggered forward, his legs weak from the sprint. He glanced back at the forest, a sense of foreboding still gnawing at him, but before he could answer, a chorus of angry voices erupted around him.

  “You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Do you know what you've done, boy?”

  The villagers swarmed him, faces red with anger and fear. Some clutched makeshift weapons, while others pointed toward the distant ruins. Eamon turned, following their gaze. Over the treetops, a thick plume of dust hung in the air—evidence of the collapse he had barely escaped.

  “You heard the noise, didn’t you?” one of the men shouted. “That whole place nearly came down! You caused it, didn’t you?”

  Eamon opened his mouth to explain, but his words died as Callum’s sneering voice cut through the crowd. “What’d I tell you? Eamon just had to play the hero. Guess he wasn’t content pounding metal in the forge,” Callum jeered, folding his arms with a grin.

  The group surged closer, dragging Eamon forward roughly. Rowan was quick to intervene, raising a hand to calm the crowd. “That’s enough! The boy’s not harmed anyone. Give him a chance to explain.”

  But even Rowan’s voice didn’t stop the tide of judgment. One of the older men jabbed a finger in Eamon’s chest. “You’ve stirred up something, Eamon. You’re meddling where you don’t belong.”

  Eamon clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to shout back. His mind was spinning, still reeling from what had happened in the ruins. He hadn’t even had time to process it himself, let alone explain it to anyone else.

  Suddenly, the whispers returned.

  “Mine.”

  The word slithered through his mind, cold and unmistakable. He flinched, his eyes darting toward the distant ruins. The voice was there again, like a distant echo carried on the wind. It was the same voice that had whispered to him inside the chamber.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly as he turned to the others. “Someone’s still out there. I heard—”

  No one seemed to react. The villagers continued shouting, angry words and accusations piling onto him. But no one else had heard the voice. No one had felt the strange energy pulsing through the woods. Eamon’s stomach twisted. He looked around, searching for a flicker of understanding in their faces, but there was nothing.

  “Who said that?” Eamon insisted, his voice louder now, desperate. “Who whispered? Someone said ‘mine,’ I know it—”

  “Enough, Eamon!” one of the village elders snapped, grabbing his arm roughly. “You’re in enough trouble without trying to scare us with wild tales.”

  Rowan stepped forward again, his voice gentler this time. “Eamon, lad, no one’s heard anything except the noise from those ruins. You need to calm down.”

  Eamon shook his head, panic starting to creep in. “But I heard it. Someone—something—was there.”

  From the edge of the crowd, Callum snickered. “Hear that? He’s spooked, all right. Maybe he thinks the ruins are haunted.” His mocking tone only made the others angrier, fueling their frustration.

  Before Eamon could argue further, strong hands grabbed him, pulling him toward the village square. He resisted, trying to explain, but the villagers weren’t listening. They were too focused on punishing him for his reckless actions, too consumed by their fear of what they didn’t understand.

  As they dragged him away, Maeve and Tomas remained silent, their faces pale.

  Rowan, still watching over the scene, laid a reassuring hand on Eamon’s shoulder as they walked. “We’ll sort this out, lad,” he muttered under his breath, his expression softening. “Just keep quiet for now. You’re not in this alone.”

  But as they pulled him further from the woods, the whisper came again, more insistent this time.

  “Mine.”

  Eamon’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced back toward the ruins, the trees now a distant blur. No one else heard it, no one else reacted. But he knew what he’d heard. Whatever it was, it hadn’t let go. Not yet.

  And deep down, he feared it never would.