The Larenweald woke long before Clementine did.
It always did. The forest liked to hum softly under dawn, a kind of warm vibration that moved through the tall silver-barked trees and lingered in the mossy air. Most elves said it came from the Verdant Antler’s influence brushing lightly across the canopy, a celestial whisper settling onto leaves. Clementine could not feel any of that. The trees hummed because they always hummed, and that was reason enough for her.
She lay on her side in her small wooden room, the same way she had every morning since childhood, her hands tucked into her sleeves, her hair half covering her eyes. The light through her window was gentle, which she appreciated. Harsh brightness startled her, and startled mornings set the tone for startled days. Today seemed quiet. Predictable. Safe.
She breathed into the stillness. She liked mornings before everyone else was awake. There were no conversations to interpret, no voices to accidentally ignore, no polite smiles she was supposed to return. Just quiet, and the faint rustle of leaves.
Clementine often wished she could stay in mornings forever.
She sat up slowly, brushing a pale strand of hair behind her ear. It fell forward again immediately. Her hair did not respect the concept of staying where she put it. She tried again and tucked it more firmly. That kept it still for almost a full second before it slipped loose with a soft defiance.
“Fine,” she whispered, resigned.
The floor creaked in its usual places as she dressed in her simple forest-toned tunic and soft trousers, each chosen because they did not irritate her skin. Her mother called her clothes wonderfully practical. Her sisters called them painfully plain. Clementine called them tolerable, which was the highest praise she ever gave anything she had to wear.
When she stepped outside, the Larenweald greeted her with familiar colours: soft greens, faint golds, the muted blues of early morning mist. A pair of whisperfawns flickered in the distance, half visible between trees. Most elves only ever saw the fawns during calm emotional states, because the creatures responded to harmony. Clementine saw them all the time.
She wondered if that meant she was calm.
Probably not.
She walked the narrow path toward her family’s clearing, trying not to think about how many greetings she might have to produce before breakfast. Her family loved her. She knew that. She also knew they would ask how she slept, what she dreamed, how she felt, and other impossible questions. She never knew how to answer honestly without either overwhelming someone or accidentally sounding rude.
Her younger sister was the first to spot her.
“Clemmy!” Elisy called, bouncing toward her like a beam of contained chaos. “You’re up early. Again. You’re always awake first. Do you sleep at all? You should sleep more. I heard Father say that sleep helps with emotional regulation. But you’re already so calm, so maybe you don’t need—”
“Elisy,” Clementine said softly, “breathe.”
Her sister obeyed instantly, taking an exaggerated lungful of air before smiling brightly. Clementine envied her so much. Elisy existed in the world like a sunbeam with legs.
“Right,” Elisy said. “Breakfast.”
Clementine followed her into the home she had grown up in, a warm circular structure built from interwoven branches and glowing stone. The Denaly household was always busy, always full, always loud in a way elves considered graceful but Clementine experienced as a delicate form of auditory attack.
Her mother, Arienna, was already at the table pouring tea.
“Good morning, my love,” she said, offering Clementine a gentle smile that did not demand anything. Clementine appreciated that more than her mother could ever know.
Her father, Thalen, looked up from a set of delicate herbal tools he was organising. He was a healer of the Maiden Vessel, wise and endlessly patient. He never pushed Clementine to speak more than she needed.
“Morning, Clementine,” he said. “Did you feel the humming change during the night?”
She shook her head, focusing on the cup in her hands.
Her father frowned slightly. “Strange. There was a subtle shift in the Verdant Antler’s resonance. Your siblings felt it.”
Clementine nodded politely. She had felt nothing, just as she felt nothing every time someone in the Larenweald mentioned celestial resonance. It had been this way since childhood. Everyone around her felt the ebb and flow of the Constellars like faint emotions brushing against the world.
Clementine felt nothing at all.
Her older sister Seraly arrived with her usual effortless charisma, greeting everyone with a kiss to the cheek. Fenary followed, already carrying two books under her arm. Clementine loved her family with quiet ferocity. She also found them exhausting in the gentle way sunlight could be exhausting.
She ate quickly, trying not to draw attention to how little she spoke. Her siblings did enough speaking for all of them. Clementine listened, picking up the tiny shifts in tone, the subtle emotional currents, the unspoken tensions. Her family never understood how she always caught these details. She never understood how they missed them.
After breakfast she stepped outside again, letting the forest’s quiet settle around her shoulders like a soft shawl.
She did not expect company. She usually avoided it unless absolutely necessary.
Which was why she jumped when someone said her name.
“Clemberry!”
She turned sharply. Her shoulders rose. Her breath hitched.
Then she relaxed as soon as she recognised the deep, warm voice.
Tallow Brendyn approached the clearing from the main forest path, a broad grin on his bearded face. He smelled faintly of smoke and pine, which was comforting in its own rugged way.
He lifted a small wrapped bundle. “Brought breakfast number two. Your mother feeds you like a bird.”
“That is… considerate,” Clementine managed.
“It’s an Emberforged pastry from the Duskglint stall,” he said proudly. “Barely burnt. Only a little.”
She looked at the pastry. Then looked at him. “You burned it.”
“I burned it with love.”
Her lips twitched. That counted as a laugh in Clementine language.
Tallow softened instantly, pleased with himself. He always seemed quietly delighted when she smiled, like it was some kind of rare forest treasure he was lucky enough to find.
“Walk with me?” he asked.
Clementine hesitated. The forest path was quiet, but walking meant possible conversation, possible unpredictability, possible small talk.
Tallow noticed her silence.
“We can walk quietly,” he said gently. “I like quiet.”
She nodded.
He offered her the pastry like a peace treaty. She took it, nibbling the edge. It was, indeed, slightly burnt. Somehow that made it better.
They walked together under arching branches that filtered the light into soft gold. Tallow talked a little, mostly stories about his travels, pauses built kindly into his sentences so Clementine never felt pressured to respond.
Eventually she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Father mentioned a shift in the forest last night.”
“Did you feel anything?” Tallow asked.
“No.”
He nodded, like that made perfect sense instead of being impossible. Most people reacted strangely when she admitted she felt no Constellar influence. Tallow simply accepted it.
“They say Myth Wakes have been happening more often lately,” he said.
“Forest critters acting odd. Lights appearing where they shouldn’t. Whisperfen’s been a mess.”
Clementine stopped walking.
“Tallow,” she said, “something is wrong.”
He turned to her. His expression shifted instantly from playful to protective.
“You saw something?”
“No. I just…” She pressed a hand to her chest. “It feels wrong. Like the forest is holding its breath.”
Tallow looked troubled for the first time that morning.
They stood in silence for a long moment, surrounded by the soft hum of leaves.
Clementine swallowed.
“I don’t want anything to happen,” she whispered. “Not here. Not to anyone.”
Tallow stepped closer, his voice low and steady.
“Clemberry, if something’s coming, you’ll see it before anyone else. You always do.”
She didn’t tell him that terrified her.
She didn’t tell him she had felt strange all week, like the world was leaning toward something she couldn’t name.
She didn’t tell him she feared the silence inside her, the part that never resonated, never echoed, never glowed.
Instead she nodded softly.
Tallow smiled again, the worry tucked away for now.
“Come on,” he said. “If the world’s about to wobble, we might as well enjoy breakfast while it’s still upright.”
Clementine followed him deeper into the trees, knowing something was shifting far above them in the Star Vault.
She did not know yet that she was the only one who would remain unchanged when it finally broke.
Written by C. D. Wynfell
Copyright © 2025 C. D. Wynfell. All rights reserved.
Do not reproduce, repost or modify without permission.
