Chapter 1 - Maeve

                                        

                                              
The forest did not breathe. It creaked.
It murmured in the language long buried, carried voices in the wind that were never felt, and bent time like it bent trees — cruelly, without apology. It was a place of stories, none with happy endings, and even fewer with corpses to tell the tale.
She walked deeper into it anyway.
Her boots were caked in mud. Her cloak, frayed at the edges, was stained. She blended into the trees, fading into mud-brown shadows and moss-stained bark. Her hair was braided roughly, tucked beneath her hood. She moved as if she belonged, but she did not. Especially not then.
She inhaled deeply. The scent of woods usually calmed her, but today it was different.
Maeve had not entered that place alone, but her companions — that was what she'd called them — had fled a while ago, one at a time. 
No scream. Just vanished.
Taken.
Or warned.
Or perhaps it was her command.
She did not know, nor could she afford to care. 
Yet her tight jaw gave her away. Her fingers twitched near the blade at her hip.
Now, there was only her. And him.
She didn't hear him approach. She felt him.
Like heat behind the neck. 
Like lightning in your teeth. 
She felt him way before she saw him.
She turned in his direction.
"You've been following me for an hour," she said, voice calm, but there was something behind it — the coiled tension of someone who had mastered the art of pretending she was fearless.
The voice that replied was far too amused for this place. And for her liking. Maeve narrowed her eyes in distaste.
"Only an hour?" his voice echoed, stepping into view. "I must be losing my touch."
She shivered. It was just the cold, she convinced herself, not him. Never him.
And then for the first time, she saw him. She saw him more than she felt him. 
His silhouette stood at least a foot taller than her 5 feet 5 inches in stature. Leaner, ragged around the edges, she could tell he had seen better days. His boots looked like they hadn't been removed in weeks. His hands, his palms, everything was covered in a hood. The hood was stained with bark and blood — not fresh, not his, and yet...
Yet he exuded wild elegance that made her think of torn crowns and broken altars. She observed enviously.
Her eyes climbed, trying to take a glimpse of the face behind the voice. As if the hood was not enough, his hair, wild like the man it crowned, covered half of his face. Yet she eagerly saw what little was left uncovered. 
Sharp brows and a sharper jaw could put her sword to shame. In this dark, he looked like he belonged. But the eyes... gods, those eyes told a different tale.
Gold, and wrong. 
Wild and Beautiful.
Unusual and Unnatural.
His mocking, tilted lips slapped her back to reality.
"You chased off my companions." Her voice was low, but steady, forcing her attention on the serious matter.