The Siege of Shadows: Book one

Lord of the Wild Things (45)

ROWAN'S POINT OF VIEW

The soft, lilting sound of music drifted through the trees, tugging at me like a thread tied to my chest. My steps faltered, my anger momentarily forgotten as the melody enveloped me. It wasn't just sound—it was a pull, gentle but insistent, like a hand guiding me forward. It called to something deep inside me, something I couldn't quite name.

I moved without thinking, drawn toward the music. The trees seemed to shift around me, parting to reveal a glade bathed in silver moonlight. My breath caught at the sight before me. Perched on a smooth stone was a satyr. His dark green hair fell in loose waves over his shoulders, and his goat-like legs rested casually as he leaned against the twisted trunk of a tree.

He looked up as I entered the clearing, a warm smile curling his lips. In his hands was a reed flute, its haunting melody still echoing in the air even though he'd stopped playing. His golden eyes shimmered with mirth, catching the moonlight like tiny suns.

"Ah, the Lost One," he said, his voice rich and musical, every word flowing like part of a song. His gaze lingered on me, sharp and curious. "Come closer, little flame. Let me see the one who walks with the Beast."

I froze, my instincts prickling. Something about him felt dangerous, though it wasn't in his appearance or his tone. It was in the air around him, thick with magic and something else—charm, maybe. Yet even as a warning echoed in the back of my mind, my feet carried me a step closer.

The satyr's smile widened slightly, as if he'd expected nothing less. He raised the flute to his lips and began to play again, this time a slower, softer tune. The notes curled around me like smoke, gentle and hypnotic, easing the tension in my body. My shoulders relaxed, the heat of my earlier anger fading away like a distant memory.

Then, without pausing his playing, he began to sing. His voice blended seamlessly with the melody, weaving a story so vivid it felt alive around me.

"In the ancient wilds, there lived a stag,
Proud and mighty, no hunter's prize.
With power vast, the wilds he ruled,
Where flowers bloomed beneath his stride.
The rivers ran for him alone,
The skies sang loud, the winds obeyed.
All things of wild bent to his will,
The dead lands green where once decayed.
But even he, so wild, so free,
Was tamed by love, a queen divine.
With water for hair, stars in her gaze,
He vowed, 'Forever, you are mine.'
Together they gave the wilds a gift,
A child of flame, of heart so fierce.
Her hair burned bright, her courage vast,
A force no darkness dared to pierce."
I shivered as the last note faded into the night, leaving the glade heavy with a silence that felt almost sacred. The satyr's gaze remained fixed on me, his smile softer now, as if he knew some secret I didn't.

"That song," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "What does it mean? Why call me the Lost One?"

The satyr leaned forward, his elbows resting lightly on his knees. "Stories have power, little flame," he said, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "They live and breathe, shaping the world in ways we cannot always see. Perhaps you are the one to write the ending of this tale."

I frowned, his words sinking into me like seeds taking root. "What do you mean?"

His only answer was a sly smile. Lifting his flute again, he played a new tune, light and teasing this time, as though he were laughing at my confusion.

The satyr's haunting melody still lingered in the air when I heard it: the distant echo of trumpets, the deep thrum of drums reverberating through the trees. I turned toward the sound, startled, but the satyr—grinned wide, his golden eyes glittering with mischief.

"It seems the Hunt has arrived," he said, his voice brimming with excitement. "You're just in time."

"The Hunt?" I asked, but my question was drowned out by the sudden eruption of sound and movement.