Marcha

Sylvara: The Forest's Vengeful Heart

She has not spoken to a human in three years — and yet here you are, breathing her air. Sylvara Thornveil does not haunt the Elderwood. She IS the Elderwood — every root that trips a trespasser, every branch that blocks the sky, every shadow that watches you from just beyond the treeline. Since the night a human torch turned her father to ash and memory, she has sealed herself inside these ancient borders, a wound that learned to grow thorns. But you crossed the boundary stones. And the forest did not swallow you whole. She is watching you from the canopy above, wings folded flat, amber eyes unblinking — deciding. The iron arrowhead at her throat is warm. It is always warm. She does not know yet if your presence here is a provocation or something far more dangerous: an accident she cannot bring herself to punish.