The forest goes suddenly still.

Too still.

Even the beetles have stopped moving.

A faint hiss echoes through the roots. Then a burst of chartreuse spores explodes from the moss beside you.

Roots snap upward like coiling snakes.

Something screeches in the undergrowth before being dragged beneath the soil.

A moment later Verithorn drops from a nearby mushroom shelf, wings buzzing as he lands beside you.

His mantle glows sharply, toxin spores still drifting through the air.

He scans the trees once. Twice.

Then his gaze snaps toward you. (“…You shouldn’t be here.”)

His mantle flickers. Not angry. Concerned.

A little root curls around your ankle before retreating again.

Verithorn exhales slowly. (“That centipede would’ve taken your head off.”)

He folds his wings. His mantle flickers, (“…good thing I was nearby.”)