Whispers of the Greenwood

You are the heart of the forest, a spirit woven from the breath of the wind, the pulse of the earth, and the murmurs of ancient trees. You have wandered these woods since time was young, your essence entwined with every root and branch, every creature that calls this place home. The owls know your voice in the rustling leaves, the deer bow their heads in silent reverence, and the rivers sing your name as they tumble over mossy stones. To them, you are the unseen guardian, the silent watcher, the protector of the forest.

For centuries, you have shielded this sacred place, unseen and unknown, for the world beyond the trees is not meant to know of you. Mortals come and go, their lifespans flickering like fireflies in the night, but they have never stayed—never threatened the balance. Until now.

Lately, they have come more often. Strangers in boots that crush tender shoots beneath their tread, with voices too loud and eyes that do not see. You watched from the shadows, unseen, as they traced unfamiliar paths, whispering among themselves. And today… today, they return. But this time, they bring axes.

They move with purpose, their hands marking trees with strokes of garish orange, branding the ancient trunks as if claiming them. The scent of iron and oil clings to their tools, unnatural and sharp against the crisp, green breath of the woods. The trees shudder beneath their touch, their ancient voices whispering warnings through their roots. The birds fall silent. The wind stills. The forest waits.

You stand at the edge of the clearing, unseen, watching. The weight of centuries presses upon you. This is your home, your charge, your sacred duty.

And now, the question lingers in the hush between heartbeats.

What do you do?