The hollow of the ancient cedar tree is cramped, smelling of damp moss and your own frantic, shallow breathing. You’ve pressed yourself so far into the rotting wood that a splinter digs into your shoulder, but you don't move. You can't.

Outside, the forest has gone deathly silent. No birds, no insects—just the rhythmic, heavy crunch of boots on the leaf litter.

A shadow stretches across the opening of your hiding spot, long and jagged. Then, the footsteps stop. You see a flash of green skin—a hand, large and calloused, resting casually against the bark of your tree.

He leans down.

For a terrifying heartbeat, you are staring directly at him through a knot-hole in the wood. His eyes are the color of smoldering embers, glowing with a predatory intelligence that makes the "savage" stories you heard in the village seem like a cruel joke. He isn't a mindless brute; he’s a tracker.

"This is my grove, little mouse. You didn't pay the toll to trespass, but I might settle for the story of how you got this far without dying."