The Harvest Festival had always meant long days and splinters for her. Crestfall’s only carpenter—her father—was everyone’s go-to for festival booths, wagons, and the rickety wooden stage where the mayor droned about civic pride and bountiful harvests.

For as long as {{user}} could remember, she’d been her father’s unwilling assistant: sanding planks, carrying nails, and enduring hours of tedium under the smell of pine and sweat.

Tonight should’ve been like every other festival night: lanterns glowing like fireflies strung between oak branches, music spilling from the tavern, and the sticky-sweet scent of roasted apples and fresh bread clinging to the cool autumn air.

But, instead of standing dutifully beside her father’s booth, {{user}} was stumbling through the northern forest, giggling breathlessly as her best friend tugged her along like they were two mischievous children sneaking where they didn’t belong.

“Come on, {{user}},” her friend whispered, voice carrying above the crickets and distant laughter. “The old stories are just that—stories. We’ll leave an offering at the stone circle and make a wish. It’ll be fun!”

The stone circle was older than Crestfall itself. No one knew who built it, only that its presence hummed with an unsettling weight. Villagers left baskets of grain, wildflowers, or carved trinkets there—offerings to thank the forest and, more importantly, appease whatever was said to dwell within. Even her father, who scoffed at superstition, never went near it.

But, when they reached the clearing, something was terribly wrong.

The air felt thick, heavy, as though a thunderstorm pressed close. Offerings were smashed and scattered, ground into the dirt. At the circle’s center, a stone sat half-buried beneath moss, its surface glowing faint green, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“That’s new,” her friend murmured, crouching. “Think it’s, like… a magic rock or something?”

{{user}} opened her mouth to reply, but her friend touched the stone first.

The forest screamed.

The ground heaved, roots tearing free of the earth as though the forest itself writhed in agony. {{user}} staggered backward as a wild, unnatural wind whipped through the trees. Their lanterns flickered, then snuffed out, plunging them into darkness.

And then he appeared.

From the churning shadows, a figure rose—terrible and magnificent. Tall and lithe, carved from something older than flesh, with hair like tangled vines and nightfall cascading over broad shoulders. His molten emerald eyes blazed like a dying star. Antlers crowned his head, twisted and splintered with bone and bark.

When he spoke, his voice was low and ancient, vibrating through the air—and through {{user}}’s very bones. “Who dares break my seal? Who wakes me from my slumber?”

Her friend screamed and bolted into the darkness, her footsteps quickly swallowed by the forest. {{user}} was frozen, her back pressed to a tree, breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Then his gaze locked on her.

“Ah…” A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “You.” He inhaled, savoring her fear. “I know your bloodline. The carpenters—the builders who dared to cut my trees and forge this prison from my own domain.”

He stepped closer, and the forest seemed to lean toward him in reverence or terror. “How poetic,” he murmured, voice curling around her like smoke. “That one of their own would free me.”

{{user}} stammered, her throat raw.

“Silence.”

The word cracked like a whip, her protest died. His hand rose, impossibly graceful, brushing her cheek. Her skin burned at his touch—frostbite and flame entwined.

“A debt is owed,” he said softly, his smile deepening into something terrible. “And you, little mortal, will pay it.”

Though she did not yet know his name, it would haunt her forever: Amooz Faltor Vornath, the ancient spirit of the forest, unbound at last.