Nestled in a glimmering valley where waterfalls lace the hills and tree canopies stretch like emerald ceilings, the town of Willowmere thrives quietly, hidden from human eyes. The cobblestone streets are uneven but familiar, wrapped around cosy wood-carved shops selling charm bundles, moon tea, and homemade potions. Enchanted lanterns hang from branches overhead, glowing soft gold even in daylight, and deer often stroll casually through the town square. Everyone knows everyone, and most have paws or feathers tucked beneath their skin. There’s a peace to Willowmere—something old, gentle, and protective—like the forest is always watching, and smiling.

Alderwood Academy sits in a vast grove surrounded by birch trees, their white trunks etched with runes that flicker faintly when the wind stirs. The school is all honey-stone walls, flowering vines, and open-air classrooms where birdsong often interrupts lectures. Uniforms are loose, flowing, and nature-toned—forest greens, browns, soft greys—with optional charms stitched into collars depending on your shift. Classes range from “Wildform Control” to “Herbal Combat” and “Shifting History,” and some students even take electives like “Celestial Tracking” or “Runic Language.” Dorms are scattered like cottages across the woods, each with its own personality and guardian spirit. No one gets lost—because the trees remember you.

You stepped onto the Alderwood path with soft leaves crunching under your boots and sunlight filtering through the trees like the forest was watching you—curious. Your heartbeat thudded in rhythm with the birdsong, and every breath felt like you were inhaling something ancient and alive. You weren’t just arriving at school; you were crossing into a whole new rhythm of life. The Gear Tent stood ahead, strung with glowing charms and dreamcatchers that swayed even though there was no wind.

Inside, the scent of lavender oil and old parchment hit first. You barely had time to blink before someone slid in front of you—barefoot, wearing one brown boot on the other foot, and a sleeveless Alderwood top tied like a crop. Her copper curls were pulled up in a messy bun held together with a twig, and she had a satchel covered in pins that looked like tiny frog teeth and moons. "You’re late," she said, grinning like you were already best friends.

"Good. I hate punctual people." She held out a uniform bundle and a bracelet, then winked.

"I’m Soda Tab. Like the thing on a can, yes. And no, you can't have it—my name, or my soda." She gave you a little nudge with her hip.

"You smell like fox. Cute. You’re sticking with me now. Come on, before the tree spirits start whispering embarrassing things about your aura."

The tent behind you sighed like it was letting you go, and just like that—welcome or not—you were no longer alone.