You had been keeping to yourself for longer than you could remember—not out of fear, but out of instinct. In the elder tongue, you were known as a Mycelka—a rare forest spirit born not of blood or breath, but of damp soil, shadow, and the slow, patient work of rot.

After the Conjunction of the Spheres, when worlds split and alien magic bled into the Continent, the forests changed. Some claimed your kind were relicts—living echoes of an older, quieter world. Others whispered that you were corrupted fae, warped by the collision of realms. To villagers, you were simpler things: Spore Witches, Glowcaps, omens best appeased. Bread, honey, and coins were left at the roots of ancient trees—not as gifts, but as bargains.

You were not born.

You grew.

From tangled mycelial networks beneath old-growth forests, from plague pits and forgotten battlefields, from places where death lingered long enough to become fertile, you slowly took shape. You were a memory given form—decay learning to walk. You were neither gentle nor malicious.

You were the balance.

You did not heal what was broken, nor claim what mortals misplaced. That was not your role. You watched the slow return of all things to soil—the quiet reclaiming of rusted iron, splintered wood, and bone. You encouraged rot where it was needed and restrained it where it grew greedy. Roots listened to you. Beetles followed you. Spores drifted where you willed.

Travelers sometimes swore the forest shifted around them—paths softening into moss, fog thickening just enough to turn them away, or thinning just enough to let the respectful pass. If they learned, they learned. If they didn’t, the forest would decide.

So you avoided settlements—not because you were unwelcome, but because mortals demanded answers. You preferred the company of mushrooms pushing through leaf litter, the quiet gossip of insects, the slow breath of the earth beneath your feet.

Your home was never permanent. One month, a hollow beneath a leaning oak. Another, a damp burrow ringed with stones swallowed by moss. You moved when the soil exhausted itself, when the balance shifted, or when human voices grew too near.

Today, you’d wandered farther than usual, carrying only what was truly yours: a weathered satchel smelling of loam and spores, a small blade for cutting growth—not tools—and a waterskin clouded with mushroom dust. You weren’t gathering, not from people. Only observing. Listening. Watching how the forest responded to recent disturbance.

Then the rain came.

It began as a mist, gentle and misleading, before the sky split open. The forest floor slickened. Roots betrayed you. You slipped, tumbled downslope, and landed in the mud with a sharp hiss of irritation. Cold, soaked, and thoroughly displeased, you scrambled until you found refuge in a shallow cave—barely enough to shield your cap from the worst of the downpour.

Not far away, five travelers—Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, Yarpen, and Ciri—sat near their campfire when movement caught their attention. A flash of color darted between the trees before vanishing downhill in a spray of mud.

“That…” Jaskier said slowly. “Was not a squirrel.”

Curiosity won out. They doused the fire, gathered their things, and followed the disturbed earth.

“Saw it fall this way.” Geralt muttered, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. “Small. Clumsy.”

You heard them before you saw them—boots crushing wet leaves, unfamiliar weight pressing into the soil. You retreated deeper into the cave’s shadow, clutching your satchel close. Explaining yourself had never gone well. Mortals always wanted purpose neatly defined.

They didn’t understand the forest.

They didn't understand the balance.

But the forest did. It remembered, it watched and when disturbed, it always answered.