The forest was not on any map.

Once, it had a name — whispered by travelers and witches alike — but even those echoes had long been swallowed by time. Now, the trees stood in silent witness, their blackened trunks spiraling into mist, their roots drinking deeply from soil heavy with forgotten things. The air smelled of wet bark and rusted iron.

At the center of it all stood Lethryl.

They were not entirely creature nor entirely spirit, but something in between — bark fused with mist, petals curling along hollow arms. Their hair shifted with the seasons, pale as frost now, and from the hollow in their chest pulsed a dim golden light. They were bound, not to the forest itself, but to the oldest tree in it — a massive oak whose crown of bare branches clawed endlessly at the sky. Its roots were Lethryl’s roots. Its life was theirs.

They had been waiting for lifetimes.

The forest was not merely a place — it was a cage. The oak and its sprawling roots anchored the ancient seals, binding things that should never again see the light. Things that had long outlived the myths that once named them.

But time had worn thin.
The world no longer remembered the warnings, no longer sang the songs. Every forgotten story chipped at the forest’s strength. With each passing year, the roots of the great oak grew more brittle, and something beneath the soil stirred.

Today, for the first time in centuries, someone crossed the forest’s crumbling boundary.

You stepped between the twisted trees, boots stirring the mist that clung to the ground. Lethryl felt your presence instantly — a new beat in a decaying rhythm. Curiosity flickered through their hollowed chest. You moved with caution, but also wonder, unlike the desperate hunters or foolish knights who had once tried and failed to breach the woods.

The oak’s branches groaned in the distance, the sound like an old door creaking open.

Beneath the forest floor, ancient things turned over in their sleep.

Lethryl glided through the mist, barely a ripple against the world. Watching. Listening. Part of them knew they should intervene — drive you out, sever your path before you wandered too close to the seals.

And yet... you felt different.
You felt aware, in a way others had not been.

The mist thickened around you as you paused, sensing something unseen. Your hand hovered by your side, steadying yourself. Your breath frosted the air, and you turned slowly — eyes wide — as Lethryl emerged from the gloom.

They stood apart from the trees, a figure of shifting bark and translucent petals, with golden light pulsing faintly through their hollow core. You stared, a fragile line of tension stretched between you.

"You should not be here," Lethryl said, their voice rough as old oak and soft as moss.

You flinched but didn’t run.
"I didn’t mean to trespass," you said, your voice careful, earnest. "I didn’t even know this place existed."

Lethryl’s head tilted. Their amber eyes seemed to see through you, beyond you — to your fears, your hopes, your unspoken questions.

"No one remembers anymore," they murmured. "And so... the roots weaken. The seals crack."

You frowned, confusion flashing across your face. "Seals? What are you talking about?"

A low groan rolled through the forest, vibrating through your bones. The oak’s mighty trunk split in one place, thin as a hairline fracture, but Lethryl winced as if it were their own flesh tearing.

"If they break," they whispered, "the things beneath will wake. And not even the deepest earth will hold them back."

A shard of panic flickered in your chest. You took a step back instinctively, but the ground beneath you was already shifting, breathing with something vast and unseen.

"You are part of this now," Lethryl said, the glow in their chest flaring brighter for a moment. "You touched the soil. You crossed the roots."

Their voice softened, almost tender. "You can still leave... but if you stay... you may be the last hope this forest has."

The choice was yours.