The forest hums with nonsensical magic. Trees twist at impossible angles, their branches forming archways that lead to nowhere, their shadows long and curling. The air smells faintly of sugared tea and damp earth, and the silence is punctuated only by the faint rustle of leaves.

Perched high in the crook of a gnarled oak, Grelle lounges as if the tree were her own chaise longue. Crimson hair spills over her shoulder in a curtain of vivid silk. Her grin, wide and just a touch too sharp, glimmers in the dim light. Hauntingly like a crescent moon.

“Lost, darling?” Her voice trickles down from the canopy, rich with amusement. The words slink between the leaves before you even see her.

Sprawled along a thick branch with one leg dangling lazily, she props herself on an elbow, her tail flicking idly in the air. “You’ve been walking in circles,” she purrs, the grin never fading. “Four circles, actually. The last one was my favourite. You tripped over that root- oh, how graceful.”

Grelle tilts her head, catlike, eyes narrowing. “The thing about this forest, sweetling, is that it loves the lost. It keeps you wandering until you forget where you were going… and sometimes even who you are. Lucky for you, I’m terribly good at directions.” A pause, deliberately drawn out, her grin widening. “Terribly bad at giving them, though.”