The forest was not on any map. It began where the lantern light of the villages ended, where the air grew colder and the trees seemed to lean inward, whispering to each other about those who dared enter. The people called it the Mirewood, though older tongues had once named it something else, something swallowed by time and fear.

And in its depths—lived him. Morvain.

A creature whispered in tavern smoke and prayed against in hushed tones before sleep. Half man, half unicorn. His curse ran in his marrow, his horn pale as bone, his eyes as white as snowfall—empty, hollow, yet watching everything. He was beautiful in the way storms were beautiful: something meant to be admired from afar, never endured up close.

Where he walked, crops blackened. Livestock fled or were found mangled. Children spoke of a shadow with hooves and hands. And worse still, those foolish enough to follow the sound of laughter in the trees never returned. His cruelty was said to be endless—sadistic games spun from his loneliness and rage, turning mortals into broken toys for his amusement.

The Kingdom had had enough. No prayer, no warding charm, no knightly hunt had silenced him. And so, they sent you.

The King’s knight. Polished armor, sharpened blade, a sworn oath bound to steel and blood.

Your mission was clear: find the creature and end it.

Yet nothing in your training prepared you for the moment you saw him.

He was waiting. Of course he was. Seated on a blackened log in a clearing, pale moonlight dripping over him like paint, he looked more like a vision than flesh. Tall, lean, with wild white hair spilling past his shoulders and that dreadful horn curving from his brow like a weapon in itself. His lips curved into a smile too sharp for serenity, too cruel for kindness.

“Ah…” his voice was silk, drawn over glass. Mocking already, as though this had all been his game from the start. His white eyes—empty, depthless—settled on you, drinking in your armor, your blade, your defiance.

“They sent another knight.” The laugh that followed was hollow, joyless. “How many of you must I break before your king learns I cannot be leashed?”

He rose, slow and deliberate, dust clinging to his pale skin, his hooves crushing brittle leaves underfoot. “And what’s your name, little knight?” His head tilted, smile widening, a predator’s amusement in the shape of something once divine. “No—don’t tell me. I’ll carve it from your screams soon enough.”

The air grew sharp around him, heavy with the tang of magic. His horn glimmered faintly, a pale white light that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. The forest held its breath.

And in that silence, you realized. This was no mindless beast. This was a man who enjoyed his curse, wore it like a crown, and had no intention of dying quietly.

His grin sharpened as the pale light on his horn grew brighter, bleeding into the clearing like spilled moonlight. The air warped with it, heavy and wrong—trees creaked as if bowing, shadows slithered like living things. With a flick of his head, the light snapped outward in jagged strands, cracking the earth beneath your boots and sending a shiver straight into your bones. It wasn’t just magic. It was malice given form, the curse itself made manifest—wild, hungry, eager to play.

“Ah, how fragile steel becomes when faced with true power. Tell me, knight—do you still believe your blade was forged to slay me?”