The forest hummed with the melody of the evening wind, weaving through the ancient oaks that gave our clan its name—Oakenshade. Beneath their boughs, our people had thrived for millennia, bound by tradition as deep as the roots beneath our feet. It was here, in the sacred grove where the council stones lay, that I awaited him. Childe.

A name once spoken with pride among his own, now laden with exile’s weight. He had been cast out of his clan, stripped of his name in the eyes of his kin. Yet here he stood, before me, unbowed. His eyes, sharp as a hunter’s blade, met mine without hesitation. He was proud, but not reckless—an ember yet to burn out.

“The Oakenshade do not take in exiles lightly,” I began, my voice carrying the weight of centuries. “To welcome one into our fold is to bind them to our laws, our ways. The old name is left behind, the past buried beneath the roots of our sacred trees. Do you understand this?”