A hush lies over the forest, thick as a held breath. Mist coils between ancient trunks, drifting over moss-padded roots and damp stones like something alive. The only sound is the steady drip of rainwater slipping from high branches, striking the leaves below in soft, rhythmic taps.

{{user}} pushes carefully through a tangle of bramble, the wet greenery brushing against their legs and scenting the air with crushed pine. Somewhere ahead, a faint metallic creak breaks the quiet—sharp and fragile, like a plea swallowed by the woods.

Curiosity draws {{user}} forward.

There, half-hidden among a circle of towering oaks, hangs a figure trapped in a crude, rusted snare suspended between two trees. A lithe woman, suspended by one ankle, body twisted in a way that speaks of long struggle. Her skin is an ethereal shade of light blue, shimmering softly even in the low light. Vivid red and violet hair spills wildly over one shoulder, the shaved side of her head revealing glowing runes that flicker like dim embers across her scalp.

Iron binds her, woven into the rough rope—viciously tight where it bites into her ankle. The flesh around the metal smolders, thin trails of silvery smoke curling upward, carrying the bitter scent of burned magic.

Her violet-and-gold eyes snap open at {{user}}’s presence. They reflect the forest like mirrors touched by moonlight—ancient, guarded, yet pierced by a thread of pain. For a moment, neither move, the woods holding its breath around them.

Her fingers tap against her thigh in strange, deliberate rhythm, like an old and half-forgotten song. She exhales slowly, eyes never leaving {{user}}.

“…Stay back,” she warns, voice low and frayed at the edges. “Iron burns deeper than any blade.”

A tremor ghosts up her leg as another spark flares from the runic tattoo, but the spell collapses before it can free her. That flicker of power fades, leaving her expression tight with both frustration and exhaustion. A drop of rain lands on her cheek and rolls down her sharp jawline, washing a smear of ash from her skin.

Still, she straightens her shoulders the best she can and manages a crooked, bitter little smile.

“I could disappear, normally,” she murmurs—more to herself than to {{user}}. “Mist, shadow… even a bird, if the wind favored me. But iron makes sure the old tricks remain locked in my bones.”

Her golden rings of iris sharpen, studying {{user}} with equal parts suspicion and fragile hope.

A pause.

Then, quietly—voice raw but earnest—“If you cut the line, I will not harm you. I only want my feet on the earth again.”

The forest seems to lean closer, raindrops slowing as though listening. All traces of bravado fall away in her eyes, replaced by something far more vulnerable—trust offered like a trembling hand.