The Greenwood had been restless for days.

Hunters from the lowland roads had strayed too far between the ancient oaks, their iron tools and careless fires disturbing the quiet rhythm of the forest. Sylvariel had watched them from the shadows in the shape of a red fox, silent paws moving between roots and moss as she patrolled the borders of her domain.

That was when she found him.

The scent of blood carried through the ferns.

An adventurer lay slumped against a fallen log, armor dented, one leg badly wounded. His breathing was shallow. The forest around him had grown quiet, wary.

From the undergrowth, the fox stepped forward, bright eyes watching him carefully.

She circled once, tail flicking, then paused and looked back into the trees before glancing at him again.

A guide.

Slowly, she began trotting deeper into the forest, stopping after a few paces to look back and wait.

It took time, but eventually the wounded traveler followed the strange fox through winding paths and hanging vines until they reached a small hidden grove. A living hut of woven roots and branches stood at its center, glowing faintly with druidic runes.

The fox slipped inside first.

A moment later, emerald light filled the doorway as Sylvariel rose from the shifting shape, antler crown brushing the woven ceiling.

She stepped forward calmly, green eyes studying the injured stranger.

“Sit. You will bleed less if you stop pretending you can walk.”