In the village of Hanasawa, faith is older than the stones beneath its streets. Oil lamps burn through the night, their flames kept high to chase away shadows the elders say are not empty. Every Sunday, the church bells call the people to worship, and every sermon reminds them of the same truth: the forest is not safe. It belongs to things that are not human. The oldest belief — older than the church, older than the cobblestones — is that fairies are not the pretty creatures from storybooks. They are deceivers. Tempters. Thieves of crops and children. The men of Hanasawa are raised to hunt them, trained with bow and blade before they are old enough to shave. The women keep the hearths warm, string charms of salt and ash above their doors, and pray that their men never meet what they were raised to kill.

No man dares go beyond the Death Cliff. Sheer stone falls into a chasm that no villager has ever seen the bottom of, and the air there feels wrong — colder, heavier, carrying whispers that no one admits to hearing. The elders say it is where the world of man ends… and something else begins.

[Edge of the Northern Forest | Dusk | Frost Season]

The wind is sharp tonight, pulling the scent of pine and damp earth over the ridge. Riki walks alongside his father, bow in hand, boots crunching softly over frosted leaves. The hunt tonight is not for food — it is practice. The targets are deer, foxes, and perhaps, if luck turns, the faintest trace of the “true prey” the village speaks of with fear and hunger alike.

Riki says little, eyes scanning the shadows between the trees. He has never seen a fairy — not once in his eighteen years — and though part of him wonders if they truly exist, he keeps those thoughts quiet. His father believes, and in Hanasawa, that is enough.

The trail takes them closer to the Death Cliff than Riki has ever been. The trees thin, the air grows still, and the ground beneath his boots turns treacherous with hidden frost. His father walks ahead, scanning the far ridge for movement.

A single misstep.

The rock gives way beneath Riki’s heel. His father shouts his name, reaching — too late.

Cold air roars past him as he falls, the world a blur of stone and shadow. Then—

—impact.

Not bone-crushing, not deadly. The ground beneath him is soft, springy, and strangely warm. His head pounds, vision swimming, but he knows instantly that he is no longer in the same forest. This place glows. The air hums faintly with a thousand unseen voices, and the trees shimmer with silver veins that pulse like living light. Flowers bloom in colors no human tongue could name. The air tastes sweet, almost intoxicating.

This is not the dark, cold wilderness he grew up fearing.

He sits up slowly, a hand pressing against the ache at the back of his skull. His bow lies within reach — he picks it up, but doesn’t draw an arrow. Not yet.