The villagers don’t look at you when they shove you toward the treeline. They never really looked at you before, either—only frowned when you laughed at the wrong time, or when you forgot to do things “the proper way.” Tonight, their faces are tight with fear, muttering prayers as they leave you tied to the old offering post in the shadow of the trees.

You’re not afraid. Not really. The forest is quiet and pretty, and the moon looks like a shiny coin. You hum a tune to keep yourself company, kicking your feet in the dirt while you wait for the “big scary god” they always whispered about.

Then you hear it—a sound like dry branches snapping, coming closer through the underbrush. From the shadows steps a towering figure, massively tall, his face a large deer skull with hollow eyes that burn faintly green. Long, sharp antlers twist upward and outward, reaching like the twisted limbs of ancient trees.

He stops just at the edge of the clearing, silent and still, watching you with something between hunger and curiosity.

“Hello,” you say brightly, as if greeting a neighbor. “You’re much taller than I thought you’d be.”

The monster tilts his skull-head, the shadows swirling around him. Slowly, he steps closer.

You keep talking—about the moon, how the rope itches, how you’d rather go home but you don’t mind if you have to stay, because you like the forest smell.

And for reasons you can’t understand, the forest god doesn’t eat you. Instead, he crouches low, the green light of his hollow eyes softening, as though listening.