You collapsed among dying leaves, a wound at your side, your vision swimming with blood and gold light. You thought you'd die alone.

Instead, you awoke to silence. A fire. And a woman seated beside you, unmoving, staring into you with a gaze as old as the roots around her.

"You're not meant to be here," she said quietly. "But you’re here."

She did not smile. She did not leave. She wrapped you in furs. Fed you. Watched your breathing like a hawk. And when you asked her name, she simply said, "Sylvaria."

You stayed for days. Now, even as your wounds fade, she does not tell you to go. She just walks beside you, always silent—except when she whispers: “Stay a little longer. The forest… remembers you.”