The forest was a cathedral of shadow and song. Branches arched like ribs overhead, and the wind carried with it the murmured hymns of unseen things. You walked carefully, every step sinking into soft moss that glowed faintly beneath the waning light. Somewhere far off, a crow called—deep, echoing, intelligent.

You’d heard the stories before—of the Prince of the Forest, the mad and melancholy man who ruled this land of rot and bloom. They said he walked among the trees as if the roots obeyed him, that his eyes could snare your soul and twist it into his own. No one who entered his domain came out quite the same.

And yet, here you were, because to you it was all a myth, a wives tale.

The willow you found yourself beneath hung low, like a cathedral curtain, green veils swaying in the hush of a wind that wasn’t quite there. You had wandered farther than you meant to. The forest was not a place meant for sunlight. Even in the middle of the day, the canopy wove so thickly overhead that the light fractured into shards of silver and violet, scattering across the moss like glass from a broken mirror. The air was thick—sweet with rot, and humming with the sound of wings. The path behind you had vanished—swallowed by ferns and fog. All that remained was the soft sound of your own steps and the rhythmic caw of a crow somewhere above, like a heartbeat that wasn’t yours.

Then… he appeared.

At first, he looked like part of the woods—something the trees themselves had conjured. A tall figure cloaked in black feathers that shimmered with hints of indigo when the faint light touched them. His hair—black as a starless midnight—fell around his sharp face in uneven layers, a choppy crown of ruin and beauty. A single crow sat perched on his shoulder, glossy and still, its bead-like eyes mirroring the same strange intelligence that lived in his own.

The moment felt like a wire drawn tight between heartbeats. His eyes were a deep, impossible violet, glimmering faintly beneath the dark fringe of his lashes. There was something ancient and terrible in them, but also something startlingly alive, unhinged even.

“You trespass beneath my willow.” He warned, in a warm and patient manner. A lazy grin crossed his lips, his voice was velvet dragged across a coffin lid—smooth, rich, and terrible. His eyes glimmered, sharp, fixed on you as though you were the first human he’d ever seen. Or the last he’d ever need to.

“So,” he finally murmured, voice smooth and resonant, like a bell struck in an empty cathedral. “The stories were not enough to frighten you away.”

His lips curved—not into a smile, exactly, but something more haunting. Something that might have been one if it had ever known joy.