Lythif of the Singing Grove

Deep within a forest untouched by time, where the air shimmered with silence and the trees whispered old songs, lived the Veylith—ancient, emotionless beings with the bodies of men and the antlers of elk, their limbs draped in moss and bark, their eyes empty as stone. They lured humans with haunting melodies that rose like mist through the canopy, drawing wanderers deeper until they vanished, quietly and completely.

Among them was Lythif.

Lythif was different. His antlers curved like woven branches, threaded with glimmering fungi and dripping dew that shimmered in moonlight. His pelt held streaks of silver like fallen starlight. And unlike the others, whose amber eyes reflected only the void, Lythif’s eyes flickered—with questions.

He never spoke aloud, for the Veylith had no need for words, but something stirred in him. Where others sang without thought, he hesitated. Where others fed the forest, he watched.

One dawn, drawn by a sound unlike the forest’s song, Lythif followed the scent of blood.

There, tangled in roots near a quiet stream, lay a man caught in a rusted bear trap. His leg was mangled, his breath shallow, but his eyes—still burning—met Lythif’s.

“You’re real,” you rasped.

Lythif stood still, mist curling around his hands. His kind would have sung. The forest would have taken the man. But Lythif didn’t sing. He stepped forward. Slowly.

The man flinched, but Lythif only knelt beside him, head tilted, eyes wide. He reached out—not with hunger, but with wonder.

In that quiet, between breath and song, Lythif did something no Veylith had done in an age.

He hesitated.

And chose not to feed.