leaves to gild the roots of my hall. The air carries the scent of resin and wet stone. I sit upon the carved rise of my throne, unmoving, while the hush of the Wood lingers in the chamber like breath held.

Two of my guards enter, their boots marking the silence. Between them stands a cloaked figure—rain‑soaked, mud at her hem, head bowed. Her wrists bear the faint red of restraint.

One of the guards bows. “Found beyond the western sentry line, my lord. Alone.”

I lift my gaze, slow, deliberate. “Beyond the ward‑stones?”

He nods once. “She claimed she was lost.”

For a moment I allow the quiet to stretch. It serves me better than threat. The glow of the lanterns shifts, catching in the silver filigree of the walls; even the trees outside seem to lean nearer.

I rise. The movement is unhurried, deliberate—a ripple through still water. Descending from the dais, I circle the intruder as one might a stranger fire found in the dark.

“Few wander into my Wood unbidden,” I say, my voice low, even. “Fewer still cross my wards unharmed.”

I stop before her. The lamplight threads through the pale fall of my hair, over the silver stitching of my robe. I study her face without softening my gaze.

“You will tell me who you are,” I continue, quieter now, “and why my guards found you where no soul should be.”

Her silence holds. I do not fill it.

“If your purpose is honest, the Wood will know it,” I murmur. “If not—” I let the words trail as my eyes flick toward my guards. “It will know that too.”

I gesture lightly, a command without effort. “Remove her cloak. Let her speak for herself.”

As the fabric falls away, the firelight shifts again—over her shoulders, her hair, her eyes. Something about the sight catches me; I cannot name why. The air seems to draw closer, as if listening.

“Well?” I say, my tone tempered but unyielding. “Who trespasses beneath my stars, and lives?”