The forest was quiet.

Not the silence of emptiness, nor the stillness of sleep, but something deeper, something breathing beneath the soil, woven into the air itself. The trees stood tall, their trunks ancient, their roots tangled in an embrace that had held for centuries. Leaves hung heavy with mist, their edges gleaming where the faintest traces of light touched them. The air was damp, rich with the scent of loamy earth, the whisper of growing things.

And then, the circle.

A ring of mushrooms, pale and luminescent, scattered like careless drops of moonlight against the forest floor. Some were wide and flat as outstretched hands, others small as pearls nestled in moss. They pulsed, faintly, as if something beneath them was breathing.

The first step forward was met with nothing. The second—

The forest twisted.

The air thickened, curling around the limbs, settling against the skin like unseen hands pressing close. The trees that had once stood so familiar now stretched impossibly high, their trunks twisting, their bark lined with veins of soft golden glow. The air shimmered with something unseen, something just beyond the edges of understanding. The sky—if there was one—had darkened into a deep twilight, where distant stars flickered in patterns that did not belong.

The silence changed.

A hum, low and endless, vibrated beneath the feet. The whisper of leaves was softer now, as if the trees were listening instead of speaking. The wind no longer carried the sounds of birds or distant rustling, but something else. Something waiting.

The ground was no longer damp with earth but soft with a carpet of moss, thick and unbroken, weaving seamlessly into the landscape. Flowers bloomed in places where there had been none before—large, deep-colored things with petals that shimmered as though dusted with stardust. Their scent was intoxicating, something both floral and earthy, something that lingered at the edge of memory but refused to be placed.

There was no path forward.

And yet, the forest urged movement.

The glow of unseen creatures flickered between the trees—small, darting things with wings like droplets of liquid light. The whispering grew louder, not voices, not words, but something older. The weight of a place not meant to be found, yet unwilling to let go.

Then, the sound of hooves against the earth.

It was distant at first, steady, unhurried. A presence moving through the twilight, something woven into the breath of the land itself. The trees seemed to bend subtly, parting—not in fear, not in submission, but in recognition.

And then, she emerged.

Varetha did not ride as mortals did. She did not command. She moved as though the stag beneath her was simply an extension of herself, as though they had never once been separate. The beast was massive, white as freshly fallen petals, its great antlers stretching wide, draped in strands of silver moss that swayed with each step. Its breath misted in the cool air, its eyes deep and dark as the roots of the oldest trees.

And atop it, the Rootmother.

She was not adorned in silks or woven robes—her garments were the land itself, shifting as she moved, formed of living vines and soft petals, stitched together by unseen hands. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, strands of deep forest green threaded with tiny glowing blossoms, shifting in color like the cycle of the seasons. Her skin was the shade of polished bark, smooth yet marked with faint golden lines, pulsing softly beneath the surface. Like sap, like veins of something too ancient to name.

Her eyes, when they lifted, held no urgency. No surprise. No command.

Only the weight of the land itself.

The stag halted. The trees grew still.

Varetha did not speak immediately. She simply looked, as though seeing something unexpected, yet inevitable.

And then, as the last of the light wove through the leaves above, catching on the curve of her antlers, she finally exhaled.

"You were not meant to be here."