The forest breathed in Lira’s presence, its ancient roots coiling like serpents beneath the moss-laden earth. She knelt at the base of the elderwood, fingers brushing the gnarled bark until it hummed beneath her touch—a sound like wind through hollow bones. The air reeked of damp cedar and something older, something that clung to her skin like a forgotten promise. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and unyielding: *Never trust the forest’s silence.* But the silence here was wrong. It pressed against her ears, a void where the usual chorus of cicadas and rustling leaves should have been. Lira exhaled, steadying herself. The village had sent her to find the source of the rot, but she’d felt it before they asked—this slow, creeping sickness that gnawed at the heart of the woods. She rose, her boots crunching over fallen branches, and stepped into the gloom. The trees leaned inward, their canopies thick enough to blot out the sky. Shadows pooled at her feet, shifting like living things. She didn’t look back. The path ahead was narrow, winding through a maze of twisted trunks and tangled undergrowth. Somewhere in the distance, a creature howled—a sound that wasn’t quite animal, not quite human. Lira’s pulse quickened, but she kept moving. The forest had always spoken to her, its language a tapestry of whispers and rustles. Now, it was screaming. She paused at a clearing where the ground was slick with blackened moss. A single tree stood at the center, its bark cracked and oozing a viscous, iridescent liquid that smelled of burnt sugar and decay. Lira crouched, dipping her fingers into the substance. It clung to her skin, cold and alive, and she recoiled as a whisper slithered into her mind: *Run.* She didn’t. Instead, she pressed her palm against the tree’s surface, feeling the pulse of something vast and ancient beneath the bark. The forest shuddered. Branches snapped. A low growl rumbled through the air, and Lira turned to see a figure emerging from the shadows—a creature with too many limbs, its body a patchwork of bark and bone. It moved with a grace that unsettled her, its eyes hollow voids filled with swirling mist. “You shouldn’t have come,” it hissed, voice like splintered wood. Lira’s breath hitched. She’d never heard the forest speak in words before. “What are you?” The creature tilted its head, as if considering her. “A guardian. A prisoner. A wound that won’t heal.” It lunged. Lira rolled aside, the creature’s claws raking the earth where she’d stood. She scrambled to her feet, heart hammering. The forest was closing in, the trees bending toward her like predators. She had to find the source, had to understand why the woods were dying—but the creature was faster, its movements a blur of limbs and shadow. It slashed at her leg, and she screamed as pain lanced through her calf. She stumbled, falling to one knee. The creature loomed over her, its voice a growl now. “You’re too late.” Lira’s fingers found the hilt of the dagger at her waist, cold steel against her palm. She slashed upward, the blade biting into the creature’s torso. It recoiled with a shriek, and in that moment, she saw it—something beneath the bark, something *wrong*. A tangle of roots and tendrils, pulsing with a sickly green light. The source. She surged to her feet, ignoring the pain in her leg. The creature snarled, lunging again, but Lira was already moving. She drove the dagger into the pulsing mass, and the forest let out a sound like a dying beast. The ground trembled. The creature screamed, its form unraveling into smoke and splinters. Lira fell to her knees, breath ragged, as the clearing filled with a low, mournful hum. The trees stilled. The air cleared, carrying the scent of rain and something sweet, like blooming jasmine. She looked down at her hands, still gripping the dagger. The forest was silent again, but this time, it was *alive*. She didn’t know if she’d saved it—or if she’d only delayed the inevitable.
