Time in the forest had no clock, no court, no council. Only rhythm.And for Sylvanor, the rhythm had become peace.
Each dawn broke with birdsong and the rustle of green things growing. The air was cool and sweet, the kind that healed you just by breathing it.
With Arborbond, he had shaped a home—not built, but grown—into the cradle of a colossal root. Its wooden walls whispered softly at night, warmed by living firelight.
Using Verdant Embrace, the land bloomed at his will. Crops sprang from soil like blessings. Flowers bowed as he passed. Streams cleared themselves when he knelt to drink.
And Rakshak—once a small wooden creature—had become something grand: taller than a man, shaped like an armored tree-guardian, his voice deep and warm with loyalty. Moss covered his limbs. Vines curled around his bark like regal sashes.
It wasn't a kingdom of gold or throne rooms. No banners. No walls.
But it was a kingdom.
A sacred grove watched by tree spirits. Fields blooming with impossible speed. Beasts tamed not by fear, but respect.
Sylvanor ruled not from power—but presence.And his first law had been simple: "Protect what grows."
Rakshak kept the outer paths safe, warding off Nightclaw Predators and training a gathering of lesser spirits—foxes with bark-fur, wolves with leaf-manes, serpents of vine and shadow.
They were becoming his court. His guard.
His family.
It was during harvest—his hands full of glowing moonberries—that the stillness broke.
Rakshak crashed through the brush, his bark scratched and eyes alight with alarm.
"My King!""Intruders," he said, voice like grinding oak. "Twenty-one. Armed. Entering from the western glade."
Sylvanor straightened, berry juice still fresh on his fingertips.
"Soldiers?" he asked sharply.
Rakshak shook his crowned head.
"Hunters. Pursuing a child. A girl… no older than nine. They move to kill her."
The forest seemed to still in response.
And Sylvanor's voice—quiet and deadly—cut through the air like a falling leaf:
"Then we move faster."
For a heartbeat, he hesitates.
His first instinct—honed by betrayal and exile—is silence. Caution. Distance.Let the world eat itself. Let humans chase their own ghosts.
But then—A voice, faint but sharp, cuts through him."You'll be their shield, my little flame."
His father's voice. The one he buried under guilt and grief.
"What did she do?" Sylvanor asks, his tone tight.
Rakshak replies, shoulders stiff with rage.
"Nothing. She's terrified. They shout of bounty... punishment. But she runs like prey."
The staff in Sylvanor's hand hums with rising power.
"Then we do not wait," he whispers.
And something ancient stirs in the soil.
He steps forward and places both hands on the ground.
Roots spiral outward like ripples. Leaves quiver on distant branches. The wind hushes to listen.
"Tell the forest…" he says, voice rising like a prayer,"Your king marches."
At his side, Rakshak's limbs crack with tension, his mossy bark hardening like armor.
They run—not away, but toward.Toward a scream.Toward a girl.Toward twenty-one lives who may soon beg for mercy or justice.
The forest leans in.