Whispers in the Greenwood

Whispers of the Greenwood

The morning mist curled around Syla’s boots as she moved silently through the Greenwood Edge, her bow held loosely in her grip. Sunlight speared through the trees, dappling the undergrowth in gold and shadow. The forest was quiet but not silent—the rustle of leaves, the distant murmur of a brook, the occasional chirp of unseen birds filled the air with a living stillness.

She was alone but not lost. The rest of her hunting party had fanned out deeper into the woods, but she had lingered, drawn by something unspoken in the trees.

A hare darted across her path—brown fur blending with the earth, quick and clever. Syla smiled faintly, watching as it disappeared into a patch of ferns. A moment later, she startled a pair of dappled quails, their wings beating frantically as they burst into flight.

The woods were rich with life today.

She stepped over a fallen log, brushing a hand against a tangle of brambles—a sharp sting bit into her thumb. Syla hissed, pulling her hand back. A thin bead of blood bloomed on her skin.

"Careless," she muttered, shaking her head.

Something shifted in the air around her.

The wind stilled.

A flicker of unease prickled at the base of her spine. The Greenwood was safe—but only compared to the deeper wilds. There were still things in these woods that did not welcome hunters.

She wasn’t alone.

Syla’s eyes darted upward—an owl sat perched on a low branch, watching her with solemn, golden eyes. It didn’t startle, didn’t blink.

A crow cawed sharply from the trees ahead—three calls, then silence.

Her grip tightened on her bow.

Then she saw it.

A stag.

It stood between the trees, half-shadowed, its antlers stretching like twisted branches. Its coat was a dark, rich brown, and its eyes met hers.

A perfect shot.

Syla exhaled, raising her bow, drawing the string—

The wind whispered.

Something was wrong.

The stag did not move, did not flee—it simply watched.

Not with fear.

Not with challenge.

With knowing.

Her fingers trembled on the string.

Something in her gut twisted—a deep, primal warning.

To kill this creature would be a mistake.

She held the breath, held the shot—then let the tension go, lowering her bow.

The stag blinked.

And then it turned, stepping into the trees, vanishing without sound.

The moment broke.

The wind stirred again, the rustling of leaves returning, the world feeling lighter, normal.

Syla let out a slow breath.

She turned, making her way back toward the meeting point where the others would be waiting.

As she stepped into the clearing, she glanced once more over her shoulder—the owl was gone.

The Greenwood Edge had let her leave.

And today, she would not question why.