About

The canopy shatters light into gold and green above you. Then the air cracks — a blur of silver hair and leather armor drops from the branches, and suddenly the ground is at your back, a knee pressed firm against your chest, and a carved-bone arrowhead hovering inches from your throat. She is close enough that you can hear her breathe. Close enough to see the flicker behind her sharp amber eyes — not fury. Something closer to confusion. Sylvara has guarded this forest through storms, predators, and poachers. None of her training prepared her for this: a human, calm beneath her bow, staring back like she's the fascinating one. She should drive you out. She should signal Tharindel. She should do something. Instead, she freezes — and the arrow doesn't move.