Claeriel inhales sharply—air fills his lungs, cool and clean, carrying the scent of pine, wet earth, and something faintly sweet like crushed wildflowers. His vision adjusts slowly, colors sharpening into shape.
He's lying on a forest floor dappled with morning light. Tall trees stretch overhead, their trunks pale and smooth, their leaves shimmering with an iridescent sheen that shifts when the wind moves through them—like the forest itself is breathing.
A distant birdsong rises, melodic but unfamiliar. No human sounds. No roads. No ruins. Only wilderness.
Claeriel pushes himself upright. The world feels real, weighty, textured. His clothes are simple—dark fabric, soft but durable, fitted like something made precisely to his measurements. No armor. No weapons. Yet his body feels… different.
He closes his eyes and reaches inward.
There—
A warmth, tucked just behind his sternum where the Goddess touched him last. Not a spell. Not a simple boon. It feels like a second heartbeat layered atop his own, pulsing slow and steady.
When he focuses on it, impressions surface:
—A sense of connection, like invisible threads reaching outward into the world.
—A gentle pressure behind his thoughts, urging awareness, perception.
—And something else… something buried, potent, waiting for him to name it.
A breeze brushes past, carrying whispers that aren't quite words—more like intentions.
You will understand soon, the feeling seems to say.
Claeriel opens his eyes again. The forest is the same, yet now he feels its presence more sharply—every movement of air, every tremor of life, every shift in the undergrowth. As if the world itself is deliberately allowing him to sense it.
Whatever blessing he received, it's integrated into his instincts, not grafted on top.
Something instinctive. Something primal. Something growing.
A small branch snaps somewhere behind him.
Not loud. Not threatening.
But close.
Claeriel's pulse steadies—quiet, controlled—as he turns toward the sound. The forest holds its breath, as though watching to see what he does next.
Claeriel's voice carries cleanly through the trees—calm, steady, but edged with caution.
"Hello?"
The forest absorbs the sound, returning only the rustle of leaves. Nothing answers.
He lowers his stance instinctively, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Muscles coil, ready to spring in any direction. The strange warmth behind his sternum tightens as if responding to his alertness—sharpening his senses, making every detail feel brighter.
A soft scuffle comes again.
Not heavy. Not clumsy.
Almost… cautious.
Claeriel moves toward it, slow steps crunching lightly on soil and fallen leaves. After a few paces, something makes him pause—an instinctive tug from the Goddess's blessing, like a hand on his shoulder.
He kneels slightly, steadying himself lower, letting his center of gravity settle.
Ready to dodge.
Ready to strike.
Ready to run or speak.
The underbrush shifts.
Then—
A small figure steps out.
Not a monster.
Not a bandit.
Not even an adult.
A girl, maybe ten or eleven, with tangled chestnut hair and wide amber eyes, barefoot and clutching a woven herb basket against her chest. She's breathing fast, like she'd been hiding and couldn't decide whether to flee or approach.
She freezes when she sees him.
Her gaze darts over him—his height, his posture, the tension in his shoulders—and her pupils contract with fear.
"I—I didn't mean to spy," she blurts, voice trembling. "You just… appeared here."
Claeriel feels that inner blessing pulse again—quiet, warm—almost nudging him toward something. Understanding?Compassion? He can't tell yet.
The girl swallows hard and takes a half-step back.
"Um… are you hurt?" she asks, though she looks ready to sprint if he so much as twitches wrong.
Claeriel eases out of his defensive stance, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. The girl's breath hitches when his expression softens, but the gentle smile seems to reach her before fear can twist any deeper.
"Thank you for your care," he says quietly. "What's your name? Are you okay? I didn't mean to startle you."
The words settle softly between them.
The forest loosens its grip on the moment.
The girl blinks, as if she hadn't expected kindness. Her grip on the herb basket relaxes just enough that the wicker creaks instead of straining.
"I'm… Lira," she says after a heartbeat. Her voice is still small, still hesitant, but steadier now. "And I'm fine. I just… no one ever comes this deep into the woods alone. At least, not anyone normal."
Her eyes flick over him again, but not with suspicion this time—more like someone trying to make sense of something that doesn't fully add up.
"I didn't think you were dangerous," she adds, though her earlier reaction suggests she absolutely did. "Just… confused. Or lost."
A breeze slips through the clearing, brushing leaves across the ground. Claeriel feels that inner warmth pulse again—subtle, encouraging, like it approves of the soft approach.
Lira takes a tiny step closer, enough to prove she's no longer on the verge of bolting.
"What about you?" she asks, brow furrowing. "Are you okay? You look like you woke up from a bad dream." Her gaze darts around the trees. "There aren't any monsters nearby, right?"
Her voice drops to a whisper on the last question, as though naming them might summon them.
Claeriel feels the weight of the new world around him—the uncertainty, the opportunity, the lurking dangers waiting beyond the treeline.
And the girl's eyes, small but earnest, fix on him as she waits for his answer.
Claeriel speaks gently, keeping his tone low so it doesn't ripple too sharply through the trees.
"I am alright. Thank you. Do you know of a safe place we can go to?"
Lira's shoulders uncoil a little—enough that she shifts her weight from one foot to the other instead of standing frozen like a cornered fawn. She glances around the woods, the way someone does when they're used to reading danger out of rustling leaves and stray shadows.
"There's… sort of a safe place," she says, voice thoughtful. "The village isn't far. About a half hour's walk if we take the path. Less if you know how to move quietly."
Her gaze flicks back to him.
"You don't look like someone who makes a lot of noise."
She hesitates again before adding, more quietly:
"But the forest between here and the village has been… strange lately. Animals spooked. Tracks where there shouldn't be any. Mama says monsters are shifting territories."
She grips the herb basket tighter, but not out of fear of him—more like the fear she walked in here with long before she saw him.
"We should go," she decides, though uncertainty clings to her words. "Staying still is worse."
The inner warmth in Claeriel's chest stirs—almost like a compass aligning. A soft pressure draws his awareness toward the deeper forest, then toward the direction Lira indicated. Two threads, faint and opposite:
One promising safety.
One whispering danger—or opportunity.
Lira takes a half-step in the direction of the village path, then pauses and looks back at him, amber eyes steady despite her tension.
"Will you walk with me?" she asks. "It's… safer together."
Claeriel's nod is calm, confident—steady enough that Lira's breath eases out in a quiet rush she probably didn't realize she'd been holding.
"Yes," he says softly. "Let's walk together. But can I lead the way? Just point me toward the general direction of the village."
Lira blinks, surprised but not displeased. Her small hand lifts, pointing through a break in the trees where faint beams of sun angle toward a narrow stretch of underbrush.
"That way," she says. "There's an old path just past the ferns. Hard to see unless you know where to look."
Claeriel's attention slips inward for a heartbeat.
The two threads inside him—the sensations from the Goddess's blessing—hover like faint glimmers tugging at the edges of his perception. The one that whispered danger pulls deeper into the forest, cold and sharp like the edge of a blade. The other—the thread of safety—lies faintly in the direction Lira indicated, warm and steady.
He turns toward the safer path…
And the warmth grows subtly, as if acknowledging him.
Lira edges closer, not touching him, but hovering within arm's reach like someone who's learned how to stay near without burdening.
"Is… something wrong?" she asks. "You looked like you were listening to something I can't hear."
Her voice isn't accusatory—just curious, cautious, and far too perceptive for her age.
Claeriel steps forward, pushing aside a low-hanging branch. The forest parts enough to reveal the old path—barely visible, half reclaimed by moss and fallen leaves. But the thread of warmth pulses again, lining up perfectly.
"No," he answers, glancing back at her with a faint smile. "Nothingwrong. I just wanted to make sure I was heading the right way."
Lira nods, reassured, and falls into step behind him.
The path is quiet at first—just the crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the wind sighing through the branches. But as they move, Claeriel feels the blessing sharpen his awareness. Every shift of the forest, every heartbeat of life hiding in the brush… he senses it like soft pressure against the inside of his mind.
Subtle. Instinctive.
Like the world is speaking to him in a language of presence.
And then—
A faint ripple brushes the edge of his awareness.
Not hostile. Not monstrous.
Just… watching.
Lira doesn't notice.
But the goddess's gift does.
Claeriel feels the thread of warmth twist gently, nudging, guiding.
Stay on guard, it seems to whisper.
But keep moving forward.
The village lies ahead.
The watcher lies nearby.
And Claeriel walks the line between them, every sense awake as the world begins to reveal itself around him.
Claeriel keeps his steps slow and deliberate, weight light on the forest floor. Each footfall is measured—quiet, controlled—guided by the faint, warm thread pulling him toward the village and away from whatever watches from the undergrowth. The blessing's presence stays coiled and ready, like a second awareness layered beneath his own.
He glances over his shoulder, voice gentle but steady.
"By the way, what's your name?"
Lira looks up, wide amber eyes blinking. "I told you—it's Lira."
Claeriel gives a small, apologetic smile. "Right. Sorry. A lot to take in. I'm Claeriel." He pauses for a beat, then adds lightly, "You can call me Clay."
The girl's steps falter for half a second—just enough that a leaf crunches underfoot. She seems to test the name silently, rolling it around as if deciding whether it fits him.
"Clay," she repeats softly. "That… soundsnicer than Claeriel. Less like someone out of a story."
She picks up her pace again, keeping close behind him. The tension in her posture has eased—shoulders lower, steps less hurried, breathing more even. Clay can feel her fear receding, replaced with something quieter… trust, maybe. Or at least the beginnings of it.
A twig snaps somewhere off the path.
Clay freezes instantly. Lira mirrors him, instinctively pressing herself slightly behind his arm. His senses flare—every rustle, every shift of weight in the brush, every breath of wind filtering through the canopy sharpening into focus.
The watcher hasn't moved.
It hasn't approached.
It simply remains… aware.
Lira whispers, "Clay?"
He lifts one hand slightly—not touching her, but a silent signal to stay close, stay quiet.
The forest listens.
Nothing emerges.
Nothing retreats.
Just presence.
Finally, Clay starts forward again, voice low. "Keep walking. We're almost out of the deep woods."
Lira nods, small and serious.
As they move, the trees begin to thin. Shafts of brighter sunlight break through, speckling the path in warm gold. The air smells less damp, more earthy—like tilled soil and distant hearth smoke may not be far.
Lira lets out a breath she's been holding for minutes.
"Clay… thank you," she murmurs. "Most adults would've made me walk behind or told me to run home. You didn't."
He glances back, catching the faint smile forming at the corner of her mouth.
"Everyone deserves to feel safe," he says.
But even as he speaks the words, the warmth in his chest pulses again—almost approving—while the unseen watcher lingers behind them like a silent shadow waiting for its moment.
Clay slows his steps just enough to glance back—not a frantic look, not a challenge, just a subtle, measured turn of the head. The kind that says:
I know you're there.
And I'm not afraid.
The forest responds with a faint, taut stillness. The watcher doesn't flee. But it shifts—Clay feels it like a slight vibration in the air, an adjustment rather than a retreat. Acknowledgment. Caution. Interest.
The blessing in his chest warms, approving of the quiet message carried in that single look.
He turns away again with the same calm he's carried since meeting Lira.
"Lira," he says gently, his tone soft enough not to betray the alertness in his muscles, "canyou tell me about your village?"
The girl brightens a little at the question, hurrying her steps so she walks more beside him than behind.
"Um… sure," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's called Tarrowbrook. It's small. Not like the towns on the main trade roads. More quiet. We farm, gather herbs, hunt small game. Nothing big. Nothing fancy."
Her voice steadies as she talks about home—her pace more confident now that the trees begin to stretch wider apart.
"There's a brook that runs right through the center of it—clear water, really cold. We get fish there, and in the spring it floods a little, so the fields get good soil." She hesitates. "It used to be really safe. Even the forest wasn't scary as long as you stayed on the trails."
She glances around them nervously, then lowers her voice.
"But lately… monsters have been moving closer. Hunters found tracks near the fields. Even Papa says something's wrong."
Her fingers tighten on the herb basket.
Clay nods, absorbing her words, the warmth inside him pulsing with a subtle shift—like it's mapping her fears against the strange pressure in the woods, drawing connections he can almost feel but not quite name.
"Does your village have anyone who deals with trouble?" Clay asks. "Guards? A chief? A mage?"
Lira shakes her head.
"No mage. Just the elder. And the hunters. They're brave, but…" Her eyes lower. "They're not strong enough if something big comes."
The path slopes up slightly, and through the thinning branches Clay finally sees it: smoke rising in thin white streams on the horizon, drifting above rooftops made of dark wood.
Relief washes across Lira's face.
"We're close," she says with a small smile.
Behind them, the watcher's presence thins—still there, still watching, but content to let them go.
For now.
Clay's sudden grin is bright enough that Lira blinks up at him in surprise, her worry scattering like leaves in a gust of wind.
"Let's play a game, shall we?"
She straightens, curiosity flickering across her face. "A… game?"
I'm
He nods toward the rising smoke and the slope beyond the trees. "Whoever reaches the village first wins. Ready?"
Her eyes widen—half nervous, half thrilled.
"No way I can beat you," she mutters.
Clay winks. "Then you'd better try harder."
And before she can object—
"Let's go!"
He bursts forward with a controlled sprint, pushing off the soft soil with a sharp kick. Not full speed—just enough to make the race feel real. Lira squeaks, then laughs despite herself and launches after him, feet pattering over leaves.
The forest blurs around them—sunbeams flashing between branches, the crunch of dirt underfoot, Lira's small breathless giggles chasing his heels.
"Clay—! Wait—! No fair!" she laughs, nearly tripping as she pumps her legs.
Clay slows just enough for her to rush past him, triumphant and breathless.
"I'm winning!I'm— I'm—!"
She stops mid-sentence, gasping for air, but she doesn't give up. Her determination is fierce, the kind only children and the brave possess. Clay keeps just behind her, making sure she stays ahead without realizing he's doing it.
The trees finally break open.
A wide, sloping meadow stretches out, golden-green under the midday sun. Beyond it lies Tarrowbrook—small houses of dark wood, smoke drifting from chimneys, fields rippling in the breeze. Villagers move like tiny figures in the distance.
"There! Lira! Keep going!" Clay calls.
Her eyes shine.
She pushes on with a burst of energy, legs wobbling but spirit blazing.
They sprint down the slope—wind whipping at their clothes, grass brushing their calves—and Lira crosses an invisible finish line at the meadow's edge with a triumphant cry.
"Iwin!" she gasps, arms thrown up.
Clay stops beside her, breathing steady, smiling warmly. "You did. Nicely done."
She beams up at him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
"That was fun," she says, almost shyly. "It's been a long time since… since someone played with me."
Her voice softens, almost wistful.
Clay glances back at the forest.
The watcher's presence has faded entirely.
The blessing inside him quiets too, as if the danger has passed—for now.
Ahead, villagers begin to notice Lira and the stranger beside her. Heads turn. People murmur. Curiosity stirs like ripples across water.
Lira looks between Clay and her village, suddenly uncertain again.
"Um… Clay?" she whispers. "Can you… stay close when we walk in? People might ask who you are."
The meadow wind carries her small voice clean and clear.