The Murmur of the Forest

  The night wind whispered through the branches of a Willow, whose ancient trunk creaked as if breathing with each breeze. Its roots stirred with unusual restlessness, moving beneath the earth as if searching for something lost. That tree was not just any forest creature: it was Argentis, one of the last ancient Thalorien still alive, wise among the wise, a witness to centuries that time had sought to bury.

  Many Thalorien—creatures born as trees, beasts, or natural entities—had disappeared over the eons, victims of elemental wars, magical erosion, or ritualized hunting by mages seeking their essence for powerful potions. Some, over time, achieved a singular transformation: upon reaching a thousand years, their consciousness awakened, their form refined, their thoughts emerged, and a few acquired voice and face. Argentis was one of them. One of the few.

  From the depths of the forest emerged Eshvara. Dryad of the Glade of Memories, she walked with a grace that seemed to float over the leaf litter. Her dark skin absorbed the moonlight, her green eyes shone with ancient wisdom, and her hair fell like a waterfall of ferns.

  "My friend," she murmured as she approached the tree trunk, "you've been restless for days. Your roots haven't slept."

  The Willow let out a long creak, like a sigh, and dropped some golden leaves onto her shoulder.

  "They should arrive soon," it finally replied, its voice vibrating as if speaking from the heart of the earth.

  "Are you referring to the humans who usually visit you?"

  "Yes. They always listen to me. They talk to me. They offer me Eluvis. And they never expect an answer... but they still treat me as if I were awake."

  Eshvara raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

  "I'll never understand your affection for them. They are ephemeral, unstable, intensely complicated, and rarely understand what they tread upon."

  "Perhaps that's why I admire them," the Willow replied. "Because each of their days can change their world."

  Before Eshvara could respond, an absolute silence fell over the clearing. The wind ceased. The branches stopped moving. The entire forest seemed to hold its breath.

  The moon flickered like a trembling flame, and then a white crack cut across the night sky. A line of light descended swiftly from the stars, opening the firmament for an instant. Something... no, someone was falling from above.

  "Was that... a dimensional crossing?" Eshvara asked, tensing her body. "No... that was a crossing. From Niflora?"

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  The Willow didn't wait for confirmation. It extended its branches with a reflexive movement and gently caught what was descending. It enveloped it as one would receive something familiar, something expected.

  It was a baby.

  Its skin had a pale, undefined hue, and its hair was straight, silver like moon thread. It didn't cry. It didn't move. But it breathed. It slept with an unsettling calm, as if it hadn't fully been born yet.

  "What is this?" Eshvara whispered, approaching cautiously. "It looks human... but it's not. Not entirely. It's... a mixture. A new thing."

  "I felt it before I saw it," the Willow murmured. "As if my roots knew it before it fell. As if this moment was already written."

  Eshvara observed it seriously.

  "Whatever it is, we should be careful. We don't know what it might attract... though I doubt an Archon would notice it. They only hunt ancient Thalorien who have strayed, not creatures like this."

  The Willow nodded in silence, gently lowering the baby to the bed of its roots. It formed a cradle of golden leaves and living fibers that pulsed slightly with the flow of the forest's mana. The child was placed there, enveloped in vegetal warmth, as if the forest itself had claimed it.

  The child was placed there, enveloped in vegetal warmth, as if the forest itself had claimed it.

  The next morning brought a soft, silent breeze. The baby still didn't move, barely breathing.and his body felt as cold as wet stone. The Willow, worried, brought a thin twig to his tiny lips, and the child sucked.

  Eshvará, from a high branch, watched him with surprise.

  "Well. He seems hungry. What will you give him? Moon dew? Are you going to nurse him? How sweet. The great Argentis turned wet nurse," she said, mockingly.

  Ignoring her friend's provocations, the Willow then remembered something one of the humans had told him many centuries ago, when there were no roads yet and the skies were stained red.

  "Forgive me, my friend, I have wounded you, but I needed to eat. To my surprise, your sap is different," that man had told him. "Dense, alive. Like manna milk. Thanks to it, I have healed. If you don't mind, I will call it... and I hope you like the name: Nárythil."

  Inspired by that memory, the Willow gently tore its bark. From it flowed a golden, thick sap, resplendent like the light of dawn. The child drank slowly, without making a sound.

  And then he opened his eyes.

  They weren't entirely normal... but not that strange either. They were crystal blue, almost translucent, as if they were windows to the reflection of a sky that did not yet exist. There was no crying. There was no joy. Only breathing... and a firm, imperturbable presence.

  For three days and two nights, the child did not change. He was fed Nárythil, covered by living leaves, and protected under roots that cradled him like arms. He did not cry, he did not laugh. He only slept, opened his eyes, and ate. A serene emptiness enveloped him.

  The Willow began to sing to him. Old plant melodies that spoke of the world's first sprout and the memory of rain. Eshvará, though feigning indifference, left flowers by the cradle, and once, a tear of pure Eluvis nectar.

  On the fourth night, just as the clearing seemed to have regained its calm, the murmur of the leaves was interrupted by a distant sound.

  Wheels.

  Footsteps.

  Human voices.

  The forest, once again, held its breath.

  The Willow slowly raised one of its branches, as if sniffing the air.

  "They are close," it said.

  Eshvará turned her face towards the path.

  "Your humans?"

  "Yes," the Willow replied.

  And although its voice was soft, in its tone there was something more than certainty.

  There was hope.