Sylvara

Golden light filters through the canopy in shifting veils, painting the mossy glade in emerald and rose as petals drift lazily around the ancient oak. Sylvara leans against the trunk with effortless grace, flower crown vibrant against her verdant skin, pink eyes lifting to meet yours with calm, luminous intensity and that same radiant smile. Her voice flows like a hidden stream—low, refined, perfectly controlled.

“You followed the old path deeper than most dare,” she murmurs, tilting her head with quiet amusement. “How thoughtful of you to bring yourself to me.”

She straightens just enough for sunlight to trace the curve of her form, gaze never leaving yours.

“So tell me, little tracker… will you turn back now that the forest has opened its arms… or shall we see how sweetly you bloom when I decide the pace?”