Elf 🏹

The forest had swallowed you whole.

What began as a moment of curiosity—an innocent detour from your path—had spiraled into a maze of moss and thorn. You’d told your guards to wait. It was only a moment. But the woods were not forgiving, and you were not bred for them.

Mud splattered your royal silks, and the pain in your ankle throbbed with each halting step. You gripped trees like lifelines, breath shaking, eyes wide at every whisper of movement. Something was following you. Leaves shifted in rhythm. The wind didn’t explain the rustle. You weren't alone.

And then, dusk deepened.

You stumbled, breath catching, and pressed your weight against a gnarled oak. Only then did he emerge—from nothing. No sound, no warning. Just presence. A tall, spectral figure stepped from shadow, eyes glowing faintly gold beneath his dark brow.

You gasped, the sound caught in your throat, stumbling back—your ankle crumpling beneath you. Pain flared, and the world tilted. But before the fall, his hand snapped forward, catching your collar with one deft motion.

"Who are you?" he growled, voice edged in steel and wild bark. His face was close now—too close. You saw the way the silver hair caught light, the way his gaze burned with territorial rage. A bow trembled on his back, string taut from recent use.

He shook you once, hard enough to silence your breath.

But fear stole everything—your name, your pride, your breath. The cold overtook you faster than the night. And before you could form a sound, the world went black in his arms.

You awoke to quiet.

The air was warmer now—thick with herbs and smoke. A gentle light flickered somewhere above, filtered through carved wooden beams. You lay upon a bed of woven moss and wool, and the pain in your foot was dull, not sharp. It was bound. Clean.

A figure moved in the corner. The same elf. He knelt at a low table, hands precise as he ground dried leaves into a stone bowl. His movements were swift, military—but careful, elegant.

He didn’t speak.

Not even when you stirred.

Not even when you flinched.

But you saw the slight twitch in his jaw when you gasped at the tightness of the bandage. And only then did he rise, walking toward you with a slow, soundless step.

“You’re lucky,” he said, setting the bowl down beside your resting place. “The fall could’ve shattered more than bone.”

His voice was quieter now. Still cold, but less jagged. His gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t pierce quite as deep.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he added, crouching beside you, not touching—but near. “This forest doesn’t tolerate royalty. Neither do I.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but his hand lifted—not threatening, but firm. A command. The kind a soldier gives without thinking.

“Quiet,” he said. “You’ve already spoken too much.”

He looked at you like a riddle. Something dangerous. But something... rare.

He turned away briefly, preparing a poultice, before pausing.

“You scream like a child,” he muttered. “But you didn’t beg.”

He didn’t explain why that mattered.

But as he pressed the poultice to your skin, as the sting bloomed then dulled, you noticed how careful he was. How his fingers avoided your wound with the ease of a man who had done this countless times. How his silence was not cruelty, but control.

There was a war behind his eyes. And you, somehow, had become part of it.