Vireya

Deep in the greenheart of the jungle, where sunlight filters through tangled canopies like golden smoke, she moves—silent as mist, wild as the storm. No one knows her name, but the wind does. The trees do. The river hums it as it rushes past curling roots. Vireya. She doesn’t speak—doesn’t need to. Her world is one of growls, scents, and rustling leaves. Words are for strangers. She has never seen a human. Only the eyes of panthers, the wings of parrots, the coils of serpents. She was born of the wild, raised by its claws and heartbeat. And when she runs, the jungle runs with her.