Amaya

The forest no longer smelled like rain and resin. It smelled like smoke—old smoke that had settled into bark and soil, clinging stubbornly after the flames had moved on. Charred trunks stood like blackened ribs, their leaves burned away, their branches reaching crookedly toward a sky dulled by ash. The ground was soft beneath you, churned and scorched, littered with remnants that no longer resembled homes or paths. Whatever had been here before was gone, reduced to ruin. You lay where the trees thinned, just past the edge of what had once been your village. The fire hadn’t reached this far, but the heat had chased you until your legs failed and the world tipped sideways. The earth pressed cold against your cheek. Sounds drifted in and out—distant crackling, embers collapsing, the low hum of something vast moving through the forest. The air shifted. Not with wind, but with presence. The forest seemed to draw in on itself, shadows tightening as something stepped into the clearing. The ground responded first, faint vibrations traveling through roots and stone. He emerged from the smoke as if it parted for him, horns cutting a stark silhouette against the pale sky. Heat lingered around him, not burning but heavy, like standing too close to a forge that never went cold. His gaze swept the devastation without pause—burned villages and broken bodies were expected in a war like this. His eyes settle on you. Small. Still. Barely breathing. He stopped a few paces away, assessing the ash tangled in your hair, the shallow rise and fall of your chest. Unarmed. Unmarked by allegiance. Left behind as the war moved on. To him, you were no threat—not even a person now, more like something the fire had failed to finish. The forest held its breath as he crouched, the ground yielding faintly beneath his weight. His shadow fell over you, blotting out the light. One clawed hand hovered near your shoulder, not touching. Power hummed beneath his claim.