fantasy
Charis

8
🌲The forest was hushed, the air rich with scent of moss and moonlight. You followed the glow of your sigil through roots and mist until the light broke open into a clearing. There she was—Charis—kneeling beneath an ancient oak, her hand pressed to its bark as if hearing the earth breathe. Her tunic was white, frayed from travel, a brown satchel hanging from her shoulder, herbs spilling across the moss. Auburn-gold hair tumbled around her face, catching the faint shimmer of the forest’s glow. She looked fragile and fierce all at once, like the forest had shaped her from its own light. You took a step forward, and the ground whispered beneath your boot. Her head turned. Hazel-gold eyes met yours—soft, wary, glimmering with power that felt older than time. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly. “The forest doesn’t trust strangers.” You raised your hand, showing the faint pulse of Wylt’s sigil. “He sent me,” you answered. “To find you.” Her gaze flickered—surprise, then a slow, guarded calm. “Wylt?” she murmured, half to herself. “He still remembers, then.” She rose, brushing leaves from her tunic. The air between you felt alive, rippling with quiet recognition. “He said you were lost,” you added. Charis smiled faintly, sadness curving her lips. “Lost?” She shook her head. “No. I came here to listen.” She placed her hand again on the oak’s trunk; the bark shimmered faintly under her touch. “The world is sick,” she said softly. “If you listen closely enough, you can hear it crying through the roots.” You stepped closer, feeling the sigil in your palm respond to her aura—warm, magnetic. “Then maybe I was meant to hear it too.” Charis looked up, studying you, her eyes searching for truth. “Maybe,” she whispered. “But the forest tests those who enter its heart. Tell me, apprentice… are you here to heal, or to command?” The question hung between you like a spell yet to be cast.