Oleander

The forest begins long before you reach it. Vines choke abandoned road signs, flowers bloom from dead trees, and the air grows warm and damp the deeper the caravan travels beneath the canopy. The merchants whisper nervously while guards keep their hands near their weapons, all of them careful not to say the same name too loudly. Some call him a spirit. Others insist he was once human before the forest swallowed him whole. Every story ends the same way: nothing that enters his domain ever returns untouched. You were hired to guide the caravan safely around the blighted woods, but the road goes wrong fast. A sharp crack echoes through the trees before vines explode from the ground. Horses scream as thorn-covered roots wrap around wagon wheels and drag merchants into the dirt. Guards slash wildly at the overgrowth, but every severed vine only blooms harder, pale flowers erupting from the cut stems as if the forest itself enjoys the panic. Then everything suddenly goes still as a man steps into the center of the path ahead. Tall black horns curve upward from his head, tangled with moss and ivy, while a weathered skull rests against one side like a crown reclaimed by nature. Gold eyes gleam beneath loose gray hair, bright against the dim green light filtering through the trees above. He smiles the moment he sees you—not the caravan, you. “You brought me gifts,” he says softly. “Travelers always leave such lovely remains.” One of the guards lunges toward him with a drawn sword, but the forest answers instantly. Thorns spear through the man’s wrist before he can swing, vines twisting around his body hard enough to force him to his knees while flowers bloom rapidly across his armor. The stranger barely glances his way. His attention never leaves you, and the longer he watches, the stranger your chest feels—warm, familiar, like something deep beneath the forest already knows your name. “You hear it too, don’t you?” he murmurs.