The wind howled through Vaeth's Hollow, rattling shutters and tearing at thatched rooftops as rain lashed the earth in angry sheets.
In a weathered cottage on the village's outskirts, Elira Vane knelt beside her father's sickbed, her hands trembling as she wrung out a damp cloth.
Garron Vane, once a strong, respected hunter, now lay pale and barely breathing beneath a worn quilt. The fever had come swiftly—without warning—and refused to break, no matter what tinctures or herbs Elira used.
She had searched the village. The apothecary, old Mistress Brenna, had nothing left but apologies and stale remedies. The village priest claimed it was a curse from the forest. No one dared speak of hope.
Elira was out of time.
A fresh gust of wind slammed the shutters open, and thunder cracked over the trees of the Elderwood, the ancient forest that loomed like a wall of shadows at the edge of the village. The people of Vareth's Hollow feared that place, and for good reason. Strange lights, vanishing hunters, whispers in the dark. But more than anything, they feared the legend of the Beast of Nithara—a cursed creature said to guard the forest's heart.
But there were other stories too. Quieter ones. Tales passed down by her mother before she vanished. Of a tree called the Heartwood, hidden deep within the forest. A tree said to pulse with ancient magic—strong enough to heal any wound or illness. A place where the veil between the mortal world and magic thinned.
Elira didn't know if the Heartwood was real. But she had nothing left to lose.
Garron stirred, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't… go."
She looked down, startled to see his eyes open, cloudy but focused on her face.
"The forest… the Beast… it's not just a tale," he wheezed. "He's real. And he doesn't forgive trespassers."
"I don't need his forgiveness," Elira said, her voice steady. "I only need his help."
Garron gripped her wrist, weak but fierce. "He's not what you think, Elira. The curse twists more than flesh."
She hesitated, but then gently pulled away and stood. She slipped on her mother's old cloak—the one lined with fox fur, smelling faintly of lavender and old parchment—and fastened her satchel. Inside were dried roots, a wooden talisman carved by her uncle Kael, and a dagger she hoped she wouldn't need.
"I'll come back," she said, brushing her father's silver hair from his forehead. "I swear it."
The wind tore at her cloak as she stepped outside. The Elderwood loomed ahead, its towering black trees clawing at the storm-lit sky. It was a place of legends, death… and perhaps salvation.
With one final glance over her shoulder, Elira Vane walked into the rain.
Into the unknown.
Toward the Beast of Nithara.