The forest does not forget.
At night — or whatever passes for night beneath the thick canopy — I feel it the most.
Eyes.
Countless eyes, watching.
Not human. Not animal.
But something older.
Hidden in the shadows between the twisted trunks, the gnarled roots, and the creeping mist.
I cannot move toward them.
I cannot speak to them.
But they are there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Sometimes, the eyes blink. Sometimes, they vanish.
Other times, they whisper.
Not words, but feelings.
Curiosity.
Fear.
Hunger.
---
Part 2: The Whispering Wind
---
The wind does not blow.
The forest is too dense for wind to pass.
Yet, I hear whispers carried through the air like a faint melody.
"Root of blood..."
"Shadow of Yggdrasil..."
"Not chosen, yet growing..."
The voices do not come from a mouth. They come from the forest itself.
From the bones beneath the soil.
From the spirits trapped between bark and leaf.
I strain to understand.
To respond.
But I am nothing but a sapling.
A sapling that hungers.
---
Part 3: The First Visitor
---
One evening — or perhaps morning — a presence comes close.
A figure moves silently among the trees.
A woman.
Her skin is pale as moonlight.
Her eyes sharp and cold.
She wears a cloak woven from leaves and thorns.
A druid, perhaps. Or a witch.
She kneels beside me, placing a hand on the twisted bark of my trunk.
I feel warmth pulse from her palm.
And a word escapes her lips:
"Not Yggdrasil, but something new."
Her gaze pierces through the darkness and settles on the single black leaf that has begun to sprout from my branch.
"I see your hunger," she says softly.
"But beware — this forest does not forgive the hungry."
---
Part 4: The Warning
---
The woman rises and retreats into the shadows.
I am left alone once more.
But her words echo in my mind.
The forest does not forgive the hungry.
What does she mean?
Hunger for blood. Hunger for power. Hunger for life.
I do not yet understand.
But I know this:
To survive here, I must grow.
Not just in size, but in strength.
Or be consumed.