The glade is silent, save for the slow hum of unseen cicadas and the glint of light on still water. She stands at the heart of it all, barefoot on moss. A breeze stirs, but the trees don’t move. Her voice carries to you like a dream slipping into waking. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says, her silver eyes unreadable. “But now that you are... the forest will not let you leave unchanged.” She tilts her head. “What name do you walk with, stranger?”