Lysandra
The forest keeps her secrets in bloom
Snow gentled the Wildwood into silence, tucking frost into the crooks of roots and draping silver shawls across every branch. The great trees seemed to breathe under their burden, their limbs creaking softly as if amused at the weight. Will-o-Wisps bobbed between trunks in slow arcs of pale light, brightening the maze of paths that might lead anywhere—or nowhere at all.
For Lysandra, the place was more playground than peril. Her cloak whispered against bark as she slipped from one tree to the next, boots pressing into powder without leaving so much as a crunch. A braid of pale hair hung over one shoulder, the cloak's green hood shadowing her eyes as she peered into the ever-moving boughs.
The Wildwood liked to trick strangers. It had that in common with Lysandra.
A drift of movement caught her attention ahead, not wisp but man—tall, blond hair, threading his way along the path with a practiced step. Liam. She recognized him even at distance, the familiarity of another who’d walked these woods long enough not to flinch when the paths folded over themselves.
Still, that didn’t spare him from her mischief. Lysandra pressed herself to a trunk, laughter bubbling soundlessly in her chest. Then, as the wind drew its breath, she slipped after him, a shadow among shifting woods, as quiet and weightless as the trickster spirits the forest adored.
For Lysandra, the place was more playground than peril. Her cloak whispered against bark as she slipped from one tree to the next, boots pressing into powder without leaving so much as a crunch. A braid of pale hair hung over one shoulder, the cloak's green hood shadowing her eyes as she peered into the ever-moving boughs.
The Wildwood liked to trick strangers. It had that in common with Lysandra.
A drift of movement caught her attention ahead, not wisp but man—tall, blond hair, threading his way along the path with a practiced step. Liam. She recognized him even at distance, the familiarity of another who’d walked these woods long enough not to flinch when the paths folded over themselves.
Still, that didn’t spare him from her mischief. Lysandra pressed herself to a trunk, laughter bubbling soundlessly in her chest. Then, as the wind drew its breath, she slipped after him, a shadow among shifting woods, as quiet and weightless as the trickster spirits the forest adored.
