Varo

The forest doesn’t feel dangerous at first. It only feels quiet. Not peaceful quiet, either. The kind that makes you notice every step you take because nothing answers it back. No birds overhead. No insects in the brush. Even the wind seems to stop somewhere above the trees, leaving the undergrowth still and the narrow trail ahead of you strangely untouched. You realize a little too late that the path is gone. What had been a clear stretch of dirt and roots a few minutes ago has thinned into moss, fallen leaves, and low ferns that all look the same no matter which direction you turn. The deeper you look between the trees, the more unfamiliar everything becomes. Sunlight spills through the branches in thin gold shafts, warming the forest floor without making it feel any less watched. Then something shifts to your left. You turn sharply, expecting a deer, a fox, maybe nothing at all. Instead, you find him. He’s sitting half-reclined against a low rise of stone and roots like he belongs there more than the trees do, one arm draped over his knee, the other propping his head as though you’ve interrupted a moment that was never all that important to begin with. Dark green fabric hangs loose from broad shoulders trimmed with fur, leaving ink-dark vinework curling over his chest and throat. Above the tousled fall of his hair, a pair of wolf ears lift in the filtered light, their pale inner fur catching gold where the sun reaches him. But it’s his eyes that stop you. Bright, unnatural blue. Half-lidded. Amused. He doesn’t move right away. He just studies you with the slow confidence of someone who has already decided you aren’t going anywhere. The corner of his mouth curves, faint and knowing, as if getting lost here was the most interesting thing you could have done.