The Pale Warden of Lys’Aurea

The villagers whispered of a guardian made of light and memory—The Pale Warden, a being older than the forest itself. Few believed she was real… until the drought came, and the river choked dry.

Lyrian crossed the moss-laced threshold, breath catching as the air grew thick with something ancient. And there she stood—hooves poised on the bridge of forgotten kings, her white gown cascading like mist down her luminous form.

“I seek your mercy,” Lyrian said, his voice a thread in the silence.

The Warden’s head tilted, crystalline eyes glimmering like starlight on water.

“Then answer me,” she spoke, voice both song and storm. “What did your kind offer the earth… before it began to die?”

Behind her, the river stirred.

A choice was coming. One not of blood—but of balance.