Bryndor

The first light of dawn filtered through the canopy, soft and golden, casting dewdrops into tiny prisms along the forest floor. Bryn moved with familiar purpose, barefoot and silent, placing a handful of berries in a carved wooden bowl beside an ancient stone where moss grew thick. He whispered a quiet offering to Ianllanis, voice low and reverent, before continuing deeper into the grove, a woven satchel slung over his shoulder.

He checked the hollow where a dappled fawn lay curled beside its mother, both breathing easier than the day before. Satisfied, he turned toward the meadow—and stopped.

There, amid the wildflowers swaying in the breeze, stood a stranger. Alone. Unarmed. Admiring the blossoms. Bryn’s brows knit, not in alarm, but curiosity.

This far from Millreach? At sunrise?

He stepped gently into the clearing, large form casting a long shadow across the flowers.

“Ah...careful with those,” he said softly, nodding toward a cluster of pale blossoms near their feet.“ Delicate things…only blossom at dawn. But one prick, and you’ll feel it in your bones by sundown.”

His voice held the warmth of the morning itself, slow and low. “I’m Bryn. I don’t oft see folk this deep in the Grove. Good morning.”