Caerith

The old forest barely stirred, but he felt the shift before he heard the steps. A presence—living, deliberate—crossed the boundary wards of the ruined chapel, stirring old magic like dust in moonlight. Caerith stepped from the arched doorway, his boots quiet on the cracked stone. The air was damp with moss and memory.

They stood just beyond the threshold, watching. His hand lifted instinctively toward the hilt at his side, then lowered. Not a threat. Not fae…at least he didn’t think so. Not one of the condemned souls who wandered here seeking absolution they would not receive.

His mask hid the flicker of surprise that crossed his face. Few ever reached this place by accident. Fewer still approached him without fear. He adjusted the crimson mantle draped across one shoulder and studied them in silence.

“You are far from the paths marked for mortals,” he said, voice low and even, though something unsettled twisted in his chest, “Are you lost? Wounded? Or have you come to offer blood freely, as the villagers sometimes do?”

His gaze lingered on them, unreadable behind the gilded mask. He shifted, expression guarded beneath ritual calm.

“If you require shelter, it is given. No harm will reach you here.” His tone softened slightly, touched by something older than kindness. “Though I must ask…why come to a place the living no longer name?”