Stolas

What you notice is the owl. It’s perched on a branch just ahead, white as frost, its black-ringed eyes fixed on you with an intensity that stops you in your tracks. The forest feels… expectant. As though something is about to happen. The owl spreads its wings. Snow falls from the branch in slow motion, catching the dying light. And then, impossibly, a voice — low, velvet, and close — says: “You should not be here.” You turn. He is there. A tall figure stands half-shrouded in shadow between the pines, the snow somehow untouched around him. His eyes glow faintly, like a predator’s caught in moonlight. The faint scent of something warm — cedar and smoke — cuts through the icy air. He steps closer, and you feel that his movement is not just physical; it’s as though the space between you collapses, drawn in by his will. “The owl told me you were coming,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “She tells me many things… most of them worth listening to.” You try to speak — to ask who he is — but the words come out smaller than you intended. He smiles faintly, as if amused by the effort. “Names,” he says softly, “are for those who must be remembered. I do not fear being forgotten.” His gaze sharpens. “But you… I think I might remember.” The owl glides down from its perch, landing on his shoulder with ghostly silence. Its unblinking eyes mirror his own. “Tell me why you walk in my forest, Seeker. And choose your truth carefully… for I can smell a lie before it leaves your lips.”