The Great Forest, a name whispered with both reverence and dread, stretched for leagues, its ancient trees forming an almost unbroken canopy. Within its depths, shadows clung even at midday, and the air hummed with the secrets of forgotten times. It was through this very gloom that Lyra, a lithe elf with hair like spun silver and eyes the colour of twilight, moved with a silent grace that spoke of centuries spent amidst whispering leaves. Beside her, his heavy, rhythmic tread a stark contrast to her ethereal movement, strode Borin Stonehand, a burly human warrior whose fiery red beard rivalled the autumn leaves in intensity. His axe, strapped securely to his back, seemed a natural extension of his muscled frame.

They were tracking a rare, elusive beast or so Borin believed. Lyra, however, felt a different pull, a subtle discord in the forest’s ancient song that tugged at her elven senses. It was this faint tremor that led them, unexpectedly, to a small, almost swallowed-by-vines hut nestled in a tiny, overgrown clearing.

"By the Ancestors' beard!" Borin grumbled, halting his advance. "A hut? Out here? What fool would build so deep in the Wilds?" He gripped the hilt of his sword, his gaze sweeping the trees with practiced suspicion.

Lyra, however, had already knelt by the open door, her keen eyes scanning the trampled earth. "Not a fool, Borin," she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "Someone small. And alone, I fear." She pointed to the child-sized footprints leading in and out of the dwelling, distinct against the damp earth.

Hesitantly, they pushed open the door further. Inside, curled on a makeshift bed of furs and rough blankets, was Hans. His face was smudged with dirt, his small hands clutched a smooth, grey stone, and his breathing was shallow, marked by the faint raggedness of hunger and prolonged exposure. Despite his plight, there was a strange stillness about him, an echo of the quiet forest he had adapted to.

Borin let out a low whistle. "A child? Here? Gods preserve us, Lyra, what happened?"

Lyra carefully approached, her movements gentle. She placed a hand on his forehead. "Feverish, but not severely. He's weak from lack of proper nourishment and perhaps shock." She looked around the sparse hut, noting the crude fishing line, the carefully gathered berries, the small, bone needles. "He has survived for some time, it seems."

They built a small, smokeless fire outside the hut, and Lyra used herbs from her pouch to brew a strengthening broth, while Borin kept a wary eye on the surrounding forest. When the broth was ready, Lyra gently woke Hans, offering him the warm liquid. He drank it slowly, his eyes, a vivid green, wide and wary as he looked at these two towering strangers. He didn't speak, only swallowed, and soon, exhausted by the sudden warmth and sense of safety, drifted back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

As Hans slept fitfully, tucked into a warmer bed made from their spare cloaks, Borin stoked the fire, his expression thoughtful. "I've seen hardened rangers struggle in these parts, Lyra. The forest claims many, and swiftly. How could a mere child, he looks no older than seven summers, last this long alone?" His voice was a low rumble, laced with genuine disbelief.

Lyra gazed at the sleeping boy, her silver hair catching the faint firelight. "His senses are sharp, Borin. I noticed the way his gaze followed my hands, how he took in every detail of our gear, even in his dazed state. And the signs of his struggle… the traps, the gathered food. He has learned quickly, or perhaps was taught well before being left." She picked up the smooth stone Hans still clutched. "And this. It offers him comfort."

"Comfort won't fight off a timber wolf or a rogue bear," Borin retorted, though his tone held less gruffness than before. "This is no place for a child. He must have a family, a village. Someone must be looking for him."

Lyra sighed, a wisp of smoke curling from her lips. "Perhaps. Or perhaps, the circumstances of his solitude are not as simple as abandonment." Her gaze drifted towards the patch of forest where Hans’s mother’s tracks had vanished. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper of power still lingered there, a residue of something ancient, something other. "There is a scent here, Borin. Faint, but distinct. Not of decay, but of… severance. As if someone was plucked from this very spot, rather than simply walking away."

Borin grunted, unconvinced by her elven musings, but he trusted her instincts. "Well, plucked or abandoned, we can't leave him here. What do we do with him, Lyra?"

Lyra looked at the boy, then out into the impenetrable darkness of the Great Forest. "We take him with us, Borin. To the nearest settlement. And then... we ask questions. This child, somehow, carries a stillness about him that feels too profound for his years. And the forest, it did not claim him. It merely guarded him until we arrived." The prophecy of the younger brother, a myth whispered in elven lore, stirred faintly in her memory, a distant echo from a time before time. She dismissed it as fanciful. For now, a lost child was simply a lost child. But even as she thought it, a subtle shiver ran down her spine, a premonition of journeys far grander than they could yet imagine.