The Sylvarinian Wilds
"How had it come to this?"
Voron stood alone beneath the silver canopy of the Sylvarin woods, stripped of honor, blood drying where his proud antlers once crowned him. Only yesterday, he had walked these paths as a noble— nay, a royal, among the Sylvarin, beloved and admired by all— untouchable. Now the runes burned into the tips of his shattered antler stubs leave only shame etched where pride once lived.
The forest around him was quiet, a cruel contrast to the storm raging inside his chest. His hands trembled as they rose to where his antlers once crowned him, as though touching them might disprove the nightmare. But his fingers met only broken, jagged stubs, and with every hollow pass the truth sank deeper— this was no dream.
The Council’s words echoed in his ears— “Thief. Traitor. Unworthy.” Words sharper than any blade. Words he had never expected to hear from his kin. He had been at home preparing for bed, when they broke in and bound him. They dragged him before the Council of Elders and for alleged crimes, they clipped his pointed ears so he would appear more Aundairian and less Thanian. They then pressed him against a stump and took a blacksmith’s hammer to his antlers.
After all the pain, he believed they would be done with him and execute him. If only he were so lucky. Taking a runeknife, they carved his new shame into the ends of his antlers, cardiarising them with the runes for a thief.
After they had thrown him into the mud, he had clung to one last ember of hope: her. His betrothed, Sana. She had whispered vows of love in moonlit gardens, promises that she would stand beside him through storm and fire. Surely, if no one else believed in him, she would. Even stripped of his pride, ever marred with a false shame, her love would not falter. Her understanding would not fail.
With that fragile belief, he stumbled through the night toward her house, bloodied and broken, but certain her arms would become his refuge. Rushing toward her family’s estate, he arrived just before dawn as the pale blue light began washing over the polished marble steps.
At one point, this place had felt like the center of his world— where laughter echoed in courtyards and lanterns danced along ivy-draped balconies. Now, the lanterns were dim, the doors shut tight. He steadied himself and knocked in the special rhythm only he and she knew. Each dull rap against the wood sent a tremor through his aching hands. Through the frosted pane, he saw a servant’s shadow pause, hesitate— and then vanish. A longer silence followed.
Where was she? If she had been here then she would have answered the door herself immediately after hearing their song. He thought.
When the door finally creaked open, it wasn’t her, it wasn’t the gentle maid who’d smiled at him for years. It was Sana’s father. He looked at the broken Voron, as though a wolf threatened his doorstep. He did not greet him, as he normally would have, nor did he speak his name. His eyes flickered to the antler stumps, then to the clipped ears. Disgust twisted his face, though— when he finally spoke— his voice was calm— but measured, as if this dismissal had already been rehearsed.
Holding up two golden coins, Sana’s father muttered. “Take these and get out of the wilds. It should be enough to get you as far as Wyldhart.”
Voron’s breath caught in his throat. “Where is Sana? Please— I just need to see her. She knows I would never—”
“You are no longer welcome in this house,” the father cut in, his tone as sharp and final as the tool they had used to clip his ears. “Nor near my daughter. Your shame is not hers to bear. Leave, now! And do not dare return.”
Voron’s heart thundered, his body refusing to move even as his spirit crumbled. Then, behind her father’s broad frame, up the stairs behind a corner, a flicker of pale silk caught his eye. It was Sana’s slender figure, half-hidden by the corner. For one fleeting instant, their eyes met— his, wide with desperate pleading, hers, cold and unblinking. She did not speak. She did not reach out for him. He could sense her gaze lingering on the jagged stumps and runes, on the mutilated ears that marked him as something less.
That stare— was the cruelest thing— it was wordless, merciless— and cut deeper than any knife.
Her father tossed the coins at him and then the door slammed shut. That sound echoed the final verdict. Voron swayed where he stood, coins slipping from his hand into the mud, swallowed without notice by the realm.
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