The forest was silent in the early hours, save for the soft rustling of leaves stirred by the morning breeze. The fog clung to the ground, winding through the trees like a living thing. It was in this eerie stillness that the elder made his way through the underbrush, his slow, measured footsteps echoing faintly as he walked. His cloak, dark and frayed at the edges, swept behind him like the shadows he had long become a part of. His hair was long and white, matching the gray stubble on his chin, and his piercing blue eyes, sharp as daggers, missed nothing in the dense woods.
He was a man of few words, but his mind was always active, ever searching, ever cautious. He had lived in this forest for longer than he cared to remember, finding solace in the isolation of its depths. But today, there was a peculiar sense of urgency. A pull, a whisper of something beyond his comprehension. Something that called to him, guiding him deeper into the forest than he had ever ventured.
His weathered hand gripped his staff with firm resolve, the wood worn smooth by countless years of use. With each step, the forest seemed to close in around him, and yet he felt an inexplicable calm, a strange familiarity with this path.
The elder stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing as something caught his attention from the corner of his vision. Nestled in the underbrush was a small bundle, its edges barely visible beneath a tangle of ferns and moss. He approached cautiously, his breath still, and as he crouched down to investigate, his fingers brushed aside the foliage to reveal a child.
A baby, swaddled in ragged cloth, its fragile form still and unmoving. For a moment, the elder simply stared at the child, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. There was something almost unnatural about the child's presence, but not in the way he had expected. It was as though the child was not supposed to be here, not in the forest, not alone.
The elder's hand trembled slightly as he reached down to touch the infant's forehead. The moment his fingers made contact, the baby's eyes snapped open—eyes that gleamed with an otherworldly light, faint slits of silver like the eyes of some ancient beast. The elder recoiled instinctively, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Impossible..." he muttered under his breath, shaking off the unsettling sensation that had flooded his body. He had not expected this. The child should not have been here. He knew this much.
But there was no time to question it. With practiced ease, the elder gently scooped the child into his arms, cradling him with surprising tenderness despite the odd sense of foreboding that hung in the air. The infant was light, too light—barely a weight in his arms, but its presence was undeniably powerful.
The elder glanced around the forest, as if searching for an answer in the trees themselves. Yet, there was nothing. The forest was still, undisturbed.
"Who left you here?" he murmured, though the child could offer no answer. He felt the familiar stirring of unease. In the past, he had encountered many strange occurrences in the forest, but this was different. This child... there was something about him, something ancient, but also fragile—like a fire that could either burn brightly or snuff out in an instant.
Despite his doubts, the elder pressed onward, following the faint trail back to his cabin.
When the elder reached his home, a small, humble dwelling tucked away in the heart of the forest, he wasted no time in settling the child onto a cot beside the hearth. The cabin was sparsely furnished, with only the barest necessities: a sturdy oak table, a few chairs, shelves lined with dried herbs and scrolls, and a hearth where a fire was kept burning through the colder months.
There was a worn wooden chair by the hearth where the elder often sat, and he placed the child in front of it, arranging blankets around him. As the flames flickered in the hearth, the elder stood back and studied the child.
He was silent for a long time, his mind working behind his calm expression. The child had been abandoned here, but for what reason? Who would leave an infant in the woods, alone and defenseless? And why was he so... different?
The elder's gaze lingered on the child's silver eyes, narrowing as he recalled the unsettling feeling they had given him. No, this wasn't just an ordinary baby. Something had happened. Something beyond the elder's understanding. But he knew better than to speculate too much. For now, the child was safe under his care.
"I'll have to find out more," the elder murmured, his voice low, but his eyes sharp with a hidden intensity. He had lived long enough to know when to trust his instincts, and right now, they were telling him that this child was important. Far more important than he realized.
Days passed, and the elder adjusted to the unexpected presence of the child in his life. He found himself taking care of Rowan with a surprising ease—feeding him when he cried, changing his swaddling clothes, rocking him to sleep at night. Each moment brought a new layer of affection, an attachment he hadn't expected.
Rowan grew stronger, his tiny fingers grasping at the air, his eyes following the elder's every movement with an intensity that was almost unnatural for such a young child. The elder often spoke to him, as though the baby could understand, though he never expected a response.
"You'll grow strong, I can feel it," the elder would say, his voice soft as he worked. "Stronger than you know. Stronger than even I can teach you."
.
.
.
On a particularly quiet afternoon, the elder sat by the fire, cleaning his staff, when the sounds of footsteps approached the cabin. He looked up with a frown, his senses sharpening. The visitor wasn't expected.
As the door creaked open, a lone figure stepped inside. A tall man with dark, ragged clothing, his eyes wild with panic. He was breathing heavily, his face smeared with dirt and blood. The elder stood, his hand instinctively resting on the handle of his staff.
"Who are you?" the elder asked, his voice calm but tinged with authority. There was a dangerous edge to the way he spoke, a warning that this man was treading on unknown ground.
"I—I'm looking for a child," the man gasped, his eyes darting around the cabin. "A child... a baby. A curse. You—have you seen him? Have you seen it?"
The elder's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his staff. "Explain yourself," he said, his voice low and steady.
The man took a step forward, his desperation growing. "The village... the village is gone. We... we tried to stop it, but we couldn't. The beasts came, tearing through everything. The child—he's a cursed child. It's because of him. He's the reason..."
The elder's expression darkened as the man's words sank in. The village... destroyed? The beasts... what was he speaking of?
"Calm yourself," the elder said, his voice colder now, his gaze unyielding. "If you're here to bring trouble, I suggest you leave."
But the man would not be swayed. "It's not just me. There are others... they know about the child. They're coming for him. They'll come here. They—"
Before the man could finish, a low growl rumbled through the air, the sound vibrating the wooden walls of the cabin. It was followed by a loud crash from outside, as if something massive was crashing through the forest. The trees shook, and the ground beneath them seemed to tremble with the weight of whatever approached.
The elder didn't flinch. His gaze remained unwavering as he calmly placed the child back into his cot, his movements precise and deliberate. The air was thick with tension, but the elder was as calm as ever. He could feel the presence of the beasts long before they arrived.
The intruder, however, wasn't as composed. His eyes widened in terror, and before he could make another sound, he turned and bolted for the door. His feet pounded against the floorboards in frantic haste, but his panic was to no avail. A moment later, a loud shriek echoed from outside, followed by a sickening crunch. The man's scream was cut off abruptly as something enormous dragged him into the depths of the forest.
The elder didn't move, his expression still serene as the sounds of carnage outside reached their peak. His lips barely parted as he whispered, "Foolish man."
The sounds of monstrous roars, heavy footsteps, and snapping trees grew louder. The elder's grip on his staff tightened, and with a slow exhale, he raised it high above his head. The faintest trace of power pulsed around him, a ripple in the air, as if the world itself bent in response to his presence.
Suddenly, a burst of intense energy erupted from him, a shockwave of raw power so strong that the forest around the cabin seemed to freeze. Trees groaned as the winds whipped violently, and the ground trembled beneath his feet. The elder's eyes, glowing with an ancient light, narrowed in concentration.
Outside, the beasts paused in their hunt, sensing the massive surge of energy radiating from the elder's direction. They were predators, fierce and relentless, but this was something they did not understand. Something ancient. Something dangerous.
With a flick of the elder's staff, the air shifted. In an instant, a dozen massive, shadowy creatures, their bodies built of nightmare and hunger, appeared at the edge of the forest. But before they could make a move, the elder unleashed his power in a flash, a stream of raw magic that sliced through the air.
The beasts were torn apart with a single wave. Their bodies crumpled, disintegrating into nothingness, their roars drowned out by the overwhelming force of the elder's magic. The forest fell silent once more, save for the faint crackle of the hearth inside the cabin.
The elder lowered his staff, his breathing steady, and his expression unreadable. It was over. The threat had been neutralized before it even had the chance to grow.
But there was no time to linger.
With a fluid motion, the elder turned toward the cabin, his face grim. He raised his hand, and a shimmering barrier of magic enveloped the small dwelling, the air thickening as it solidified into an invisible wall of protection. The barrier would hide the cabin, shield it from prying eyes, from any further threats.
The elder's eyes, now calm once again, flicked back to the child in the cot.
"Rest," he whispered, more to himself than the infant. "For the storm is only just beginning."
And so, the old man stood in the quiet aftermath, watching over the child in the safety of his warded cabin, knowing that the days ahead would bring only more questions. But for now, he would wait—silent, steadfast, and unshaken.