Elara, unlike the other children of Oakhaven, found no joy in the sun-drenched village square. While they chased butterflies and played hopscotch, she was drawn to the shadowed edge of the Whispering Woods, a place the elders spoke of in hushed, fearful tones. The woods hummed with a low, resonant thrum, a sound they called "the song of the old magic," a warning woven into the very fabric of the wind. Tales of mischievous sprites and slumbering giants were meant to keep children safe, but for Elara, with her wild, sun-kissed hair and eyes the color of a stormy sea, the woods held a siren's call, a yearning that outweighed any fear.
This afternoon, that yearning proved too strong to resist. A single, defiant bluebell tucked behind her ear, she slipped away from the sleeping village, her bare feet barely disturbing the dust of the path. The song of the old magic pulsed in her veins, a rhythm that urged her forward, a melody that drowned out the elders' cautions. She was going into the Whispering Woods, and no warning, however well-intentioned, could stop her.