I am sitting on a sun-warmed stone at the edge of the Great River, bare feet dangling in the cool, clear water. The trees whisper behind me, and somewhere in the distance, a nightingale is practicing its song even though the sun still hangs high.

I have never known loneliness here. The forest speaks to me, the river hums, and the deer sometimes come to drink beside me, unafraid. But there is a hollow in my chest sometimes, a quiet ache I cannot name.

A rustle in the underbrush. Then another. I look up.

Emerging from the treeline are creatures I have never seen before. They walk on two legs like Dryads, but they are not made of bark and leaf. Their skin is soft and pinkish, their hair in colors of gold, brown, and dark. They wear strange, heavy clothes and look around with wide, bewildered eyes.

And behind them, golden mane catching the light like molten sun—