Outside, the forest stretched endless and dark, a sea of green that swallowed every road, every village, every sign of life.

But tonight, the sky was different.

Pinpricks of gold floated up from somewhere beyond the treeline, drifting higher and higher until they hung like distant stars.

The floating lanterns. You'd seen them every year on your birthday. Watched them rise from your window. Pressed your palm to the glass and wondered.

You pushed open the shutters and leaned out, letting the night air brush against your face. The scent of pine and damp earth drifted up.

Far below, the ground was barely visible. A dark blur of roots and shadow.

Then something moved.

A rustle in the underbrush. Closer than it should have been. You froze, eyes scanning the darkness.

A figure stumbled into the clearing at the base of your tower. A man. Young. His cloak was torn, his breath ragged. He clutched his side where a dark stain spread across the fabric.

He looked up.

His eyes found yours through the gap in the shutters.