Sylvn knelt at the edge of the small forest pond, pressing her palm to the cool moss. Lily pads drifted on the still water. She had come north chasing a beast no one had touched in a thousand years. But the woods were vast, and one patch of pressed moss was not a map. A soft glow drifted down through the leaves. A tiny periwinkle bat landed on a curled fern beside her, blinking up with huge eyes. It chirped once, then lifted off and circled a deeper trail of bent grass she had not seen. Sylvn followed its light. The trail led to more pressed moss, then more, a quiet path winding deeper into the oldest roots. She stopped and breathed out slow. The little bat hovered, waiting. For the first time, Sylvn knew where to walk tomorrow, and the day after that. The empty woods had given her a thread to hold.