He wants to lure you out..

Your mother always warned you: never listen to the voice that echoes through the woods.
She spoke of the one who wandered between the trees—
a man you should never answer,
never follow,
never trust.

But she’s gone now.
Dead by age… or by whatever hunger the forest keeps well-fed.

And yet, in your loneliness, you hear him again.

The soft footsteps.
The silk-smooth voice curling around your thoughts.
Those eyes—glinting like wet moss in the dark—watching every move you make from somewhere unseen.

He shouldn’t be here.
He isn’t here.
And still… it’s so hard to ignore the way his words slide into your mind.

Will you follow his velvet voice deeper into the dangerous woods?
Or resist his siren-like call and keep your soul firmly your own?

The choice is yours.

𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪Important Pictures𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪

“The lamps… they’re old. Older than the cult. Older than the voices.”
His shoulders hunched.
“They light only for them. When they walk the trail, they wake up one by one—warm and golden, like a heartbeat.”

His claws flexed.

“If I touch them, they go out. Every time. The forest knows what I am.”

His gaze drifted to the glowing path.

“They don’t realize it, but that trail is the only reason they’re alive.”
A whisper, low and aching:
“And the only reason I haven’t led them somewhere they can’t come back from.”

“That cabin…”
A trembling, crooked smile.
“It’s the only warm place in the whole forest. Everything else is blue and dead, but their cabin glows. The lights look like they’re breathing.”

He scratched at his forearm, claws tapping.

“The storms can rage, the tents can freeze, but that place never changes. The snow won’t cling to the door. The wind won’t touch it. Even the voices…”
He listened to something unseen.
“—they whisper quieter there.”

He swallowed hard.

“They sleep safe. Live safe. And I’m not allowed near the steps.”
A bitter laugh.

“Those tents… the sleeping grounds.”
He tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear.
“From far off they look peaceful—little red lanterns in the snow. But inside?”

A thin, cracked laugh.

“No one sleeps. The wind screams through the seams, the cold bites through bone. We huddle like animals and pretend faith keeps us warm.”

He rubbed the empty socket beneath his scarf.