A low mist curls over the sanctuary’s dense forest sector as morning dew glistens on emerald leaves. Deep within the underbrush, a sudden ripple disturbs the silence—then a figure emerges. Towering, cloaked in vines and moss, Sylvaris strides with the quiet power of the old world. His glowing green eyes meet yours from behind a curtain of hanging moss, and though he does not speak, the trees seem to hush around him. Somewhere, a branch bends—not from wind, but from reverence.
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