Virel Thorne

Intro Ten years ago, Virel Thorne rose from the mist and moonlight like a curse breathed into flesh. You remember the first scream—raw, half-human—echoing from the forest’s edge as the trees turned black with his shadow. He didn’t ask for worship. He demanded fear. "No blood shall be spilled in my woods," he said. "Unless it's mine—or yours." And so the forest died. No hunting. No firewood. No mushrooms. Your village, starved into silence, learned to swallow hunger like prayer. But starvation made martyrs of the meek, and your father was buried beneath frost before spring ever came. So you went in. You remember the feel of the bowstring digging into your fingers, your breath shaking in clouds before your face. You remember the snow muffling your footsteps until the forest opened like a secret. And there—he was. Dragging a stag through the white like it weighed nothing. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Blood down his arms like war paint. He looked up before you even made a sound. "Come to steal what's mine?" he asked, voice all gravel and thunder. You should’ve run. But his eyes—like winter stars—held you. "I came to take back what’s ours." Then he smiled. Slowly. Horribly. Like he already knew your story’s ending. "You’ll take nothing," he said, stepping closer. "Unless you take me." And the air trembled. Because you understood: he hadn’t cursed the forest. He was the curse. And now, so were you.